introduction of Venus in Furs. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Venus in Furs by Leopold von Sacher Massak translated by Fernanda Savage. Introduction. Leopold von Sacher Massak was born in Lemberg, Austrin Galicia, on January 27th, 1836. He studied jurisprudence at Prague and Graz and in 1857 became a teacher at the Latter University. He published several historical works but soon gave up his academic career to devote himself wholly to literature. For a number of years he edited the International Review of Traho at Leipzig but later removed to Paris where he was always strongly Francophile. His last years he spent at Lindheim in Hesse, Germany where he died on March 9th, 1895. In 1873 he married Aurora von Rümlen, who wrote a number of novels under the pseudonym of Wanda von Dunajew, which it is interesting to note is the name of the heroine of Venus in Furs. Her sensational memoirs, which have been the cause of considerable controversy were published in 1906. During his career as writer an endless number of works poured from Sacher Massak's pen. Many of these were works of ephemeral journalism and some of them unfortunately pure sensationalism where economic necessity forced him to turn his pen to unworthy ends. There is however a residue among his work which has a distinct literary and even greater psychological value. His principle literary ambition was never completely fulfilled. It was a somewhat programmatic plan to give a picture of contemporary life in all its various aspects and interrelations under the general title, Heritage of Cain. This idea was probably derived from Balzac's comedy Humane. The whole was to be divided into six subdivisions with general titles, love, property, money, the state, war, and death. Each of these divisions in its turn consisted of six novels, of which the last was intended to summarize the author's conclusion and to present his solution for the problem set in the others. This extensive plan remained unachieved and only the first two parts, love and property, were completed. Of the other sections only fragments remain. The present novel, Venus in Furs, forms the fifth in the series Love. The best of soccer Mossock's work is characterized by a swift narration and a graphic representation of character and scene and a rich humor. The latter has made many of his shorter stories dealing with his native Galicia little masterpieces of local color. There is however another element in his work which has caused his name to become an eponym for an entire series of phenomena at one end of the psychosexual scale. This gives his productions a peculiar psychological value, though it cannot be denied also a morbid tinge that makes them often repellent. However, it is well to remember that nature is neither good nor bad, neither altruistic nor egoistic, and that it operates through the human psyche as well as through crystals and plants and animals with the same inexorable laws. Soccer Mossock was the poet of the anomaly now generally known as masochism. By this is meant the desire on the part of the individual affected of desiring himself to be completely and unconditionally subject to the will of a person of the opposite sex and being treated by this person as by a master, to be humiliated, abused and tormented even to the verge of death. This motive is treated in all its innumerable variations. As a creative artist Soccer Mossock was of course on the quest for the absolute and sometimes when impulses in the human being assume an abnormal or exaggerated form. There is just for a moment of flash that gives a glimpse of the thing in itself. If any defense were needed for the publication of a work like Soccer Mossock's it is well to remember that artists are the historians of the human soul and one might recall the wise and tolerant Montaigne's essay on the duty of historians where he says, one may cover over secret actions but to be silent on what all the world knows and things which have had effects which are public and of so much consequence is an inexcusable defect. And the curious interrelation between cruelty and sex again and again creeps into literature. Soccer Mossock has not created anything new in this. He has simply taken an ancient motive and developed it frankly and consciously until it seems there is nothing further to say on the subject. To the violent attacks which his book has met he replied in a polemical work. It would be interesting to trace the masochistic tendency as it occurs throughout literature but no more can be done than just to allude to a few instances. The theme recurs continually in the confessions of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. It explains the character of the chivalier and provost Monon Lusco. Scenes of this nature are found in Zola's Nana and Thomas Oddway's Venice Preserved, Nalbert Juhes, Le Pêcher d'Homme in Dostoevsky. In disguise an unrecognized form it constitutes the undercurrent of much of the sentimental literature of the present day, though in most cases the author as well as the readers are unaware of the pathological elements at which their characters are built. In all these strange and troubled waters of the human spirit one might wish for something of the serene and simple attitude of the ancient world. Laurent Teilhead has an admirable passage in his plaitres and marbs which is well worth reproducing in this connection. The following is a quote in French which I will likely butcher. Among Sakramasak's work, Venus in First is one of the most typical and outstanding, in spite of melodramatic elements and other literary faults. It is unquestionably a sincere work, written without any idea of tiltulating morbid fancies. One feels that in the hero many subjective elements have been incorporated, which are a disadvantage to the work from the point of literature, but on the other hand raised the book beyond the sphere of art, pure and simple, and make it one of those appalling human documents which belong, part to science and part to psychology. It is the confession of a deeply unhappy man who could not master his personal tragedy of existence and so sought to unburden his soul in writing down the things he felt and experienced. The reader who will approach the book from this angle and who will honestly put aside moral prejudices and preprocessions will come away from the perusal of this book with a deeper understanding of this poor miserable soul of ours, and a light will be cast into dark places that lie latent in all of us. Sakramasak's work have held an established position in European letters for something like half a century, and the author himself was made a chevalier of the Legion of Honor by the French government in 1883 on the occasion of his literary jubilee. When, several years ago, cheap reprints were brought out on the continent and attempts were made by various guardians of morality, they exist in all countries. To have them suppressed, the judicial decisions were invariably against the plaintiff and in favor of the publisher. Our Americans' children that they must be protected from books which any European schoolboy can purchase whenever he wishes. However, such seems to be the case and this translation, which has long been in preparation, consequently appears in a limited edition printed for subscribers only. In another connection Herbert Spencer once used these words. The ultimate result of shielding men from the effects of folly is to fill the world with fools. They have a very pointed application in the case of a work like Venus and Furs. F.S. Atlantic City, April 1921. End of introduction. Section one of Venus and Furs. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Venus and Furs by Leopold von Sacher Massak. Translated by Fernanda Savage. But the Almighty Lord hath struck him and hath delivered him into the hands of a woman, the Vulgate Judith 167. My company was charming, opposite me by the massive Renaissance fireplace set Venus. She was not a casual woman of the half world, who under this pseudonym wages war against the enemy sex, like mademoiselle Cleopatra, but the real true goddess of love.  Her head was wonderful in spite of the dead stony eyes. It was all I could see of her. She had wrapped her marble-like body in a huge fur and rolled herself up trembling like a cat. I don't understand it, I exclaimed. It isn't really cold any longer. For two weeks past we have had perfect spring weather. You must be nervous. Much obliged for your spring, she replied with low stony voice, and immediately afterwards sneezed divinely, twice in succession. I really can't stand it here much longer, and I am beginning to understand. What, dear lady? I am beginning to believe the unbelievable and to understand the un-understandable. All of a sudden I understand the Germanic virtue of woman and German philosophy, and I am no longer surprised that you of the north do not know how to love. Haven't even an idea of what love is. But madame! I replied, flaring up. I surely haven't given you any reason. Oh, you! the divinity sneezed for the third time and shrugged her shoulders with inimitable grace. That's why I have always been nice to you, and even come to see you now and then, although I catch a cold every time in spite of all my furs. Do you remember when we first met? How could I forget it, I said?  You always wore a violet-blue velvet jacket edged with squirrel skin. You really were in love with the costume and awfully docile. You have taught me what love is. Your serene form of worship led me to forget two thousand years, and my faithfulness to you was without evil. Well, as far as faithfulness goes, ungrateful. I will not reproach you with anything.  What you call cruel, the goddess of love, replied eagerly, is simply the element of passion and of natural love, which is woman's nature and makes her give herself where she loves, and makes her love everything that pleases her. Can there be any greater cruelty for a lover than the unfaithfulness of the woman he loves? Indeed, replied, we are faithful as long as we love, but you demand faithfulness of a woman without love, and the giving of herself without enjoyment. Who is cruel there, woman or man? You of the north in general take love too soberly and seriously. You talk of duties where there should be only a question of pleasure. That is why our emotions are honorable and virtuous, and our relations permanent. And yet arrestless, always unsatisfied, craving for the nudity of paganism, she interrupted.  It works only evil in you. As soon as you wish to be natural, you become common. Do you nature seem something hostile? You have made devils out of the smiling gods of Greece, and not for me a demon. You can only exercise and curse me or slay yourselves in volcanic madness before my altar.  But their fragrances do not agree with you. Stay among your northern fogs and Christian incense. Let us pagans remain under the debris, beneath the lava. Do not dissenter us. Pompey was not built for you, nor our villas or our baths or temples. You do not require gods. We are chilled in your world. The beautiful marble woman coughed and drew the dark sable still closer about her shoulders. Much obliged for the classical lesson, I replied, but you cannot deny that man and woman are mortal enemies in your serene, sunlit world as well as in our foggy one. In love there is union into a single being for a short time only, capable of only one thought, one sensation, one will, in order to be then further disunited. And you know this better than I. Whichever of the two fails to subjugate will soon feel the feet of the other on his neck. And as a rule the man that of the woman cried Madame Venus with proud mockery, which you know better than I. Of course, and that is why I don't have any illusions. You mean that you are now my slave without illusions, and for that reason you shall feel the weight of my foot without mercy? Madame, don't you know me yet? Yes, I am cruel, since you take so much delight in that world. And am I not entitled to be so? Man is the one who desires. Woman is the one who is desired. This is woman's entire but decisive advantage. Through his passion nature has given man to woman's hands, and the woman who does not know how to make him her subject, her slave, her toy, and how to betray him with a smile in the end is not wise. Exactly your principles I interrupted angrily. They are based on the experience of thousands of years, she replied ironically, while her white fingers played over the dark fur. The more devoted a woman shows herself, the sooner the man sobers down and becomes domineering. The more cruelly she treats him and the more faithless she is. The worse she uses him, the more wantonly she plays with him. The less pity she shows him, by so much the more will she increase his desire, be loved, worshipped by him. So it has always been, since the time of Helen and Delilah, down to Catherine II and Lola Montes. I cannot deny, I said, that nothing will attract a man more than the picture of a beautiful, passionate, cruel, and despotic woman who wantonly changes her favourites without scruple in accordance with her whim, and in addition wears furs exclaim the divinity. What do you mean by that? I know your predilection. Do you know, I interrupted, that since we last saw each other, you have grown very coquettish. In what way, may I ask? In that there is no way of accentuating your white body to greater advantage than by these dark furs in that the divinity laughed. You are dreaming, she cried.   I opened my eyes with difficulty. I saw the hand which shook me and suddenly it was brown as bronze, the voice was the thick alcoholic voice of my Cossack servant, who stood before me at his full height of nearly six feet. Do get up, continued the good fellow, it is really disgraceful. What is disgraceful? To fall asleep near clothes, and with a book besides, he snuffed the candle which had burned down, and picked up the volume which had fallen from my hands. With a book by—he looked at the title page—by Hegel, besides, at this time you were starting for Mr. Severans, who was expecting us for tea. A curious dream said Severan when I had finished. He supported his arm on his knees, resting his face in his delicate, finely veined hands, and felt a pondering. I knew that he wouldn't move for a long time, hardly even breathe. This actually happened, but I didn't consider his behaviour as in any way remarkable. I had been on terms of close friendship with him for nearly three years, and gotten used to his peculiarities. For it cannot be denied that he was peculiar, although he wasn't quite the dangerous madman that the neighbourhood, or indeed the entire district of Colomia, had considered him to be. I found his personality not only interesting, and that is why many also regarded me as a bit mad, but to a degree sympathetic. For a Galician nobleman and landowner, and considering his age—he was hardly over thirty—he displayed surprising sobriety, a certain seriousness, even pedantry. He lived according to a minutely elaborated, half philosophical, half practical system, like clockwork—not this alone, but also by the thermometer, barometer, arometer, hydrometer, Hippocrates, Hooflin, Plato, Kant, Comique, and Lord Chesterfield. But at times he had violent attacks of sudden passion, and gave the impression of being about to run with his head right through a wall, at such times everyone preferred to get out of his way. While he remained silent, the fire saying in the chimney, and the large venerable semivar saying, and the ancient chair in which I sat rocking, to unfroze, smoking my cigar, and the cricket in the old wall saying, too, I let my eyes glide over the curious apparatus, skeletons of animals, stuffed birds, globes, plaster casts, with which his room was heaped full, until by chance my glance remained fixed on a picture which I had seen often enough before. But today, under the reflected red glow of the fire, it made an indescribable impression on me. It was a large oil painting, done in the robust, full-bodied manner of the Belgian school. Its subject was strange enough.  