To be young, a butterfly, and a poet—Is there anything more beautiful in the world?
Felix. It is not beautiful; it is an agony. The fate of the young is to suffer, and of a poet to suffer a hundredfold.
Clytie. It ’s the fate of a poet to be terribly happy. Ah, Felix, you remind me of my first love.
Felix. Who was he?
Clytie. Nobody—I forget. None of my lovers was the first. Ah, that Victor! I hate men. Let ’s be friends, Felix—like two girls together.
Felix. Like two girls?
Clytie. Love ’s nothing to you. Love ’s so common. I want something special, something pure, something new.
Felix. A poem.
Clytie. (Doubtfully) Yes, that’ll do—You see how much I like you.
Felix. Listen!
She came in the blue Spring weather,
Gay as a foxglove is;
And our two hearts rhymed together,
And our lips were one in a kiss.
Clytie. What ’s that?
Felix. A poem—the beginning.
Clytie. And how does it go on?
Felix. I’ll bring you the end in a minute. But I outgrow my work so quickly than when I reach the end I may have to alter the beginning.
Clytie. (In disgust) Bah! (To Otto) Now then, can’t you leave your moustache alone?
Otto. Love me, Clytie.
Clytie. Visitors are requested not to touch.
Otto. Love me, Clytie.
Clytie. Otto, you’re so irresistibly handsome.
B 2
