Venus in Furs
“Do you need me any longer, mistress?” I asked, my voice failed me at
the last word.
Wanda shook her head.
I left the room, passed through the gallery, and sat down on one of the
steps, leading from there down into the garden. A gentle north wind
brought a fresh, damp coolness from the Arno, the green hills extended
into the distance in a rosy mist, a golden haze hovered over the city,
over the round cupola of the Duomo.
A few stars still tremble in the pale-blue sky.
I tore open my coat, and pressed my burning forehead against the
marble. Everything that had happened so far seemed to me a mere child’s
play; but now things were beginning to be serious, terribly serious.
I anticipated a catastrophe, I visualized it, I could lay hold of it
with my hands, but I lacked the courage to meet it. My strength was
broken. And if I am honest with myself, neither the pains and
sufferings that threatened me, not the humiliations that impended, were
the thing that frightened me.
I merely felt a fear, the fear of losing her whom I loved with a sort
of fanatical devotion; but it was so overwhelming, so crushing that I
suddenly began to sob like a child.
* * * * *
During the day she remained locked in her room, and had the negress
attend her. When the evening star rose glowing in the blue sky, I saw
her pass through the garden, and, carefully following her at a
distance, watched her enter the shrine of Venus. I stealthily followed
and peered through the chink in the door.
She stood before the divine image of the goddess, her hands folded as
in prayer, and the sacred light of the star of love casts its blue rays
over her.
* * * * *
On my couch at night the fear of losing her and despair took such
powerful hold of me that they made a hero and a libertine of me. I
lighted the little red oil-lamp which hung in the corridor beneath a
saint’s image, and entered her bedroom, covering the light with one
hand.
The lioness had been hunted and driven until she was exhausted. She had
fallen asleep among her pillows, lying on her back, her hands clenched,
breathing heavily. A dream seemed to oppress her. I slowly withdrew my
hand, and let the red light fall full on her wonderful face.
But she did not awaken.
I gently set the lamp on the floor, sank down beside Wanda’s bed, and
rested my head on her soft, glowing arm.
She moved slightly, but even now did not awaken. I do not know how long
I lay thus in the middle of the night, turned as into a stone by
horrible torments.
Finally a severe trembling seized me, and I was able to cry. My tears
flowed over her arm. She quivered several times and finally sat up; she
brushed her hand across her eyes, and looked at me.
“Severin,” she exclaimed, more frightened than angry.
I was unable to reply.
“Severin,” she continued softly, “what is the matter? Are you ill?”
Her voice sounded so sympathetic, so kind, so full of love, that it
clutched my breast like red-hot tongs and I began to sob aloud.
“Severin,” she began anew. “My poor unhappy friend.” Her hand gently
stroked my hair. “I am sorry, very sorry for you; but I can’t help you;
with the best intention in the world I know of nothing that would cure
you.”
“Oh, Wanda, must it be?” I moaned in my agony.
“What, Severin? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you love me any more?” I continued. “Haven’t you even a little
bit of pity for me? Has the beautiful stranger taken complete
possession of you?”
“I cannot lie,” she replied softly after a short pause. “He has made an
impression on me which I haven’t yet been able to analyse, further than
that I suffer and tremble beneath it. It is an impression of the sort I
have met with in the works of poets or on the stage, but I always
thought it was a figment of the imagination. Oh, he is a man like a
lion, strong and beautiful and yet gentle, not brutal like the men of
our northern world. I am sorry for you, Severin, I am; but I must
possess him. What am I saying? I must give myself to him, if he will
have me.”
“Consider your reputation, Wanda, which so far has remained spotless,”
I exclaimed, “even if I no longer mean anything to you.”
“I am considering it,” she replied, “I intend to be strong, as long as
it is possible, I want—” she buried her head shyly in the pillows—“I
want to become his wife—if he will have me.”
“Wanda,” I cried, seized again by that mortal fear, which always robs
me of my breath, makes me lose possession of myself, “you want to be
his wife, belong to him for always. Oh! Do not drive me away! He does
not love you—”
“Who says that?” she exclaimed, flaring up.
“He does not love you,” I went on passionately, “but I love you, I
adore you, I am your slave, I let you tread me underfoot, I want to
carry you on my arms through life.”
“Who says that he doesn’t love me?” she interrupted vehemently.
“Oh! be mine,” I replied, “be mine! I cannot exist, cannot live without
you. Have mercy on me, Wanda, have mercy!”