She was nude in her dark furs.  In the sharply outlined but well-formed liniments of this man lay brooding melancholy and passionate devotion. He looked up to her with the ecstatic burning eye of a martyr. This man, the footstool for her feet, was Severin, but beardless, and it seemed some ten years younger. Venus infers, I cried pointing to the picture. This is the way I saw her in my dream. I, too, said Severin, only I dreamed with open eyes. Indeed, it is a tiresome story. Your picture apparently suggested my dream, I continued, but do tell me what it means. I can imagine that it played a role in your life, and perhaps a very decisive one, but the details I can only get from you. Look at its counterpart, replied my strange friend, without heeding my question. The counterpart was an excellent copy of Titian's well-known Venus with a mirror at Dresden Gallery. And what is the significance? Severin rose and pointed with his finger at the fur which Titian garbed his goddess of love. It, too, is a Venus infers, he said with a slight smile. I don't believe that the old Venetian had any secondary intention. He simply painted the portrait of some aristocratic messalina, and was tactful enough to let Cupid hold the mirror in which he tests her majestic allure with cold satisfaction. He looked as though his task were becoming burdensome enough. The picture is painted flattery. Later, an expert in the Rococo period baptized the lady with the name of Venus. The furs of the despot in which Titian's fair model wrapped herself, probably more of a fear of a cold than that of modesty, have become a symbol of the tyranny and cruelty that constitute woman's essence and her beauty. But enough of that. The picture, as it now exists, is a bitter satire on our love. Venus, in this abstract north, in this icy Christian world, has decrepened a huge black furs so as not to catch cold. Severin laughed and lighted a fresh cigarette. Just then the door opened and an attractive, stoutish blonde girl entered. She had wise, kindly eyes, and was dressed in black silk, and brought us cold meat and eggs with our tea. Severin took one of the latter and decapitated it with his knife. "'Didn't I tell you that I want them soft-boiled?' he cried with the violence that made the young woman tremble. "'But my dear Sift,' she said timidly. "'Sift you nothing,' he cried. "'You are to obey. Obey, do you understand?' and he tore the canjuke which was hanging beside the weapon from its hook. The woman fled from the chamber quickly and timidly like a doe. "'Just wait, I'll get you,' he called after her. But Severin, I said, placing my hand on his arm. "'How can you treat a pretty young woman thus?' "'Look at that woman,' he replied, blinking humorously with his eyes. At eye-flattered her, she would have cast the noose around my neck. But now, when I bring her up with the canjuke, she adores me. Nonsense. Nonsense? Nothing. That is the way you have to break women in.' "'Well, if you like it, live like a posh on your harem, but don't lay down theories for me.' "'Why not?' he said animatedly. Gerdas, you must be hammerer. Anvil is absolutely appropriate to the relation between man and woman. Didn't Lady Venus in your dream prove that to you? Woman's power lies in man's passion, and she knows how to use it if man doesn't understand himself. He has only one choice—to be the tyrant over, or the slave of woman. As soon as he gives in, his neck is under the yoke, and the lash will soon fall upon him. "'Strange, Maxims!' Not Maxims, but experiences,' he replied, nodding his head. I have actually felt the lash. I am cured. Do you care to know how?' He rose, and got a small manuscript from his massive desk, and put it in front of me. "'You have already asked about the picture. I have long owed you an explanation. Here. Read.' Severin sat down by the chimney with his back towards me, and seemed to dream with open eyes. Silence had fallen again and again. The fire sang in the chimney, and the semivar and the cricket and the old walls. I opened the manuscript and read. Confessions of a Super-Sensual Man The margin of the manuscript bore, as motto, a variation of the well-known lines from Faust.  Mephistopheles I turned the title-page and read. What follows has been compiled from my diary of that period, because it is impossible, ever frankly, to write of one's pasts. But in this way everything retains its fresh colors, the colors of the present. Gogol, the Russian Molière, says, where, well, somewhere, the real comic muse is the one under whose lapping mask tears roll down. A wonderful saying. So I have a very curious feeling as I am writing all this down. The atmosphere seems filled with the stimulating fragrance of flowers which overcomes me and gives me a headache. The smoke of the fireplace curls and condenses into figures, small gray-bearded cuckolds that mockingly point their fingers at me. Chubby cheeked cupids ride on the arms of my chair and on my knees.  All its wounds long scarred over have been opened and throbs and hurts and now, and then a tear falls on the paper. The day creeps along sluggishly in the little Carpathian health resort. You see no one, and no one sees you. It is boring enough to write a dill's. I would have leisure here to supply a whole gallery of paintings, furnish a theatre with new pieces for an entire season, a dozen virtuosos with concertos, trios and duos. But what am I saying? The upshot of it all is that I don't do much more than to stretch the canvas, smooth the bow, line the scores. For I am, no false modesty, friend Severin. You can lie to others, but you don't quite succeed any longer in lying to yourself. I am nothing but a dilettante, a dilettante in painting, in poetry, in music, and several other of the so-called unprofitable arts, which, however, at present secure for their masters the income of a cabinet minister, or even that of a minor potentate. Above all else, I am a dilettante in life. Up to the present I have lived as I have painted in written poetry. I never got far beyond the preparation, the plan, the first act, the first stanza. There are people like that who begin everything, and never finish anything. I am such a one. But what am I saying? To the business in a hand.  How wonderful the outlook upon the blue wall of high mountains interwoven with golden sunlight! Mountain torrents weave through them like ribbons of silver! How clear and blue the heavens into which snow-capped crags project how green and fresh the forested slopes, the meadows on which small herds graze down to the yellow billows of grain, where reapers stand and bend over and rise up again! The house in which I live stands in a sort of park, or forest, or wilderness, whatever one wants to call it, and is very solitary. Its sole inhabitants are myself, a widow from Lemberg, and Madame Tartakowska. Who runs the house, a little old woman who grows older and smaller each day. There are also a dog that limps on one leg, and a young cat that continuously plays with a ball of yarn. This ball of yarn, I believe, belongs to the widow. She is said to be really beautiful, this widow, still very young, 24 at the most, and very rich. She dwells in the first dory, and I on the ground floor. She always keeps the green blinds drawn, and has a balcony entirely overgrown with green climbing plants. I, for my part, down below have a comfortable intimate arbor of honeysuckle, in which I read and write and paint and sing like a bird among the twigs. I can look up on the balcony. Sometimes I actually do so, and then from time to time a white gown gleams between the dense green network. Really, the beautiful woman up there doesn't interest me very much, for I am in love with someone else, and terribly unhappy at that, far more unhappy than the night of Togenburger, the Chevalier, and Monon Lysko, because the object of my adoration is of stone. In the garden, in the tiny wilderness, there is a graceful little meadow on which a couple of deer graze peacefully. On this meadow is a stone statue of Venus, the original of which I believe is in Florence.  That, however, does not signify much, for I have seen few beautiful women, or rather, few women at all. In love, too, I am a dilettante who never got beyond the preparation, the first act. But why talk in superlatives as if something that is beautiful could be surpassed? It is sufficient to say that this Venus is beautiful. I love her passionately, with a morbid intensity. Madly, as one can only love a woman who never responds to our love with anything but an eternally uniform, eternally calm, stony smile. I literally adore her. I often lie, reading under the leafy covering of a young birch, when the sun broods over the forest. Often I visit that cold, cruel mistress of mine by night and lie on my knees before her, with the face pressed against the cold pedestal on which her feet rest and my prayers go up to her. The rising moon, which just now is waiting, produces an indescribable effect. It seems to hover among the trees and submerges the meadow in its gleam of silver. The goddess stands as if transfigured and seems to bathe in the soft moonlight. Once when I was returning from my devotions by one of the walks leading to the house, I suddenly saw a woman's figure, white as stone, under the illumination of the moon, and separated from me merely by a screen of trees. It seemed as if the beautiful woman of marble had taken pity on me, become alive, and followed me. I was seized with unnameless fear, my heart threatened to burst, and instead—well, I am a dilettante. As always I broke down at the second stanza, rather on the contrary, I did not break down, but ran away as fast as my legs would carry me. What an accident! Through a Jew, laying in photographs, I secured a picture of my ideal. It is a small reproduction of Titian's Venus with the Mirror. What a woman! I want to write a poem, but instead I take the reproduction and write on it. Venus in furs.  By all means, wrap yourself in your despotic furs. There is no one to whom they are more appropriate, cruel goddess of love and of beauty. After a while I add a few verses from Gerda, which I recently found in his Paralipomina to Faust. Two more. The pair of wings, a fiction are. The arrows they are not but claws. The wreath conceals, the little horns, for without any doubt he is like all the gods of ancient Greece, only a devil in disguise. Then I put the picture before me on my table, supporting it with a book, and looked at it. I was enraptured and at the same time filled with a strange fear by the cold coquetry with which this magnificent woman draped her charms in her furs of dark sable by the severity and hardness which lay in this cold marble-like face. Again I took my pen in hand and wrote the following words. To love, to be loved, what happiness, and yet how the glamour of this pales in comparison with the tormenting bliss of worshipping a woman who makes a plaything out of us, of being the slave of a beautiful tyrant who treads us pitilessly underfoot, even Samson, the hero, the giant, again puts himself into the hands of Delilah, even after she had betrayed him, and again she betrayed him, and the Philistines bound him and put out his eyes, which until the very end he kept fixed, drunken with rage and love upon the beautiful betrayer. I was breakfasting in my honeysuckle arbor and reading in the book of Judith.  The Almighty Lord hath struck him, and hath delivered him into the hands of a woman. The sentence strangely impressed me. How un-gallant these Jews are, I thought, and their God might choose more becoming expression when he speaks of the fair sex. The Almighty Lord hath struck him, and hath delivered him into the hands of a woman, I repeated to myself. What shall I do, so that he may punish me? Heaven preserve us, here comes the housekeeper, who has again diminished somewhat in size overnight, and up there among the green twinnings and garlandings the white gown gleams again. Is it Venus or the widow? This time it happens to be the widow, for Madame Tartacosca makes a courtesy and asks me in her name for something to read. I rent to my room and gather a couple of volumes. Later I remember that my picture of Venus is in one of them, and now it and my effusions are in the hands of the white woman up there together. What will she say? I hear her laugh. Is she laughing at me? It is full moon. It is already peering over the tops of the low hemlocks that fringe the park. A silvery exhalation fills the terrace, the groups of trees, all the landscape, as far as the eye can reach. In the distance it gradually fades away, like trembling waters. I cannot resist. I feel a strange urge and call within me. I put on my clothes again and go out into the garden. Some power draws me toward the meadow toward her, who is my divinity and my beloved. The night is cool. I feel a slight chill. The atmosphere is heavy with the odor of flowers and of the forest. It intoxicates. What solemnity, what music round about? A nightingale sobs. The stars quiver very faintly in the pale blue glamour. The meadow seems smooth, like a mirror, like a covering of ice on a pond. The statue of Venus stands out, august and luminous. But what has happened here? From the marble shoulders of the goddess, a large dark fur flows down to her heels. I stand dumbfounded and stare at her in amazement. Again an indescribable fear seizes hold of me and I take flight. I hasten my steps and notice that I miss the main path. As I am about to turn aside into one of the green walk, I see Venus sitting before me on a stone bench, not that beautiful woman of marble. But the goddess of love herself, with warm blood and throbbing pulses, she has actually come to life for me, like the statue that began to breathe for her creator. Indeed the miracle is only half completed.  Or is it satin? From her shoulders the dark fur flows, but her lips are already reddening, and her cheeks begin to take colour. Two diabolical green rays out of her eyes fall upon me, and now she laughs. Her laughter is very mysterious, very… I don't know. It can't be described. It takes my breath away. I flee further, and every few steps I have to pause to take breath. The mocking laughter pursues me through the dark leafy paths, across light open spaces, through the thicket where only single moonbeams can pierce. I can no longer find my way. I wander about utterly confused, with cold drops of perspiration on the forehead. Finally I stand still, and engage in a short monologue. It runs well, when it is either very polite to oneself or very rude. I say to myself, donkey.  I am perfectly quiet in a moment, with considerable pleasure I repeat. Donkey. Now everything is perfectly clear and distinct before my eyes again. There is the fountain, there the alley of boxwood, there the house, which I am slowly approaching. Yet suddenly the appearance is here again, behind the green screen through which the moonlight gleams so that it seems embroidered with silver. I again see the white figure, the woman of stone whom I adore, whom I fear and flee. With a couple of leaps I am within the house and catch my breath and reflect. What am I really, a little dilettante, for a great big donkey? A sultry morning. The atmosphere is dead, heavily laden with odors, yet stimulating. Again I am sitting in my honeysuckle arbor, reading in the Odyssey about the beautiful witch who transformed her admirers into beasts. A wonderful picture of antique love. There is a soft rustling in the twigs and blades and the pages of my book Russell and All the Terrorists. Likewise there is a rustling, a woman's dress. She is there, Venus, but without furs. No, this time it is merely the widow, and yet Venus.  