Victor. Have you read the last poem that Felix published? It came out in the Spring Anthology.
Iris. Read it me, quickly.
Felix. No, no, I won’t let you read it to her. It ’s bad—it ’s old—I’ve passed that stage long ago.
Victor. It ’s called ‘The Eternal Life’.
Felix. You’re not to read it, really!
Victor. (Reads)
There ’s nothing true. The earth and sky
Were false when first created;
And you and I will surely lie
When love is consummated.
Victor. From the Latin ‘consummare’. It means that Love has—ahem—achieved its aim.
Iris. What aim?
Victor. Well—the usual one.
Iris. Oh, how shocking, Felix. I’m afraid of you. Is Latin always so immoral?
Felix. Don’t, Iris. It ’s such a bad poem.
Iris. Why, bad?
Felix. There ’s no real passion in it.
Iris. Victor, you will find my fan in the garden.
Victor. Oh, don’t let me disturb you.[Exit.
Iris. Quick, Felix—tell me the truth. You can tell me everything.
Felix. Iris, Iris—how can you bear him? That fop, that silk-hatted satyr!
Iris. Victor?
Felix. How foully he thinks of love, of you, of everything.
Iris. Poor Victor—he ’s so soothing. No, Felix, talk about poetry. I’m fond of poetry . . .
‘Were false when first created’
