Well, don't you believe everything Szigrati is likely to say. He's circulating the rumor that Badegast will not be entered so that the odds may be bigger.
Marg. Nonsense! That's too much like an investment.
Clem. So you don't believe there is such a thing as investment in this game? For a great many it's all a commercial enterprise. Do you think that a fellow of Szigrati's ilk cares a fig for sport? He might just as well speculate on the market, and wouldn't realize the difference. Anyway, as far as Badegast is concerned, one hundred to one wouldn't be too much to put up against him.
Marg. Really? I found him in first-rate fettle this morning.
Clem. Then you saw Badegast, too?
Marg. Certainly. Didn't Butters put him through his paces, right behind Busserl?
Clem. But Butters isn't riding for Szigrati. He was only a stableboy. Badegast can be in as fine fettle as he chooses—it's all the same to me. He's nothing but a blind. Some day, Margaret, with the aid of your exceptional talent, you will be able to distinguish the veritable somebodies from the shams. Really, it's remarkable with what proficiency you have, so to speak, insinuated yourself into all these things. You go beyond my expectations.
Marg. [chagrined]. Pray, why do I go beyond your expectations? All this, as you know, is not so new to me. At our house we entertained very good people—Count Libowski and people of that sort—and at my husband's—
Clem. Quite so. No question about that. As a matter of principle, you realize, I've no grudge against the cotton industry.
Marg. Even if my husband happened to be the owner of a cotton mill, that didn't have to effect my personal outlook on life, did it? I always sought culture in my own way. Now, don't let's talk of that period of my life. It's dead and buried, thank heaven!
Clem. Yes. But there's another period which lies nearer.
Marg. I know. But why mention it?
Clem. Well, I simply mean that you couldn't possibly have heard much about sportsmanship from your friends in Munich—at least, as far as I am able to judge.
Marg. I do hope you will stop tormenting me about those friends in whose company you first made my acquaintance.
Clem. Tormenting you? Nonsense! Only it's incomprehensible to me how you ever got amongst those people.
Marg. You speak of them as if they were a gang of criminals.
Clem. Dearest, I'd stake my honor on it, some of them looked the very picture of pickpockets. Tell me, how did you manage to do it? I can't understand how you, with your refined taste—let alone your purity and the scent you used—could have tolerated their society. How could you have sat at the same table with them?
Marg. [laughing]. Didn't you do the same?
Clem. Next to them—not with them. And for your sake—merely for your sake, as you know. To do them justice, however, I will admit that many bettered upon closer acquaintance. There were some interesting people among them. You mustn't for a moment believe, dearest, that I hold myself superior to those who happen to be shabbily dressed. That's nothing against them. But there was something in their conduct, in their manners, which was positively revolting.
Marg. It wasn't quite so bad.
Clem. Don't take offense, dear. I said there were some interesting people among them. But that a lady should feel at ease in their company, for any length of time, I cannot and do not pretend to understand.
Marg. You forget, dear Clem, that in a sense I'm one of them—or was at one time.
Clem. Now, please! For my sake!
Marg. They were artists.
Clem. Thank goodness, we've returned to the old theme.
Marg. Yes, because it hurts me to think you always lose sight of that fact.
Clem. Lose sight of that fact! Nonsense! You know what pained me in your writings—things entirely personal.
Marg. Let me tell you, Clem, there are women who, in my situation, would have done worse than write poetry.
Clem. But what sort of poetry! What sort of poetry! [Takes a slender volume from the mantel-shelf.] That's what repels me. I assure you, every time I see this book lying here; every time I think of it, I blush with shame that it was you who wrote it.
Marg. That's why you fail to understand— Now, don't take offense. If you did understand, you'd be quite perfect, and that, obviously, is impossible. Why does it repel you? You know I didn't live through all the experiences I write about.
Clem. I hope not.
Marg. The poems are only visions.
Clem. That's just it. That's what makes me ask: How can a lady indulge in visions of that character? [Reads.] "Abandoned on thy breast and suckled by thy lips" [shaking his head]. How can a lady write such stuff—how can a lady have such stuff printed? That's what I simply cannot make out. Everybody who reads will inevitably conjure up the person of the authoress, and the particular breast mentioned, and the particular abandonment hinted at.
Marg. But, I'm telling you, no such breast ever existed.
Clem. I can't bring myself to imagine that it did. That's lucky for both of us, Margaret. But where did these visions originate? These glowing passion-poems could not have been inspired by your first husband. Besides, he could never appreciate you, as you yourself always say.
Marg. Certainly not. That's why I brought suit for divorce. You know the story. I just couldn't bear living with a man who had no other interest in life than eating and drinking and cotton.
Clem. I dare say. But that was three years ago. These poems were written later.
Marg. Quite so. But consider the position in which I found myself—
Clem. What do you mean? You didn't have to endure any privation? In this respect you must admit your husband acted very decently toward you. You were not under the necessity of earning your own living. And suppose the publishers did pay you one hundred gulden for a poem—surely they don't pay more than that—still, you were not bound to write a book of this sort.
Marg. I did not refer to position in a material sense. It was the state of my soul. Have you a notion how—when you came to know me—things were considerably improved. I had in many ways found myself again. But in the beginning! I was so friendless, so crushed! I tried my hand at everything; I painted, I gave English lessons in the pension where I lived. Just think of it! A divorcee, having nobody—
Clem. Why didn't you stay in Vienna?
Marg. Because I couldn't get along with my family. No one appreciated me. Oh, what people! Did any one of them realize that a woman of my type asks more of life than a husband, pretty dresses and social position? My God! If I had had a child, probably everything would have ended differently—and maybe not. I'm not quite lacking in accomplishments, you know. Are you still prepared to complain? Was it not for the best that I went to Munich? Would I have made your acquaintance else?
Clem.