As she stands there in her light, white morning gown looking at me, her slight figure seems full of poetry and grace. She is neither large nor small. Her head is a luring pecanthe in the sense of the period of the French Marqueses, rather than formally beautiful. What enchantment and softness, what roguest charm plays about her none too small mouth. Her skin is so infinitely delicate, and the blue veins show through everywhere, even through the muslin covering her arms and bosom. How abundant her red hair. It is red, not blonde or golden. Yellow, how diabolically and yet tenderly it plays around her neck. Now her eyes meet mine like green lightnings. They are green these eyes of hers whose power is so indescribable. Green, but as our precious stones are deep unfathomable mountain lakes. She observes my confusion, which has even made me discourteous, for I remain seated and still have my cap upon my head. She smiles roguishly. Finally I rise and bow to her. She comes closer and bursts out into a loud, almost childlike laughter. I stammer, as only a little dill taunt her great big donkey can do on such an occasion. Thus our acquaintance began. The divinity asks for my name and mentions her own. Her name is Vanda von Dunadu, and she is actually my Venus. But madame, what put the idea into your head? The little picture in one of your books. I had forgotten about it. The curious note on its back. Why curious? She looked at me. I have always wanted to know a real dreamer some time, for the sake of the change, and you seem one of the maddest of the tribe. Dear lady, in fact, again I felt victim to an odious asinine stammering, and in addition, blashed in a way that might have been appropriate for a youngster of sixteen, but not for me, who was almost a full ten years older. You were afraid of me last night. Really? Of course, wouldn't you sit down? She sat down and enjoyed my embarrassment, for actually I was even more afraid of her now in the full light of day. A delightful expression of contempt hovered about her upper lip. You look at love, and especially woman, she began, as something hostile, something against which you put up a defence, even if unsuccessfully.  And this is a genuinely modern point of view. You don't share it? I do not share it, she said quickly and decisively shaking her head, so that her curls flew up like red flames. The ideal which I strive to realise in my life is the serene sensuousness of the Greeks—pleasure without pain. I do not believe in the kind of love which is preached by Christianity, by the moderns, by the knights of the spirit. Yes, look at me, I am worse than a heretic. I am a pagan. Doos thou imagine long the goddess of love took counsel, when in Ida's grove she was pleased with the hero Achilles? These lines from Gerdas Romanology have always delighted me. In nature there is only the love of the heroic age, when gods and goddesses loved. At that time, desire followed the glance, enjoyment, desire. All else is factitious, affected, a lie. Christianity, whose cruel emblem the cross has always had for me an element of the monstrous, brought something alien and hostile into nature and its innocent instincts. The battle of the spirits with the senses is the gospel of modern man. I do not care to have a share in it. Yes, yes, Mount Olympus would be the place for you, madame, I replied, but we moderns can no longer support the antique serenity, least of all in love, the idea of sharing a woman, even if it were in a spaceship, with another, revolts us. We are jealous, as is our God. For example, we have made a term of use out of the name of the glorious Freene. We prefer one of Holbein's meager pallid virgins, which is wholly ours to an antique Venus, no matter how divinely beautiful she is, but who loves Ankaesis today, Paris tomorrow, Adonis the day after, and if nature triumphs in us, so that we give our whole glowing, passionate devotion to such a woman, her serene joy of life appears to us something demonic and cruel, and we read into our happiness a sin which we must expiate.  Amid tears and convulsions, they daily outrage their Christian duties, they cheat, and are cheated. They always seek again, and choose, and reject. They are never happy, and never give happiness. They accuse fate, instead of calmly confessing they want to love, and live as hellen and espacial loot. Nature admits of no permanence in the relation between man and woman. But, my dear lady, let me finish. It is only man's egoism which wants to keep woman, like some buried treasure, all endeavours to introduce permanence and love, the most changeable thing in this changeable human existence have gone shipwreck, in spite of religious ceremonies, vows, and legalities. Can you deny that our Christian world has given itself over to corruption? But, but, you are about to say, the individual who rebels against the arrangements of society is ostracised, branded, stoned. So be it, I am willing to take the risk. My principles are very pagan. I will live my own life as it pleases me. I am willing to do without your hypocritical respect. I prefer to be happy. The inventors of the Christian marriage have done well, simultaneously, to invent immortality. I, however, have no wish to live eternally. When with my last breath, everything as far as Juan de Juan Dunaju's concern comes to an end here below, what does it profit me whether my pure spirit joins the choirs of angels, or whether my dust goes into the formation of new beings? Shall I belong to one man whom I don't love merely because I have once loved him? No, I do not renounce. I love everyone who pleases me and give happiness to everyone who loves me. Is that ugly? No. It is more beautiful by far than if cruelly I enjoy the tortures which my beauty excites and virtuously reject the poor fellow who is pining away for me. I am young, rich, and beautiful, and I live serenely for the sake of pleasure and enjoyment. While she was speaking her eyes sparkled roguishly, and I had taken hold of her hands without exactly knowing what to do with them, but being a genuine dilettante, I hastily let go of them again. Your frankness, I said, delights me and not it alone. My confounded dilettantism again throttled me as though there were a rope about my neck. You were about to say—I was about to say—I was—I am—sorry, I interrupted you. How so? A long pause. She is doubtless engaging in a monologue which translated into my language would be comprised in the single word, donkey. If I may ask, I finally began, how did you arrive at these—these conclusions? Quite simply, my father was an intelligent man. From my cradle onward I was surrounded by replicas of ancient art. At ten years of age I read Gil Blas at twelve La Puchele. Where others had hopped my thumb blue-beard Cinderella, as childhood friends mine were Venus and Apollo, Hercules and Lacoon. My husband's personality was filled with serenity and sunlight. Not even the incurable illness which fell upon him soon after our marriage could long cloud his brow. On the very night of his death he took me in his arms and during the many months when he lay dying in his wheelchair he often said jokingly to me, well have you already picked at a lover? I blushed with shame. Don't deceive me he added on one occasion.   I suppose I hardly need to tell you that during his lifetime I had no lover, but it was through him that I have become what I am, a woman of grace, a goddess I interrupted. Which one, she smiled, Venus. She threatened me with her fingers and knitted her brows. Perhaps even a Venus in furs? Watch out, I have a large, very large fur, with which I could cover you up entirely, and I have a mind to catch you in it as in a net. Do you believe, I said quickly, for an idea which seemed good in spite of its conventionality and traiteness flashed into my head, do you believe that your theories could be carried into execution at the present time, that Venus would be permitted to stray with impunity among our railroads and telegraphs in all her undraped beauty and serenity? Undraped, of course not. But in furs, he replied, smiling, would you care to see mine, and then what then? Beautiful, free, serene, and happy human beings such as the Greeks were, are only possible when it is permitted to have slaves who will perform the prosaic tasks of every day for them, and above all else, labour for them. Of course, she replied playfully, and the Olympian divinity, such as I am, requires a whole army of slaves. Beware of me, why? I myself was frightened at the hardiness with which I uttered this why. It did not saddle her in the least.  Do you want to be my slave? There is no equality in love, I replied solemnly. Whenever it is a matter of choice for me, of ruling or being ruled, it seems much more satisfactory to me to be the slave of a beautiful woman. But where shall I find a woman who knows how to rule calmly, full of self-confidence even harshly, and not seek to gain her power by means of petty nagging? Oh, that might not be so difficult. You think I, for instance, she laughed and leaned far back. I have a real talent for despotism. I also have the necessary furs. But last night you were really seriously afraid of me. Quite seriously. Now I am more afraid of you than ever. We are together every day, I and Venus. We are together a great deal. We breakfast in my honeysuckle arbor, and have tea in her little sitting-room. I have an opportunity to unfold all my small, very small talents. Of what use would have been my studying all the various sciences, my playing at the arts, if I were unable in the case of a pretty little woman, but this woman is by no means little? In fact, she impresses me tremendously. I made a drawing of her today, and felt particularly clearly how inappropriate the modern way of dressing is for a cameo-head like hers. The configuration of her face has little of the Roman, but much of the Greek. Sometimes I should like to paint her as psyche, and then again as a start.  She, however, insists that it be a portrait likeness. I shall make her a present of furs. How could I have any doubts? If not for her, for whom would princely furs be suitable? End of Section One. Section Two of Venus and Furs I was with her yesterday evening, reading the Roman elegies to her. Then I laid the book aside and improvised something for her. She seemed pleased. Rather more than that, she actually hung upon my words, and her bosom heave, or was I mistaken? The rain beat in melancholy fashion on the window panes. The fire crackled in the fireplace in wintery comfort. I felt quite at home with her, and for a moment I lost all my fear of this beautiful woman. I kissed her hand, and she permitted it. Then I sat down at her feet and read a short poem I had written for her. Venus in Furs Place thy foot upon thy slave, O thou half of hell, half of dreams, among the shadows darken grave, thy extended body softly gleams. And so on. This time I really got beyond the Furs stanza. At her request I gave her the poem in the evening, keeping no copy. And now as I am writing this down in my diary I can only remember the Furs stanza. I am filled with a very curious sensation. I don't believe that I am in love with Wanda. I am sure that at our first meeting I felt nothing of the lightning-like lashes of passion. But I feel how her extraordinary, really divine beauty is gradually winding magic snares about me. It isn't any spiritual sympathy which is growing in me. It is a physical subjection coming on slowly, but for that reason more absolutely. I suffer under it more and more each day, and she merely smiles. Without any provocation she suddenly said to me today, You interest me. Most men are commonplace without verb or poetry. In you there is a certain depth and capacity for enthusiasm and a deep seriousness which delight me. I might learn to love you. And after a short but severe shower we went out together to the meadow and the statue of Venus. All about us the earth steamed to mists rose up toward heaven like clouds of incense, a shattered rainbow still hovered in the air. The trees were still shedding drops, but sparrows and finches were already hopping from twig to twig. They are twittering gaily, as if very much pleased at something. Everything is filled with fresh fragrance. We cannot cross the meadow for it is still wet. In the sunlight it looks like a small pool, and the goddess of love seems to rise from the undulations of its mirror-like surface. About her head, a swarm of gnats is dancing which, illuminated by the sun, seemed to hover above her like an oriole. Vanda is enjoying the lovely scene, as all the benches along the walk are still wet. She supports herself on my arm to rest a while. A soft weariness permeates her whole being. Her eyes are half closed. I feel the touch of her breath on my cheek. How I managed to get up courage enough I really don't know, but I took hold of her hand, asking, Could you love me? Why not? she replied, letting her calm, clear look rest upon me, but not for long. A moment later I am kneeling before her, pressing my burning face against the fragrant muslin of her ground. But Severin! This isn't right! she cried. But I take hold of her little foot and press my lips upon it. You are getting worse and worse, she cried. She tore herself free and fled rapidly toward the house, the while her adorable slipper remained in my hand. Is it an omen? All day long I didn't dare to go near her.  Why don't you come up? she called down impatiently. I ran upstairs and at the top lost courage again. I knocked very lightly. She didn't say come in, but opened the door herself and stood on the threshold. Where is my slipper? It is—I have—I want—I stammered—get it, and then we will have tea together and chat. When I returned, she was engaged in making tea. I ceremoniously placed the slipper on the table and stood in the corner like a child awaiting punishment. I noticed that her brows were slightly contracted, and there was an expression of hardness and dominance about her lips which delighted me. All of a sudden she broke out laughing. So you really are in love with me? Yes, and I suffer from it more than you can imagine. You suffer, she laughed again. I was revolted, mortified, annihilated, but all this was quite useless.  She gave me her hand and looked at me in the friendliest fashion. And will you be my wife? Wanda looked at me. How did she look at me? I think, first of all, with surprise, and then with a tinge of irony. What has given you so much courage all at once? Courage? Courage? It's courage to ask anyone to be your wife and me in particular. She lifted up the slipper. Was it a sudden friendship with this? But joking aside, do you really wish to marry me? Yes. Well, Severin, that is a serious matter. I believe you love me, and I care for you too. And what is more important, each of us finds the other interesting. There is no danger that we would soon get bored, but, you know, I am a fickle person, and just for that reason I take marriage seriously. If I assume obligations, I want to be able to meet them. But I am afraid, no, it would hurt you. Please be perfectly frank with me, I replied. Well, then honestly, I don't believe I could love a man longer than— she inclined her head gracefully to one side and mused. A year? What do you imagine? A month, perhaps. Not even me? Oh, you—perhaps two. Two months, I exclaimed. Two months is very long. You go beyond antiquity, madam. You see, you cannot stand the truth. Wanda walked across the room and leaned back against the fireplace, watching me and resting one of her arms in the mantelpiece. What shall I do with you? she began anew. Whatever you wish, I replied with resignation. Whatever will give you pleasure. How illogical she cried! First you want to make me your wife, and then you offer yourself to me as something to toy with. Wanda, I love you.  