Venus in Furs
front of her door on the first floor and knock.
“Come in!”
I enter, shut the door, and stand attention.
Wanda has made herself comfortable. She is sitting in a neglige of
white muslin and laces on a small red divan 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 sable of
the cloak, the smooth white skin, and the red, flaming hair of the
beautiful woman. Her clear, but cold face is turned toward me, and her
cold green eyes rest upon me.
“I am satisfied with you, Gregor,” she began.
I bowed.
“Come closer.”
I obeyed.
“Still closer,” she looked down, and stroked the sable with her hand.
“Venus in Furs receives her slave. I can see that you are more than an
ordinary dreamer, you don’t remain far in arrears of your dreams; you
are the sort of man who is ready to carry his dreams into effect, no
matter how mad they are. 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 anabaptist, during the French
Revolution one of those inspired Girondists who mounted the guillotine
with the marseillaise on their lips. But you are my slave, my—”
She suddenly leaped up; the furs slipped down, and she threw her arms
with soft pressure about my neck.
“My beloved slave, Severin, oh, how I love you, how I adore you, how
handsome you are in your Cracovian costume! You will be cold to-night
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 lines. As soon as you cease being my slave, you must wear a
velvet coat with sable, do you understand? 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 Wanda slipped 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 command 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 her
moist 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!—you bore
me—don’t you hear?”
She boxed my ears so that I saw stars and bells rang in my ears.
“Help me into my furs, slave.”
I helped her, as well as I could.
“How awkward,” she exclaimed, and 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 want it thus; now kiss
me again.”
I threw my arms about her, and her lips clung 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 feel her claws in my
flesh. But this time the she-bear let me off easily.
With my heart filled with smiling hopes, I went up to my miserable
servant’s room, and threw myself down on my hard couch.
“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 icefield 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 Wanda flew 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. She shot toward me, inclosed me in her arms, and began
to kiss me. 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 the 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 roseate.
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 embarassing 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 Catherines
isn’t extinct yet.’”
Half an hour later we went out; Wanda was in her cloth-gown with the
Russian cap, and I in my Cracovian costume. We created quite a stir. I
walked about ten paces behind, looking very solemn, but expected
momentarily to have to break out into loud laughter. There was scarcely
a street in which one or the other of the attractive houses did not
bear the sign _camere ammobiliate_. 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 a
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 ascended a few steps
of the dark stair-way; then she threw her arms about me with passionate
tenderness and kissed me.
“Oh, Severin, you were very wise. You are much more dangerous as slave
than I would have imagined; you are positively irrestible, 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 solemnly shook her head, 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 so 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: “Madame
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 martyrs didn’t
have any beefsteaks either.”
I followed her resentfully, gnawing 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 jarring note. I shall rent an
entire villa—and you will be surprised. You have my permission now to
satisfy your hunger, and look about a bit in Florence. I won’t be home
till evening. If I need you then, I will have you called.”
I looked at the Duomo, the Palazzo Vecchio, the Logia 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
cupolas 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, palaces and monasteries.
It is 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 ways off to the last white villas
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 Cascine. It is surrounded by an attractive garden with
lovely paths, grass plots, and magnificent meadow of camelias. 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 you enter a bath with a magnificent marble basin, from
which winding stairs lead to my mistress’ bed-chamber.
Wanda occupies the second story by herself.
A room on the ground floor has been assigned to me; it is very
attractive, and even has a fireplace.
I have roamed through the garden. On a round hillock I discovered a
little temple, but I found its door locked. However, there is a chink
in the door and when I glue my eye to it, I see the goddess of love on
a white pedestal.
A slight shudder passes over me. It seems to me as if she were smiling