You love me and want to make me your wife, but I don't want to enter into a new marriage, because I doubt the permanence of both my and your feelings. But if I am willing to take the risk with you, I replied. But it also depends on whether I am willing to risk it with you, she said quietly. I can easily imagine belonging to one man for my entire life. But he would have to be a whole man, a man who would dominate me, who would subjugate me by his innate strength.  And every man. I know this very well as soon as he falls in love becomes weak, pliable, ridiculous. He puts himself into the woman's hands, kneels down before her, the only man. Whom I could love permanently, would be he before whom I should have to kneel. I've gotten to like you so much, however, that I'll try it with you. I fell down at her feet. For heaven's sake, here you are kneeling already, she said mockingly. You are making a good beginning. When I had risen again, she continued, I will give you a year's time to win me, to convince me that we are suited to each other, that we might live together. If you succeed, I will become your wife, and a wife separate who will conscientiously and strictly perform all her duties. During this year we will live as though we were married. My blood rose to my head. In her eyes, too, there was a sudden flame. We will live together, she continued, share our daily life so that we may find out whether we are really fitted for each other. I grant you all the rights of a husband, of a lover, of a friend. Are you satisfied? I suppose I'll have to be. You don't have to. Well then, I want to. Splendid. That is how a man speaks. Here is my hand. For ten days I've been with her every hour, except at night. All the time I was allowed to look into her eyes, hold her hands, listen to what she said, accompany her wherever she went. My love seems to me like a deep, bottomless abyss, into which I subside deeper and deeper. There is nothing now which could save me from it. This afternoon we were resting on the meadow at the foot of the Venus statue. I plucked flowers and tossed them into her lap. She wound them into wreaths with which we adorned our goddess. Suddenly Wanda looked at me so strangely that my senses became confused and passions left over my head like a conflagration. Losing command over myself, I threw my arms around her and clung to her lips, and she drew me close to her heaving breast. Are you angry, I then asked her. I am never angry at anything that is natural, she replied. But I am afraid you suffer. Oh, I am suffering frightfully. Poor friend. She brushed my disordered hair back from my forehead. I hope it isn't through any fault of mine.  The thought that I might lose you, perhaps actually lose you, torments me day and night. But you don't yet possess me, said Wanda. And again she looked at me with that vibrant consuming expression, which I'd already once before carried me away. Then she rose, and with her small, transparent hands placed a wreath of blue anemones upon the ring-lidded white head of Venus. Half against my will I threw my arm around her body. I can no longer live without you, a wonderful woman, I said. Believe me, believe only this once, that this time it is not a phrase, not a thing of dreams. I feel deep down in my innermost soul that my life belongs inseparably with yours. If you leave me, I shall perish. Go to pieces that will hardly be necessary for I love you. She took hold of my chin.  But you will be mine only under conditions while I belong to you unconditionally. That isn't wise, Severin, she replied, almost with a start. Don't you know me yet? Do you absolutely refuse to know me?  So be it. Be arrogant. Be despotic. I cried in the fullness of exultation. Only be mine. Mine forever. I laid her feet embracing her knees. Things will end badly, my friend, she said soberly, without moving. But she'll never end, I cried excitedly, almost violently. Only death shall part us if you cannot be mine, all mine and for always.  Calm yourself, she said, bending down and kissing my forehead. I am really very fond of you, but your way is not the way to win and hold me.  Only not that, I cannot bear the thought. Do get up, I obeyed.  You wished to possess me at any price. Yes, at any price. But of what value, for instance, would that be, she pondered, a lurking uncanny expression entered her eyes. If I no longer loved you, if I belonged to another, a shudder ran through me, I looked at her. She stood firmly and confident before me, and her eyes disclosed a gleam. You see, she continued, the very thought frightens you. A beautiful smile suddenly illuminated her face. I feel a perfect horror when I imagine that the woman I love and who has responded to my love could give herself to another, regardless of me. But have I still a choice? If I love such a woman, even unto madness, shall I turn my back to her and lose everything for the sake of a bit of boastful strength? Shall I send a bullet through my brains? I have two ideals of woman. If I cannot obtain the one that is noble and simple, the woman who will faithfully and truly share my life, well, then I don't want anything half-way or lukewarm. Then I would rather be subject to a woman without virtue, fidelity, or pity.  If I am not permitted to enjoy the happiness of love, fully and wholly, I want to taste its pains and torments to the very dregs. I want to be maltreated and betrayed by the woman I love, and the more cruelly the better. This, too, is a luxury. Have you lost your senses, cried Wanda? I love you with all my soul, I continued, with all my senses, and your presence and personality are absolutely essential to me. If I am to go on living, choose between my ideals, do with me what you will, make of me your husband or your slave. Very well, said Wanda, contracting her small but strongly arched brows. It seems to me it would be rather entertaining to have a man who interests and loves me, completely in my power. At least I shall not lack past time. You are imprudent enough to leave the joys to me. Therefore I choose. I want you to be my slave. I shall make a plea-thing for myself out of you. Oh, please do, I cried, half-shuttering, half-enraptured. If the foundation of marriage depends on equality and agreement, it is likewise true that the greatest passions rise out of opposites. We are such opposites, almost enemies. That is why my love is part hate, part fear, if in such a relation only one can be hammer and the other anvil. I wish to be the anvil. I cannot be happy when I look down upon the woman I love. I want to adore a woman, and this I can only do when she is cruel towards me. But Severin, replied Wanda, almost angrily, do you believe me capable of maltreating a man who loves me as you do and whom I love? Why not, if I adore you the more on this account? Is it possible to love really only that which stands above us? A woman, through her beauty, temperament, intelligence, and strength of will, subjugates us and becomes a despot over us. Then that which repels others attracts you. Yes, that is the strange part of me. Perhaps, after all, there isn't anything so very unique or strange in all your passions. For who doesn't love beautiful furs? And everyone knows and feels how closely sexual love and cruelty are related. But in my case all these elements are raised to their highest degree, I replied.  Were the martyrs also soft and sensual by nature? The martyrs? On the contrary, they were super sensual men who found enjoyment in suffering. They sought out the most frightful tortures, even death itself, as others seek joy, and as they were, so am I, super sensual. I have a care that in being such, you do not become a martyr to love, the martyr of a woman.  A two-fold roof is above us, first the green ceiling of climbing plants, and then the vault of heaven-zone with the numerable stars. A low, wailing love-call of a cat rises from the park. I am sitting on a footstool at the feet of my divinity, and am telling her of my childhood. And even when all these strange tendencies were distinctly marked in you, asked Wanda, Of course, I can't remember a time when I didn't have them. Even in my cradle, so my mother has told me, I was super sensual. I scorned the healthy breasts of my nurse, and had to be brought up on goat's milk. As a little boy, I was mysteriously shy before women, which really was only an expression of an inordinate interest in them. I was oppressed by the gray arches in half-darknesses of the church, and actually afraid of the glittering altars and images of the saints. Secretly, however, I sneaked as to a secret joy to a plaster Venus, which stood in my father's little library. I kneeled down before her, and to her I said the prayers I had been taught. The pattern-oster, the Ave Maria and the credo. Once at night I left my bed to visit her. The sickle of the moon was my light, and showed me the goddess in a pale blue, cold light. I prostrated myself before her, and kissed her cold feet, as I had seen our peasants do when they kissed the feet of the dead savior. An irresistible yearning seized me. I got up and embraced the beautiful cold body, and kissed the cold lips. A deep shudder fell upon me, and I fled, and later in a dream it seemed to me, as if the goddess stood beside my bed, threatening me with upraised arm. I was sent to school early, and soon reached the gymnasium. I passionately grasped at everything which promised to make the world of antiquity accessible to me. Soon I was more familiar with the gods of Greece than with the religion of Jesus. I was with Paris, when he gave the fateful apple to Venus, I saw Troy burn, and followed Ulysses on his wanderings. The prototypes of all that is beautiful, saying deep into my soul, and consequently, at the time when other boys are coarse and obscene, I displayed an insurmountable aversion to everything base-blogger and unbeautiful. To me, the maturing youth, love for women, seemed something especially base and unbeautiful, for it showed itself to be, first in all, its commonness. I avoided all contact with the fair sex, and short, I was super sensual to madness. When I was about fourteen, my mother had a charming chambermaid, young, attractive, with a figure dressed budding into womanhood. I was sitting one day, studying my Tacitus, and growing enthusiastic over the virtues of the ancient tutons, while she was sweeping my room. Suddenly she stopped, bent down over me in the meantime, holding fast to the room, and a pair of fresh, full, adorable lips touched mine.  Wanda broke out in loud laughter. It would indeed be hard to find another man like you, but continue. There is another unforgettable incident belonging to that period I continued my story. Countess Sobel, a distant aunt of mine, was visiting my parents. She was a beautiful, majestic woman, with an attractive smile. I, however, hated her, for she was regarded by the family as a sort of mesolina. My behaviour toward her was as rude, malicious, and awkward as possible. One day my parents strove to the capital of the district. My aunt determined to take advantage of their absence, and to exercise judgment over me. She entered unexpectedly in her fur-line, Casabica, followed by the cook, kitchen maid, and the cat of a chambermaid whom I had scorned. Without asking any questions, she seized and bound me hand and foot in spite of my violent resistance.  She whipped me so hard that the blood flowed, and that at last, notwithstanding my heroic spirit, I cried and wept and begged for mercy. She then had me untied, but I had to get down on my knees and thank her for the punishment and kiss her hand. Now you understand the super sensual fool. Under the lash of a beautiful woman my senses first realised the meaning of woman. In her fur jacket she seemed to me like a wrathful queen, and from then on my aunt became the most desirable woman on God's earth. My tato like austerity, my shyness before woman, was nothing but an excessive feeling for beauty. In my imagination sensuality became a sort of cult. I took an oath to myself that I would not squander its holy wealth upon any ordinary person, but I would reserve it for an ideal woman, if possible, for the goddess of love herself. I went to the university at a very early age. It was in the capital where my aunt lived. My room looked at that time like Dr. Faustus. Everything in it was in a wild confusion. There were huge closets stuffed full of books which I bought for a song from a jewellish dealer on the Cervanica. There were globes, atlases, flasks, charts of the heavens, skeletons of animals, skulls, the busts of eminent men. It looked as though Mephistopheles might have stepped out from behind the huge green store as a wandering skolist at any moment. I studied everything in a jumble without system, without selection, chemistry, alchemy, history, astronomy, philosophy, law, anatomy, and literature. I read Homer, Virgil, Austean, Shiller, Girdish, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Voltaire, Moliere, the Quran, the cosmos, Casanova's memoirs. I grew more confused each day, more fantastical, more super sensual, all the time a beautiful ideal woman hovered in my imagination. Every so-and-so often she appeared before me like a vision among my leatherbound books and dead bones lying on a bed of roses surrounded by cupids. Sometimes she appeared gowned like the Olympians with the stern white face of the plaster Venus. Sometimes in braids of a rich brown, blue eyes of my aunt's red velvet cuspica trimmed with her mind. One morning, when she had again risen out of the golden mists of my imagination in all her smiling beauty, I went to see the Countess Sobel, who received me a friendly, even cordial manner. She gave me a kiss of welcome, which put all my senses in a turmoil. She was probably about forty years old, but like most well-preserved women of the world, still very attractive. She wore, as always, her fur-edged jacket. This time it was one of the green velvet with brown martin. But nothing of the sternness which had so delighted me the other time was not discernible. On the contrary, there was so little of cruelty in her that without any more ado she let me adore her. Only too soon did she discover my super-sensual fally innocence, and it pleased her to make me happy. As for myself, I was as happy as a young god, what rapture for me to be allowed to lie before her on my knees and to kiss her hands. Those with which she had squirged me, what marvelous hands they were. A beautiful form, delicate, rounded and white, with adorable dimples. I really was in love with her hands only. I played with them, let them submerge and emerge in the dark fur, held them against the light, and was unable to satiate my eyes with them. Wanda involuntarily looked at her hands. I noticed it and had to smile. From the way in which the super-sensual predominated in me in those days, you can see that I was in love only with the cruel lashes I received from my aunt. And about two years later, when I paid court to a young actress, only in the role she played, still later I became the admirer of a respectable woman. She acted the part of irreproachable virtue, only in the end it portrayed me with a rich Jew.  Give me, rather, a woman who is honest enough to say to me, I am a pompadour, a Lucretia Borgia, and I am ready to adore her. Wanda rose and opened the window. You have a curious way of arousing one's imagination, stimulating all one's nerves and making one's pulses beat faster. You put an oriole on vice, provided only if it is honest. Your ideal is a daring courtesan of genius.  In the middle of the night there was a knock at my window. I got up, opened it, and was startled. Without stood Venus in furs, just as she had appeared to me the first time. You have disturbed me with your stories. I have been tossing about in bed and can't go to sleep, she said. Now come and stay with me. In a moment, as I entered, Wanda was crouching by the fireplace, where she had kindled a small fire. Autumn is coming, she began. The nights are really quite cold already. I'm afraid you may not like it, but I can't put off my furs until the room is sufficiently warm. Not like it. You are joking, you know. I threw my arm around her and kissed her. Of course I know. But why this great fondness for furs? I was born with it, I replied. I already had it as a child. Furthermore, furs have a stimulating effect on all highly organized natures. This is due to both general and natural laws. It is a physical stimulus which sets you tingling, and no one can wholly escape it. Science has recently shown a certain relationship between electricity and warmth, at any rate. Their effects upon the human organism are related. The torrid zone produces more passionate characters. A heated atmosphere stimulation. Likewise, with electricity, this is the reason why the presence of cats exercise such a magic influence upon highly organized men of intellect. This is why these long-tailed graces of the animal kingdom, those adorable, scintillating electric batteries, have been the favorite animal of a Mohammed Cardinal Richelieu, and beyond, were so violent.  Certainly I replied. That is my explanation of the symbolic meaning which fur has acquired as the attribute of power and beauty. Monarchs and the dominant higher nobility in former times used it in this sense for their costume. Exclusively, great painters used it only for queenly beauty. The most beautiful frame, which Raphael could find for the divine forms, or for an arena, and Titian for the rosy-eyed body of his beloved, was dark furs. Thanks for the learned discourse on love, said Wanda, but you haven't told me everything. You associate something entirely individual with furs. Certainly I cried. I have repeatedly told you that suffering has a peculiar attraction for me. Nothing can intensify my passion more than tyranny, cruelty, and especially the faithlessness of a beautiful woman. And I cannot imagine this woman, this strange ideal derived from an aesthetics of ugliness, this soul of Nero in the body of Vrini, except in furs. I understand, Wanda interrupted. It gives a dominant and imposing quality to a woman. Not only that, I continued. You know I am super sensual. With me everything has its roots in the imagination, and then it receives its nourishment. I was already prematurely developed and highly sensitive when at about the age of ten. The legends of the martyrs fell into my hands. I remember reading with a kind of horror, which really was rapture, of how they pined in prisons, or laid on the gridiron pierced with arrows, boiled and pitched, thrown to wild animals, nailed to the cross, and suffered the most horrible torment with a kind of joy. To suffer and endure cruel torture from then on seemed to me exquisite delight, especially when it was inflicted by a beautiful woman. For ever since I can remember all poetry and everything demonic was for me concentrated in woman, I literally carried the idea into a sort of cult. I felt there was something sacred in sex, in fact it was the only sacred thing. In woman and her beauty I saw something divine, because the most important function of existence, the continuation of the species, is her vocation. To me woman represented a personification of nature, Isis, and man was her priest, her slave, and contrast to him she was cruel like nature herself who tosses aside whatever served her purposes as soon as she no longer has need for it. To him her cruelties, even death itself, still were sensual raptures. I envied King Gunther, whom the mighty Brunhilde fettered on the bridal night, and the poor Troubadour, whom his capricious mistress had sewed in the skin of wolves, to have him hunted like game. I envied the knight Tirad, who the daring Amazon Sharpa craptily ensnared in the forest near Prague and carried to her castle, Devon, where after having amused herself awhile with him she had him broken on the wheel. Disgusting, cried Wanda, I almost wish you might fall into the hands of a woman of their savage race, and the wolf's skin under the teeth of the dogs or upon the wheel would lose the taste for your kind of poetry. Do you think so? I hardly do. Have you actually lost your senses? Possibly. But let me go on, I developed a perfect passion for reading stories in which the extremist cruelties were described. I loved especially to look at the pictures and prints which represented them, all the sanguinary tyrants that ever occupied a throne, the inquisitors who had the heretics tortured, roasted, and butchered. All the women, whom the pages of history have recorded as lustful and beautiful, and violent women like Libousa, Lucretia Borgia, Agnes of Hungary, Queen Margot, Isabeau, the Sultan of Roxalan, the Russian Tsarina of the last century, all these I saw in furs or in robes bordered with their mind, and so first now roused strange imaginings in you, said Wanda, and simultaneously she began to drape her magnificent fur cloak coquettishly about her, so that the dark shining Sable played beautifully about her boss in her arms. Well, how do you feel now? Half broken on the wheel. Her piercing green eyes rested on me with a peculiar mocking satisfaction. Overcome by desire, I flung myself down before her and threw my arms about her. Yes, you have awakened my dearest dream, I cried. It has slept long enough. And this is, she put her hand on my neck. I was seized with a sweet intoxication under the influence of this warm little hand, and of her regard which tenderly searching fell upon me through her half-closed lids.   Why not this final tableau doesn't please you so well? I looked at Wanda, frightened. You surpassed my dreams. Yes, we women are inventive, she said. Take heed when you find your ideal. It might easily happen that she will treat you more cruelly than you anticipate. I am afraid that I have already found my ideal, I exclaimed, burying my face in her lap. Not I, exclaimed Wanda, throwing off her furs and moving about the room laughing. She was still laughing as I went downstairs, and when I stood musing in the yard, I still heard her peels of laughter above. Do you really then expect me to embody your ideal? Wanda asked archly, when we met in the park today. At first I could find no answer. The most antagonistic emotions were battling within me. In the meantime, she sat down on one of the stone benches and played with a flower. Well, am I? I kneeled down and seized her hands. Once more I beg you to become my wife, my true and loyal wife. If you can't do that, then become the embodiment of my ideal. Absolutely, without reservation, without softness. You know I am ready at the end of the year to give you my hand. If you prove to be the man I am seeking, Wanda replied very seriously. But I think you would be more grateful to me.  Well, which do you prefer? I believe that everything my imagination has dreamed lies latent in your personality. You are mistaken. I believe, I continue, that you enjoy having a man wholly in your power, torturing him. No, no, she exclaimed quickly. Or perhaps, she pondered. I don't understand myself any longer, she continued. But I have a confession to make to you. You have corrupted my imagination and inflamed my blood. I am beginning to like the things you speak of. The enthusiasm with which you speak of a pompadour. A Catherine II and all the other selfish, frivolous, cruel women carries me away and takes hold of my soul, and urges me on to become like those women who, in spite of their vileness, were slavishly adored during their lifetime and still exert a miraculous power from their graves. You will end by making me a despot in miniature, a domestic pompadour. Well then, I said in agitation, if all this is inherent in you, give way to this trend in your nature. Nothing halfway. If you can't be a true and loyal life to me, be a demon. I was nervous from loss of sleep, and the proximity of the beautiful woman affected me like a fever. I no longer recall what I said, but I remember that I kissed her feet, and finally raised her foot, and put my neck under it. She withdrew it quickly, and rose almost angrily. If you love me, Severin, she said quickly, and her voice sounded sharp in commanding. Never speak of those things again. Understand never. Otherwise, I might really... She smiled and sat down again. I am entirely serious, I exclaimed half-raving. I adore you so infinitely that I am willing to suffer anything from you for the sake of spending my whole life near you. Severin, once more I warn you. Your warning is vain. Do with me what you will, as long as you don't drive me away. Severin, replied Wanda. I am a frivolous young woman. It is dangerous for you to put yourself so completely in my power. You will end by actually becoming a plaything to me. Who will give word that I shall not abuse your insane desire? Your own nobility of character. Power makes people overbearing. Be it, I cried, tread me underfoot. Wanda threw her arms around my neck, looked into my eyes, and shook her head. I am afraid I can't, but I will try. For your sake, for I love you, Severin, as I have loved no other man. Today she took her hat and shawl, and I had to go shopping with her. She looked at whips, long whips with the shorthandle, the kind that are used on dogs. Are these satisfactory? said the shopkeeper. No, they are much too small, replied Wanda, with a side glance at me. I need a lard for a bulldog, I suppose, upon the merchant. Yes, she exclaimed, of the kind that are used in Russia for intractable slaves. She looked further and finally selected a whip, at whose sight I felt a strange creeping sensation. Now goodbye, Severin, she said. I have some other purchases to make, but you can't go along. I left her and took a walk. On the way back, I saw Wanda coming out of her ears. She beckoned me. Consider it well, she began in good spirits. I have never made a secret of how deeply your serious, dreamy character has fascinated me. The idea of seeing this serious man holding my power, actually lying in rapture, that my feet, of course, stimulates me. But will this attraction last? Woman loves a man, she now treats a slave, and ends by kicking him aside. Very well then, kicked me aside, I replied, when you are tired of me, I want to be your slave. Dangerous forces lie within me, said Wanda, after we had gone a few steps further. You awaken them, and not to your advantage. You know how to paint pleasure, cruelty, arrogance, and glowing colors. What would you say, should I try my hand at them, and make you the first object of my experiments? I would be like Dionysius, who had the inventor of the iron ox roasted with it in order to see whether his whales and groans really resembled the bellowing of an ox. Perhaps I am a female Dionysius, be it, I exclaimed, and my dreams will be fulfilled. I am yours for good or evil. Choose.  I do not care to see you to-day or to-morrow, and not until evening the day after tomorrow, and then as my slave. Your mistress, Wanda. As my slave was underlined, I read the note which I received early in the morning a second time, then I had a donkey saddled, an animal symbolic of learned professors, and rode into the mountains. I wanted to numb my desire, my yearning with the magnificent scenery of the Carpathians. I am back, tired, hungry, thirsty, and more in love than ever. I quickly changed my clothes, and a few moments later knocked at her door. Come in. I enter. She is standing in the center of the room, dressed in a gown of white satin, which floods down her body like light. Over it she wears a scarlet Kazabika, richly edged with ermine. Upon her powdered snowy hair is a little diadem of diamonds. She stands with her arms folded across her breast, and with her brows contracted. Wanda! I run toward her, and am about to throw my arm about her to kiss her. She retreats a step, measuring me from top to bottom. Slave! Mistress! I kneel down and kiss the hem of her garment. That is as it should be. Oh, how beautiful you are! Do I please you? She stepped before the mirror, and looked at herself with proud satisfaction. I shall become mad. Her lower lip twitched derisively, and she looked at me mockingly from behind, half-closed lids. Give me the whip. I looked about the room. No, she exclaimed, Stay as you are, kneeling. She went over to the fireplace, took the whip from the mantelpiece, and watching me with a smile, let it hiss through the air. Then she slowly rolled up the sleeve of her fur jacket. Marvelous woman, I exclaimed. Silent slave. She suddenly scowled, looked savage, and struck me with a whip. A moment later, she threw her arm tenderly about me, and pittingly bent down to me. Did I hurt you? She asked, half shyly, half timidly. No, I replied.  Strike again if it gives you pleasure. But it doesn't give me pleasure. Again I was seized with that strange intoxication. With me, I begged. With me without mercy. Wanda swung the whip and hit me twice. Are you satisfied now? No. Seriously, no. With me, I beg you, it is a joy to me. Yes, because you know very well that it isn't serious. She replied, because I haven't the heart to hurt you. This brutal game goes against my grain. Where I really the woman who beats her slaves, you would be horrified. No, Wanda, I replied. I love you more than myself. I am devoted to you for a death in life, in all seriousness. You can do with me whatever you will. Whatever your caprice suggests. Severin. Tread me underfoot, I exclaimed, and flung myself face to the floor before her.  Well, then maltreat me seriously. An uncanny pause. Severin. I warn you for the last time, began Wanda. If you love me, be cruel towards me, I pleaded with upraised eyes. If I love you, repeated Wanda. Very well. She stepped back and looked at me with a somber smile. Be then my slave, and know what it means to be delivered into the hands of a woman. And at the same moment, she gave me a kick. How do you like that, slave? Then she flourished the whip.  I was about to rise. Not that way, she commanded, on your knees. I obeyed, and she began to apply the lash. The blows fell rapidly and powerfully on my back and arms. Each one cut into my flesh and burned there, but the pains enraptured me. They came from her, whom I adored, and for whom I was ready at any hour to lay down my life. She stopped. I'm beginning to enjoy it, she said. But enough for today. I am beginning to feel a demonic curiosity to see how far your strength goes. I take a cruel joy in seeing you tremble and writhe beneath my whips, and in hearing your groans and wails. I want to go on whipping without pity until you beg for mercy, until you lose your senses. You have awakened dangerous elements in my being. But now, get up. I seized her hand and pressed it to my lips. What impudence. She shoved me away with her foot. Out of my sight, slave. After having spent a feverish night filled with confused dreams, I awoke. Dawn was just beginning to break. How much of what was hovering in my memory was true? What had I actually experienced? And what had I dreamed? That I had been whipped was certain. I can still feel each blow and count the burning red stripes on my body, and she whipped me. Now I know everything. My dream has become truth. How does it make me feel? Am I disappointed in the realization of my dream? No. I am merely somewhat tired. But her cruelty has enraptured me. Oh, how I love her. Adore her. All this cannot express in the remotest way my feeling for her. My complete devotion to her. What happiness to be her slave. She calls me from her balcony. I hurry upstairs. She is standing on the threshold, holding out her hand in friendly fashion. I am ashamed of myself, she says, while I embrace her.  Why? Please try to forget the ugly scene of yesterday, she said with quivering voice. I have fulfilled your mad wish. Now let us be reasonable and happy and love each other. And in a year I will be your wife. My mistress, I exclaimed. And I your slave. Not another word of slavery, cruelty, or the whip, interrupted Wanda. I shall not grant you any of these favors, not except wearing my fur jacket. Come and help me into it. The little bronze clock on which stood a cupid, who had just shot his bolt, struck midnight. I rose and wanted to leave. Wanda said nothing, but embraced me and drew me back onto the ottoman.  A languid abandonment pervaded Wanda's entire being. What a voluptuous softness there was in the gloaming of her half-closed eyes, in the red flood of her hair, which shimmered faintly under the white powder, in the red and white satin, which crackled about her after with every movement, and the swelling ermine of the Kazbaika in which she carelessly nestled. Please, I stammered, but you will be angry with me. Do with me what you will, she whispered. Well, then whip me, or I shall go mad.  Oh, I am so terribly in love.   Our unnatural way of life must generate such illnesses. Were you less virtuous, you would be completely sane. Well, then make me sane, I murmured. My hands were running through her hair and playing tremblingly with the gleaming fur, which rose and fell like a moonlit wave upon her heaving bosom, and drove all my senses into confusion, and I kissed her. No, she kissed me savagely, pitilessly, as if she wanted to slay me with her kisses. I was as in a delirium, and had long since lost my reason, but now I, too, was breathless. I sought to free myself. What is the matter, I asked Wanda. I am suffering agonies. You are suffering. She broke out into loud, mused laughter. You laugh, I moaned. You have no idea. She was serious, all of a sudden.  Wanda, I stammered. Of course, you enjoy suffering, she said, and laughed again.  No, I will no longer ask, I exclaimed. Whether you want to belong to me for always, or for only a brief moment of intoxication, I want to drain my happiness to the full. You are mine now, and I would rather lose you than never to have had you. Now you are sensible, she said. She kissed me again with her murderous lips. I tore the urmine apart in the covering of lace, and her naked breasts surged against mine. Then my senses left me. The first thing I remember is the moment when I saw blood dripping from my hand, and she asked apathetically, did you scratch me? No, I believe, I've bitten you. End of section two. Section three of Venus and Furs. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by J. C. Iquan. Venus in Furs. By Lopold von Sacher Mazok. Translated by Fernanda Savage. Section three. It is strange how every relation in life assumes a different face as soon as a new person enters. We spent marvellous days together. We visited the mountains and lakes. We read together, and I completed Wanda's portrait. And how we loved one another, how beautiful her smiling face was. Then a friend of hers arrived, a divorced woman, somewhat older, more experienced, and less scrupulous than Wanda. Her influence is already making itself felt in every direction. Wanda wrinkles her brows. And displays a certain impatience with me. Has she ceased loving me? For almost a fourth night, this unbearable retrain has lain upon us. Her friend lives with her, and we are never alone. A circle of men surrounds the young women. With my seriousness and melancholy, I am playing an absurd role as a lover. Wanda treats me like a stranger. Today, while out walking, she stayed behind with me. I saw that this was done intentionally, and I rejoiced. But what did she tell me? My friend doesn't understand how I can love you. She doesn't think you either handsome or particularly attractive otherwise. She is telling me, from morning till night, about the glamour of the frivolous life in the capital, hinting at the advantages to which I could lay claim, the large parties which I would find there, and the distinguished and handsome admirers which I would attract. But what uses all this, since it happens that I love you? For a moment I lost my breath. Then I said, I have no wish to stand in the way of your happiness. Wanda, do not consider me. Then I raised my hat and let her go ahead. She looked at me surprised, but did not answer a syllable. When by chance I happened to be close to her on the way back, she secretly pressed my hand. Her glance was so radiant, so full of promised happiness, that in a moment all the torments of these days were forgotten, and all the wounds healed. I now am aware again of how much I love her. My friend has complained about you, said Wanda today. Perhaps she feels that I despise her. But why do you despise her, you foolish young man? exclaimed Wanda, pulling my ears with both hands. Because she is a hypocrite, I said. I respect only a woman who is actually virtuous, or who openly lives for pleasure's sake. Like me, for instance, replied Wanda justingly. But you see, child, a woman can only do that in the rarest cases. She can neither be as gaily sensual, nor as spiritually free as a man. Her state is always a mixture of the sensual and spiritual. Her heart desires to enchant a man permanently, while she herself is ever subject to the desire for change. The result is a conflict, and thus, usually against her wishes, lies and deception enter into her actions and personality, and corrupt her character. Certainly that's true, I said. The transcendental character with which woman wants to stamp love leads her to deception. But the world likewise demands it, Wanda interrupted. Look at this woman. She has a husband and a lover in Limburg, and has found a new admirer here. She deceives all three, and yet is honoured by all and respected by the world. I don't care, I exclaimed, but she is to leave you alone. She treats you like an article of commerce. Why not? The beautiful woman interrupted vivaciously. Every woman has the instinct or desire to draw advantage out of her attractions, and much is to be said for giving oneself without love or pleasure. Because if you do it in cold blood, you can reprofit to best advantage. Wanda, what are you saying? Why not? she said, and take note of what I am about to say to you. Never feel secure with the woman you love, for there are more dangers in women's nature than you imagine. Women are neither as good as their admirers and defenders maintain, nor as bad as their enemies make them out to be. Women's character is characterlessness. The best woman will momentarily go down into the mire, and the worst unexpectedly rise to the deeds of greatness and goodness, and puts to shame those that despise her. No woman is so good or so bad, but that, at any moment, she is capable of the most diabolical, as well as of the most divine, of the filthiest, as well as of the purest, thoughts, emotions, and actions. In spite of all the advances of civilization, woman has remained, as she came, out of the land of nature. She has the nature of a savage who is face-whole, or faceless, magnanimous, or cruel, according to the impulse that dominates at the moment. Throughout history, it has always been a serious deep culture which has produced moral character. Man, even when he is selfish or evil, always follows principles. Women never follows anything but impulses. Don't ever forget that, and never feel secure with the woman you love. Her friend has left. At last an evening alone with her again. It seems as if Wanda has saved up all the love which had been kept from her for this superlative evening.   In a state of relaxation and holy mine.  I cannot yet believe, comprehend, that this woman is mine, holy mine. She is right on one point, Wanda began, without moving, without opening her eyes, as if she were asleep. Who? She remained silent. Your friend? She nodded. Yes, she is right. You are not a man.  But I cannot imagine you as a husband. I was frightened. What is the matter? You are trembling? I tremble at the thought of how easily I might lose you, I replied. Are you made less happy now? Because of this, she replied. Does it rub you of any of your joys that I have belonged to another before I did to you, that others after you will possess me? And would you enjoy less if another were made happy simultaneously with you? Wanda! You see, she continued, that would be a way out. You won't ever lose me then. I care deeply for you, and intellectually, we are harmonious, and I should like to live with you always, if, in addition to you, I might have... What an idea! I cried. You'll fill me with a sort of horror. Do you love me any less? On the contrary. Wanda raised herself on her left arm. I believe, she said, that to hold a man permanently, it is vitally important not to be faithful to him. What honest woman has ever been as devotedly loved as a heterah. There is a painful stimulus in the unfaithfulness of a beloved woman. It is the highest kind of ecstasy. For you too? Wanda asked quickly. For me too. And if I should give you that pleasure, Wanda exclaimed mockingly. I shall suffer terrible agonies, but I shall adore you the more. I replied, but you would never deceive me. You would have the demonic greatness of saying to me. I shall love no one but you, but I shall make happy whoever pleases me. Wanda shook her head. I don't like deception. I am honest. But what man exists who can support the burden of truth?  Certainly, I should endure anything, so as not to lose you. I feel how little I really mean to you. But Severin. But it is so, I said. And just for that reason. For that reason you would, she smiled roguishly. Have I guessed it? Be your slave, I exclaimed. Be your unrestricted property, without a will of my own, of which you could dispose as you wished, and which would therefore never be a burden to you. While you drink life at its fullest, while surrounded by luxury, you enjoy the serene happiness and Olympian love.  You really aren't so far from wrong, replied Wanda. For only as my slave could you endure my loving others. Furthermore, the freedom of enjoyment of the ancient world is unthinkable without slavery. It must give one a feeling of like unto a god, to see a man kneel before one and tremble. I want a slave. Do you hear, Severin? Am I not your slave? Then listen, Jimmy, said Wanda excitedly, seizing my hand. I want to be yours as long as I love you. A month? Perhaps, even two. And then? Then you become my slave. And you? I? Why'd you ask? I am a goddess, and sometimes I descend from my Olympian heights to you, softly, very softly, and secretly. But what does it all mean, said Wanda, resting her head in both hands with her gaze lost in the distance, a golden fancy which never can become true. An uncanny brooding, melancholy, seemed shed over her entire being. I have never seen her like that. Why unachievable, I began. Because slavery doesn't exist any longer. Then we will go to a country where it exists, to the Orient, to Turkey, I said eagerly. You would, Severin. In all seriousness, Wanda replied. Her eyes burned. Yes, in all seriousness. I want to be your slave, I continued. I want your power over me, to be sanctified by law. I want my life to be in your hands. I want nothing that could protect or save me from you. Oh, what a voluptuous joy, when once I feel myself entirely dependent upon your absolute will, your whim, at your beck and call. And then what happiness, when at some time you're deign to be gracious, and the slave may kiss the lips, which mean life and death to him. I knelt down, and leaned my burning forehead against her knee.  She held me to her breast, and covered me with kisses. You really want it? I swear to you now by God and my honor, that I shall be your slave, wherever and whenever you wish it. As soon as you command, I exclaimed, hardly master of myself. And if I take you at your word, said Wanda, please do. Oh, this appeals to me, she said then. It is different from anything else, to know that a man who worships me, and whom I love with all my heart, is so holy mine, dependent on my will and caprice, my possession and slave, will I. She looked strangely at me. If I should become frightfully frivolous, you are to blame, she continued. It almost seems as if you were afraid of me already, but you have sworn. And I shall keep my oath. I shall see to that, she replied, and beginning to enjoy it. And heaven help me, we won't stick to fancies now. You shall become my slave, and I shall try to be Venus in furs. I thought that at last I knew this woman, understood her, and now I see I have to begin at the very beginning again. Only a little while ago, her reaction to my dreams was violently hostile. And now she tries to carry them into execution with a subversed seriousness. She has drawn up a contract, according to which I give my word of honour, and agree under oath to be her slave, as long as she wishes. With her arm around my neck, she reads this, unprecedented, incredible document to me. The end of each sentence, she punctuates with a kiss. But all the obligations in the contracts are on my side, I said teasing her. Of course, she replied with great seriousness. You cease to be my lover, and consequently I am released from all duties and obligations towards you.  You no longer have any rights, and no longer can lay claim to any. There can be no limit to my power over you. Remember that you won't be much better than a dog, or some inanimate object. You will be mine, my plaything, which I can break into pieces whenever I want, and ours amusement. You are nothing. I am everything.  She laughed and kissed me again, and yet a sort of cold shiver ran through me. Won't you allow me a few conditions? I began. Conditions? She contracted her forehead. Oh! You are afraid already, or perhaps you regret, but it is too late now. You have sworn I have your word of honour. But let me hear them. First of all, I should like to have it included in our contract, that you will never completely leave me, and then that you will never give me over to the mercies of any of your admirers.  How can you imagine that I, and you, a man who loves me so absolutely, who puts himself so entirely in my power? She halted. No, no, I said, covering her hands with kisses. I don't fear anything from you that might dishonour me. Forgive me the ugly thought. Wanda smiled happily, leaned her cheek against mine, and seemed to reflect. We have forgotten something. She whispered cockatishly. The most important thing. A condition? Yes, that I must always wear my furs, exclaimed Wanda. But I promise you I'll do that anyhow, because they give me a despotic feeling, and I shall be very cruel to you.  Shall I sign the contract? I asked. Not yet, said Wanda. I shall first add your conditions, and the actual signing won't occur until the proper time in place. In Constantinople? No. I have thought things over. What special value would there be in owning a slave where everyone owns slaves? What I want is to have a slave, I alone, here in our civilised sober, Philistine world, and a slave who submits hopelessly to my power solely on account of my beauty and personality, not because of law, of property rights, or compulsions. This attracts me. But at any rate we will go to a country where we are not known, and where you can appear before the world as my servant without embarrassment, perhaps to Italy, to Rome or Naples. We were sitting on Wanda's ottoman.  She clung to my lips, drawing my soul from my body.  I want to be absolutely in your power, Wanda, I exclaimed suddenly, seized by that frenzy of passion when I can scarcely think clearly or decide freely. I want to put myself absolutely at your mercy, for good or evil, without any condition, without any limit to your power. While saying this, I had slipped from the ottoman, and lay at her feet, looking up at her with drunken eyes. How beautiful you are, she exclaimed. Your eyes have broken in ecstasy, fill me with joy, carry me away. How wonderful your look would be, if you were being beaten to death, and the extreme agony. You have the eye of a martyr. Sometimes, nevertheless, I have an uneasy feeling about placing myself so absolutely, so unconditionally into a woman's hands. Suppose she did abuse my passion, her power. Well then, I would experience what has occupied my imagination since my childhood, what has always given me the feeling of seductive terror, a foolish apprehension. It will be a wanton game she will play with me, nothing more. She loves me, and she is good, a noble personality, incapable of a breach of faith. But it lies in her hands. If she wants to, she can. What a temptation in this doubt, this fear. Now I understand Manolesco and the poor Chevalier, who, even in the pillory, while she was another man's mistress, still adored her. Love knows no virtue, no profit. It loves and forgives and suffers everything, because it must. It is not our judgment that leads us. It is neither the advantages nor the faults which we discover that make us abandon ourselves or that repel us. It is a sweet, soft, enigmatic power that drives us on. We cease to think, to feel, to will. We let ourselves be carried away by it, and ask not wither. A Russian prince made his first appearance today on the promenade. He aroused general interest on account of his athletic figure, magnificent face, and splendid bearing. The woman particularly gaped at him, as though he were a wild animal. But he went his way gloomily, without paying attention to anyone. He was accompanied by two servants, one a negro, completely dressed in red satin, and the other a Circassian in his full gleaming uniform. Suddenly he saw Wanda, and fixed his cold piercing look upon her.  And she, she, veritably devoured him with her radiant green eyes, and did everything possible to meet him again. The cunning cockatry with which she walked, moved, and looked at him, almost stiffled me. On the way home, I remarked about it. She net her brows. What do you want? she said. The prince is a man whom I might like, who even dazzles me, and I am free. I do what I please. Don't you love me any longer? I stammered, frightened. I love only you, she replied. But I shall have the prince pay court to me. Wanda, aren't you my slave? She said calmly, am I not Venus, the cruel northern Venus in furs? I was silent. I felt literally crushed by her words. Her cold look entered my heart like a dagger. You will find out immediately the prince's name, residence, and circumstances.  But no argument, obey, exclaimed Wanda, more sternly than I would have thought possible of her. And don't dare to enter my sight, until you can answer my questions. It was not till the afternoon that I could obtain the desired information for Wanda.  Then she nodded. She seemed to be satisfied. Bring me my footstool, she commanded shortly. I obeyed, and after having put it before her, and having put her feet on it, I remained kneeling. How will this end? I asked sadly after a short pause. She broke into playful laughter. Why, things haven't begun yet. You are more heartless than I imagined, I replied hurt. Severin, Wanda began earnestly. I haven't done anything yet, not the slightest thing, and you are already calling me heartless. What will happen when I begin to carry your dreams to their realization, when I shall lead a gay, free life, and have a circle of admirers about me, when I shall actually fulfill your ideal, tread you underfoot, and apply the lash? You take my dreams too seriously. Too seriously? I can't stop at make-believe once I begin, she replied.  You have wished it. It was my idea or yours. Did I persuade you, or did you inflame my imagination? I am taking things seriously now. Wanda, I replied caressingly, listened quietly to me. We love each other infinitely. We are very happy. Will you sacrifice our entire future to a whim? It is no longer a whim, she exclaimed. What is it? I asked, frightened. Something that was probably latent in me, she said quietly and thoughtfully. Perhaps it would never have come to light, if you had not called it to life, and made it grow. Now that it has become a powerful impulse, fills my whole being. Now that I enjoy it, now that I cannot and do not want to do otherwise. Now you want to back out, you. Are you a man?  Don't, you're not a man.  I am stubborn, she said. You know that. I haven't a strong imagination.  But when I make up my mind to do something, I carry it through. And the more certainly the more opposition I meet, leave me alone.  Wanda, I likewise rose and stood, facing her. Now you know what I am, she continued. Once more, I warn you. You still have the choice. I am not compelling you to be my slave. Wanda, I replied with emotion and tears filling my eyes. Don't you know I love you? Her lips quivered contemptuously. You are mistaken. You make yourself out worse than you are. You're good and noble by nature. What do you know about my nature? She interrupted vehemently. You will get to know me as I am. Wanda, the sight will you submit unconditionally? And if I say no, then she stepped close up to me, cold and contemptuous. As she stood before me now, the arms folded across her breast, with an evil smile about her lips. She was, in fact, the despotic woman of my dreams.  Well, she said at last. You're angry, I cried. You will punish me. Oh no, she replied. I shall let you go. You're free. I'm not holding you. Wanda, I, who love you so? Yes, you, my dear sir. You who adore me, she exclaimed contemptuously.  Leave me instantly. Wanda, I, wretch. My blood rose in my heart. I threw myself down at her feet and began to cry. Tears, too, she began to laugh.  Leave me. I don't want to see you again. Oh my God! I cried beside myself. I will do whatever you command. Be your slave, a mere object, with which you can do what you will. Only, don't send me away. I can bear it. I cannot live without you. I embraced her knees and covered her hand with kisses. Yes, you must be a slave, and feel the lash. For you are not a man, she said calmly. She said this to me with perfect composure, not angrily, not even excitedly, and it was what hurt the most. Now I know you, your dog-like nature, that adores me, where it is kicked, and the more, the more it is maltreated. Now I know you, and now you shall come to know me. She walked up and down with long strides, while I remained crushed on my knees. My head was hanging supine, tears flowed from my eyes. Come here, Wanda commanded harshly, sitting down on the ottoman. I obeyed her command, and sat down beside her. She looked at me somberly, and then a light suddenly seemed to illuminate the interior of her eye.  The odd part of my situation is that I like the bear in Lily's park. I can escape, and don't want to. I'm ready to endure everything, as soon as she threatens to set me free. If only she would use the whip again. There is something uncanny in the kindness with which she treats me. I seem like a little captive mouse, with which a beautiful cat prettily plays. She is ready at any moment to tear it two pieces, and my heart of a mouse threatens to burst. What are her intentions? What does she purpose to do with me? It seems she has completely forgotten the contract, my slavehood. Or was it actually only stubbornness? And she gave up her whole plan as soon as I no longer opposed her, and submitted to her imperial whim. How kind she is to me. How tender. How loving. We're spending marvelously happy days. Today she had me read her the scene between Faust and Mephistopheles, in which the latter appears as a wandering scholar. Her glance hung on me with strange pleasure. I don't understand, she said, when I had finished, how a man who can read such great and beautiful thoughts with such expression, and interpret them so clearly, concisely, and intelligently, can at the same time be such a visionary and super sensual nanny as you are. Were you pleased? said I, and kissed her forehead. She gently struck my brow. I love you, Severin, she whispered. I don't believe I could ever love anyone more than you. Let us be sensible. What do you say? Instead of replying, I folded her in my arms. A deep, inward, yet vaguely sad happiness filled my breast.  How can you cry? she exclaimed.  On a pleasure drive we met the Russian prince in his carriage. He seemed to be unpleasantly surprised to see me by one the side, and looked as if he wanted to pierce her through and through with his electric gray eyes. She, however, did not seem to notice him. I felt, at that moment, like kneeling down before her, and kissing her feet. She let her glance glide over him indifferently, as though he were an inanimate object. A tree, for instance, and turned to me with her gracious smile. And of Section 3. Section 4 of Venus and Furs. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by J. C. Iquan. Venus in Furs. By Leopold von Sascha Mazok. Translated by Fernanda Savage. Section 4. When I sat good night to her today, she seemed suddenly unaccountably distracted, and moody. What was occupying her? I am sorry you are going, she said, when I was already standing on the threshold. It is entirely in your hands to shorten the hard period of my trial, to cease tormenting me, I pleaded. Do you imagine that this compulsion isn't a torment for me, too, Wanda interjected? Then ended, I exclaimed, embracing her. Be my wife. Never, Severin, she said gently, but with great firmness. What do you mean? I was frightened in my innermost soul. You are not the man for me. I looked at her, and slowly withdrew my arm, which was still about her waist. Then I left the room, and she, she did not call me back. Section 5. A sleepless night. I made countless decisions, only to toss them aside again. In the morning, I wrote her a letter, in which I declared our relationship dissolved. My hand trembled when I put on the seal, and I burned my fingers. As I went upstairs, to hand it to the maid, my knees threatened to give way.  I haven't had my hair pressed yet, she said, smiling. What have you there? A letter. For me? I nodded. Ah, you want to break with me? She exclaimed, mockingly. Didn't you tell me yesterday that I wasn't the man for you? Repeat it now. Very well, then. My whole body was trembling. My voice failed me, and I handed her the letter. Keep it, she said, measuring me coldly. You forget that is no longer a question as to whether you satisfy me as a man. As a slave, you will doubtless do well enough. Madam, exclaimed aghast. That is what you will call me in the future, replied Wanda, throwing back her head with a movement of unutterable contempt. Put your affairs in order within the next twenty-four hours. The day after tomorrow I shall start for Italy, and you will accompany me as my servant. Wanda, I forbid any sort of familiarity, she said, cutting my word short. Likewise, you are not to come in unless I call or ring for you, and you are not to speak to me until you are spoken to. From now on, your name is Longer Severin, but Gregor. I trembled with rage, and yet, unfortunately, I cannot deny it. I also felt a strange pleasure and stimulation. But, Madam, you know my circumstances. I began in my confusion. I am dependent on my father, and I doubt whether he will give me the large sum of money needed for this journey. That means you have no money, Gregor, said Wanda, delightedly. So much the better. You are then entirely dependent on me, and in fact, my slave. You don't consider, I try to object, that as a man of honour it is impossible for me. I have indeed considered it. She replied almost with a tone of command. As a man of honour, you must keep your oath, and redeem your promise to follow me as slave, whether so ever I demand, and obey whatever I command. Now leave me, Gregor. I turned toward the door. Not yet.  She held it out to me with a certain proud indifference, and I, the dilettante, the donkey, the miserable slave, pressed it with intense tenderness against my lips, which were dry and hot from excitement. There was a gracious nod of the head. Then I was dismissed. Though it was late in the evening, my light was still lit, and the fire was burning in the large green stove. There were still many things among my letters, and documents to be put in order. Autumn, as this usually the case with us, had fallen with all its power. Suddenly she knocked at my window with the handle of her whip. I opened, and saw her standing outside in her ermine-line jacket, and in a high round cossack cap of ermine, of the kind which the great Catherine favoured. Are you ready, Gregor? She asked, darkly. Not yet, mistress, I replied. I like that word, she said then.  We leave here tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. As far as the district capital, you will be my companion and friend. But from the moment that we enter the railway coach, you are my slave, my servant. Now close the window, and open the door. After I had done as she had demanded, and after she had entered, she asked, contracting her brows ironically. Well, how do you like me?  She gave me a blow with the whip. You're very beautiful, mistress. Wanda smiled, and sat down in the armchair. Kneel down, here, beside my chair. I obeyed. Kissed my hand. I seized her small, cold hand, and kissed it, and the mouth. In a surge of passion, I threw my arms around the beautiful, cruel woman, and covered her face, arms, and breasts with glowing kisses. She returned them with equal fervour. The eyelids closed as in a dream. It was after midnight when she left. At nine o'clock sharp in the morning, everything was ready for departure, as she had ordered. We left the little Carpathian Health Resort in a comfortable light carriage. The most interesting drama of my life had reached a point of development, whose denouncement it was then impossible to foretell. So far, everything went well. I sat beside Wanda, and she chatted very graciously and intelligently with me, as with a good friend, concerning Italy. Pisamsky's new novel and Wagner's music. She wore a sort of Amazonesque traveling dress of black cloth, with a short jacket of the same material. Set with dark fur, it fitted closely and showed her figure to best advantage. Over it, she wore dark furs. Her hair wound into an antique knot, lay behind a small dark fur hat from which a black veil hung. Wanda was in a very good humour. She fed me candies, played with my hair, loosened my neck cloth, and made a pretty cockade of it. She covered my knees with her furs, and stealthily pressed the fingers of my hand. When our Jewish driver persistently went on nodding to himself, she gave me a kiss, and her cold lips had the fresh frothy fragrance of a young autumnal rose, which blossoms alone amid bare stalks and yellow leaves, and upon whose calyx the first frost has hung tiny diamonds of ice. We are in the district capital. We get out at the railway station. Wanda throws out her furs, and places them over my arm, and goes to secure the tickets. When she returns, she has completely changed. Here is your ticket, Gregor. She says in a tone which supercilious ladies use to their servants. A third class ticket. I reply with comic horror. Of course, she continues. But now be careful. You won't get on until I am settled in my compartment, and don't need you any longer. At each station you will hurry to my car and ask for my orders. Don't forget. And now give me my furs. After I had helped her into them, humbly, like a slave, she went to find an empty first-class coupe. I followed, supporting herself on my shoulders. She got on, and I wrapped her feet in bearskins, and placed them on the warming bottle. Then she nodded to me, and dismissed me.  I now had the leisure to muse about the riddle of human existence, and about its greatest riddle of all, women. Whenever the train stops, I jump off, run to the carriage, and with drawn cap, await her orders. She wants coffee, and then a glass of water. At another time a bowl of warm water to wash her hands, and thus it goes on. She lets several men who have entered her compartment pay court to her. I am dying of jealousy, and have to leap about like an antelope, so as to secure what she wants quickly, and not miss the train. In this way the night passes. I haven't had time to eat a mouthful, and I can sleep. I have to breathe the same onion air with Polish peasants, Jewish peddlers, and common soldiers. When I mount the steps of her coop, she is lying stretched out on cushions in her comfortable furs, covered up with the skins of animals. She is like an oriental despot, and the men sit like Indian deities, straight up right against the walls, and scarcely dare to breathe. She stops over in Vienna for a good day to go shopping, and particularly to buy series of luxurious gowns. She continues to treat me as her servant. I follow her at the respectful distance of ten paces. She hands me her packages without so much as even daining a kind look, and laden down like a donkey. I pant along behind. Before leaving she takes all my clothes and gives them to the hotel waiters. I am ordered to put on her livery. It is a Cracovian costume in her colors, light blue with red facings, and red quadrangular cap ornamented with peacock feathers. The costume is rather becoming to me. The silver buttons bear her coat of arms. I have the feeling of having been sold, or of having bonded myself to the devil. My fair demon leads me from Vienna to Florence. Instead of linen garbs, mezzovians, and greasy hair, too, my companions now are curly-haired cantadini, a magnificent surgeon of the first Italian grenadiers, and a poor German painter. The tobacco smoke no longer smells of onions, but of salami and cheese. Night has fallen again. I lie on my wooden bed as on a rack. My arms and legs seem broken. But there nevertheless is an element of poetry in the affair. The stars sparkle round about. The Italian surgeon has a face like a polo velveteer, and the German painter sings a lovely German song. Now that all the shadows gather and endless stars grow light, deep yearning on me falls, and softly fails the night. Through the sea of dreams, sailing without seas, sailing goes my soul, and I'm to find release. I am thinking of the beautiful woman who is sleeping in regal comfort among her soft furs, Florence, crowds, cries, in fortunate porters and cab drivers, one that chooses a carriage and dismisses the porters. What have I a servant for, she says. Gregor, here is the ticket. Get the luggage. She wraps herself in her furs, and sits quietly in the carriage, while I drag the heavy trunks hither, one after another. I break down for a moment under the last one. A good-natured carabineer with an intelligent face comes to my assistance. She laughs. It must be heavy, said she. All my furs are in it. I get up on the driver's seat, wiping drops of perspiration from my brow. She gives the name of the hotel, and the driver urges on his horse. In a few minutes we halt at the brilliantly illuminated entrance. Have you any rooms? She asks the portier. Yes, madame. Two for me, one for my servant, all with stoves. Two first-class rooms for you, madame, both with stoves, replied the waiter, who had hastily come up, and one without heat for your servant. She looked at them, and then abruptly said, They are satisfactory. Half fires built at once, my servant can sleep in the unheated room. I merely looked at her. Bring up the trunks, Gregor, she commands, paying no attention to my looks. In the meantime I'll be dressing, and then we'll go down to the dining room, and you can eat something for supper. As she goes into the adjoining room, I drag the trunks upstairs, and help the waiter build a fire in her bedroom. He tries to question me in bad French about my employer. With a brief glance, I see the blazing fire, the fragrant white poster bed, and the rugs which cover the floor. Tired and hungry, I then descend the stairs, and ask for something to eat. A good-natured waiter, who used to be in the Austrian army, and takes all sorts of paint to entertain me in German, shows me the dining room and waits on me. I have just had the first fresh drink in thirty-six hours, and the first bite of warm food on my fork when she enters. I rise. What do you mean by taking me into a dining room in which my servant is eating? She snaps at the waiter, flaring with anger. She turns around and leaves. Meanwhile, I thank heaven that I am permitted to go on eating. Later, I climb the four flights upstairs to my room.  It is a narrow room, without fireplace, without a window, but with a small air-hole. If it weren't so beastly cold, it would remind me of one of the Venetian Pionbi. Footnote, these were notorious prisons under the leaden roof of the Palace of the Doge. End footnote. Involuntarily, I have to laugh out aloud, so that it re-echoes, and I am startled by my own laughter. Suddenly, the door is pulled open, and the waiter with his theatrical Italian gesture calls, you are to come down to Madame at once. I pick up my cup, stumble down the first few steps, but finally arrive in front of a door on the first floor and knock. Come in.  Wanda has made herself comfortable. She is sitting in the negligee of white muslin and laces on a small red devan with her feet on a footstool that matches. She has thrown her fur cloak about her. It is the identical cloak in which she appeared to me for the first time as goddess of love. The yellow lights of the candelabra, which stand on projections, their reflections in the large mirrors, and the red flames from the open fireplace play beautifully on the green velvet, the dark brown stable of the cloak, the smooth white skin, and the red flaming hair of the beautiful woman.  I am satisfied with you, Gregor, she began. I bowed. Come closer. I abate. Still closer. She looked down, and stroked the table with her hand. Venus in first receives her slave. I can see that you are more than an ordinary dreamer. You don't remain far in arrears of your dreams.  I confess I like this. It impresses me. There is strength in this, and strength is the only thing one respects. I actually believe that under unusual circumstances, in a period of great deeds, what seems to be your weakness would reveal itself as extraordinary power. Under the early emperors, you would have been a martyr. At the time of the Reformation, an Anabattist, during the French Revolution, one of those Inspirers-Drivantists who mounted to the guillotine with the Marseillaises on their lips. Which were my slave, my...? She suddenly leaped up. The furs slipped down, and she threw her arms with soft pressure about my neck.  You will be cold tonight, up in your wretched room, without a fire. Shall I give you one of my furs, dear heart, the large one there? She quickly picked it up, throwing it over my shoulders. And before I knew what had happened, I was completely wrapped up in it. How wonderfully becoming furs are to your face. They bring out your noble line. As soon as you seize being my slave, you must wear your velvet coat with sable.  Otherwise, I shall never put on my fur jacket again. And again, she began to caress me and kiss me. Finally, she drew me down on the little divan. You seem to be pleased with yourself in furs, she said. Quick, quick give them to me, or I will lose all sense of dignity. I placed the furs about her, and won the slip to her right arm into the sleeve. This is the pose in Titian's picture. But now, enough of joking. Don't always look so solemn. It makes me feel sad. As far as the world is concerned, you are still merely my servant. You are not yet my slave, for you have not yet signed the contract. You are still free, and can leave me any moment. You have played your part magnificently. I have been delighted. But aren't you tired of it already? And don't you think I am abominable? Well, say something. I commend it. Must I confess to you, Wanda? I began. Yes, you must. Even if you take advantage of it, I continued. I shall love you the more deeply, adore you the more fanatically, the worse you treat me. What you have just done inflames my blood and intoxicates all my senses. I held her close to me, and clung for several moments to remoist lips. Oh, you beautiful woman, I then exclaimed, looking at her. In my enthusiasm, I tore the sable from her shoulders, and pressed my mouth against her neck. You love me, even when I am cruel, said Wanda. Now go.  She boxed my ears so that I saw stars, and bells rang in my ears. Help me into my first slave. I helped her, as well as I could. How awkward, she exclaimed. It was scarcely in it, before she struck me in the face again. I felt myself growing pale. Did I hurt you? She asked, softly touching me with her hand. No. No, I exclaimed. At any rate, you have no reason to complain. You wanted this. Now kiss me again. I threw my arms about her, and her lips clunk closely to mine. As she lay against my breast in her large heavy furs, I had a curiously oppressive sensation. It was as if a wild beast, a she-bear, were embracing me. It seemed as if I were about to fuel her claws in my flesh. But this time the she-bear let me off easily.  Life is really amazingly droll, I thought. A short time ago, the most beautiful woman, Venus herself, rested against your breast, and now you have an opportunity for studying the Chinese hell. Unlike us, they don't hurl the damned into flames, but they have devils chasing them out into fields of ice. Very likely the founders of their religion also slept in unheated rooms. During the night, I startled out of my sleep with a scream. I had been dreaming of an ice-field in which I had lost my way. I had been looking in vain for a way out. Suddenly an Eskimo drove up in a sleigh, harnessed with reindeer. He had the face of the waiter who had shown me to the unheated room. What are you looking for here, my dear sir? He exclaimed, this is the North Pole. A moment later, he had disappeared, and wandered over the smooth ice on tiny skates. Her white satin skirt fluttered and crackled. The ermine of her jacket and cap, but especially her face, gleamed whiter than the snow.  Suddenly I felt my blood running warm down my side. What are you doing? I asked, horror-stricken. She laughed, and as I looked at her now, it was no longer Wanda, but a huge white she-bear who was digging her paws into my body. I cried out in despair and still heard her diabolical laughter when I awoke and looked about to room in surprise. Early in the morning I stood at Wanda's door, and the waiter brought the coffee. I took it from him and served it to my beautiful mistress. She had already dressed and looked magnificent, all fresh and rosy-it. She smiled graciously at me, and called me back when I was about to withdraw respectfully. Come, Gregor, have your breakfast quickly, too, she said. Then we will go house-hunting. I don't want to stay in the hotel any longer than I have to. It is very embarrassing here. If I chat with you for more than a minute, people will immediately say the fair Russian is having an affair with her servant. You see, the race of Catherine's isn't extinct yet. Half an hour later we went out. Wanda was in her cloth gown, with a Russian cap, and eye, and microcovian costume. We created quite a stir. I walked about ten paces behind, looking very solemn, but expected, more entirely, to have to break out into loud laughter. There was casually a street in which one, or the other, of the attractive houses did not bear the sign, Kamere amabiliate. Wanda always sent me upstairs, and only when the apartment seemed to answer her requirements did she herself ascend. By noon I was as tired as a stag hound, after the hunt. We entered a new house, and left it again, without having found the suitable habitation. Wanda was already somewhat out of humor. Suddenly she said to me, Severin, the seriousness with which you play your part is charming, and the restrictions which we have placed upon each other are really annoying me. I can't stand it any longer. I do love you. I must kiss you. Let's go into one of the houses. But, my lady, I interposed. Gregor? She entered the next open corridor, and descended a few steps of the dark stairway. Then she threw her arms about me, with passionate tenderness, and kissed me. Oh, Severin, you were very wise. You were much more dangerous as a slave than I would have imagined. You are positively irresistible, and I am afraid I shall have to fall in love with you again. Don't you love me any longer, then? I asked, seized by a sudden fright. She suddenly shook my hand, but kissed me again with her swelling, adorable lips. We returned to the hotel. Wanda had luncheon, and ordered me also quickly to get something to eat. Of course, I wasn't served as quickly as she, and though it happened that just as I was carrying the second bite of my steak to my mouth, the waiter entered and called out with his theatrical gesture, Madam wants you at once. I took a rapid and painful leave of my food, and, tired and hungry, hurried toward Wanda, who was already on the street. I wouldn't have imagined you could be so cruel, I said reproachfully. With all these fatiguing duties, you don't even leave me time to eat in peace. Wanda laughed gaily. I thought you had finished, she said, but never mind. Man was born to suffer, and you in particular. The marchers didn't have any beef steaks either. I followed her resentfully, knowing at my hunger. I have given up the idea of finding a place in the city. Wanda continued. It will be difficult to find an entire floor which is shut off, and where you can do as you please. In such a strange, mad relationship as ours, there must be no jaring note. I shall rent an entire villa, and you will be surprised. You have my permission now to satisfy your hunger, and look about to get in Florence. I won't be home till evening.  I looked at the Duomo, the Palazzo Vecchio, the Lodgia di Lanzi, and then I stood for a long time on the banks of the Arno. Again and again, I let my eyes rest on the magnificent ancient Florence, whose round copolas and towers were drawn in soft lines against the blue, cloudless sky. I watched its splendid bridges beneath whose wide arches the lively waves of the beautiful Yellow River ran, and the green hills which surrounded the city, bearing slender cypresses and extensive buildings, places, and monasteries. It was a different world, this one in which we are, a gay, sensuous, smiling world. The landscape, too, has nothing of the seriousness and somberness of ours. It is a long way off to the last white village scattered among the pale green of the mountains, and yet there isn't a spot that isn't bright with sunlight. The people are less serious than we, perhaps they think less, but they all look as though they were happy. It is also maintained that death is easier in the south. I have a vague feeling now that such a thing as beauty without thorn and love of the senses without torment does exist. Wanda has discovered a delightful little villa and rented it for the winter. It is situated on a charming hill on the left bank of the Arno, opposite the Cacine. It is surrounded by an attractive garden with lovely pats, grass plots, and magnificent meadows of camellias. It is only two stories high, quadrangular in the Italian fashion. An open gallery runs along one side, a sort of loggia with plaster casts of antique statues, stone steps lead from it down into the garden. From the gallery y