She looked at me again, and her face had her cold heartless expression,
her evil smile.
“You say he doesn’t love me,” she said, scornfully. “Very well then,
get what consolation you can out of it.”
With this she turned over on the other side, and contemptuously showed
me her back.
“Good God, are you a woman without flesh or blood, haven’t you a heart
as well as I!” I cried, while my breast heaved convulsively.
“You know what I am,” she replied, coldly. “I am a woman of stone,
_Venus in Furs_, your ideal, kneel down, and pray to me.”
“Wanda!” I implored, “mercy!”
She began to laugh. I buried my face in her pillows. Pain had loosened
the floodgates of my tears and I let them flow.
For a long time silence reigned, then Wanda slowly raised herself.
“You bore me,” she began.
“Wanda!”
“I am tired, let me go to sleep.”
“Mercy,” I implored. “Do not drive me away. No man, no one, will love
you as I do.”
“Let me go to sleep,”—she turned her back to me again.
I leaped up, and snatched the poinard, which hung beside her bed, from
its sheath, and placed its point against my breast.
“I shall kill myself here before your eyes,” I murmured dully.
“Do what you please,” Wanda replied with complete indifference. “But
let me go to sleep.” She yawned aloud. “I am very sleepy.”
For a moment I stood as if petrified. Then I began to laugh and cry at
the same time. Finally I placed the poinard in my belt, and again fell
on my knees before her.
“Wanda, listen to me, only for a few moments,” I begged.
“I want to go to sleep! Don’t you hear!” she cried, leaping angrily out
of bed and pushing me away with her foot. “You forget that I am your
mistress?” When I didn’t budge, she seized the whip and struck me. I
rose; she struck me again—this time right in the face.
“Wretch, slave!”
With clenched fist held heavenward, I left her bedroom with a sudden
resolve. She tossed the whip aside, and broke out into clear laughter.
I can imagine that my theatrical attitude must have been very droll.
* * * * *
I have determined to set myself free from this heartless woman, who has
treated me so cruelly, and is now about to break faith and betray me,
as a reward for all my slavish devotion, for everything I have suffered
from her. I packed my few belongings into a bundle, and then wrote her
as follows:
“Dear Madam,—
I have loved you even to madness, I have given myself to you as no man
ever has given himself to a woman. You have abused my most sacred
emotions, and played an impudent, frivolous game with me. However, as
long as you were merely cruel and merciless, it was still possible for
me to love you. Now you are about to become _cheap_. I am no longer the
slave whom you can kick about and whip. You yourself have set me free,
and I am leaving a woman I can only hate and despise.
Severin Kusiemski.”
I handed these lines to the negress, and hastened away as fast as I
could go. I arrived at the railway-station all out of breath. Suddenly
I felt a sharp pain in my heart and stopped. I began to weep. It is
humiliating that I want to flee and I can’t. I turn back—whither?—to
her, whom I abhor, and yet, at the same time, adore.
Again I pause. I cannot go back. I dare not.
But how am I to leave Florence. I remember that I haven’t any money,
not a penny. Very well then, on foot; it is better to be an honest
beggar than to eat the bread of a courtesan.
But still I can’t leave.
She has my pledge, my word of honor. I have to return. Perhaps she will
release me.
After a few rapid strides, I stop again.
She has my word of honor and my bond, that I shall remain her slave as
long as she desires, until she herself gives me my freedom. But I might
kill myself.
I go through the Cascine down to the Arno, where its yellow waters
plash monotonously about a couple of stray willows. There I sit, and
cast up my final accounts with existence. I let my entire life pass
before me in review. On the whole, it is rather a wretched affair—a few
joys, an endless number of indifferent and worthless things, and
between these an abundant harvest of pains, miseries, fears,
disappointments, shipwrecked hopes, afflictions, sorrow and grief.
I thought of my mother, whom I loved so deeply and whom I had to watch
waste away beneath a horrible disease; of my brother, who full of the
promise of joy and happiness died in the flower of youth, without even
having put his lips to the cup of life. I thought of my dead nurse, my
childhood playmates, the friends that had striven and studied with me;
of all those, covered by the cold, dead, indifferent earth. I thought
of my turtle-dove, who not infrequently made his cooing bows to me,
instead of to his mate.—All have returned, dust unto dust.
I laughed aloud, and slid down into the water, but at the same moment I
caught hold of one of the willow-branches, hanging above the yellow
waves. As in a vision, I see the woman who has caused all my misery.
She hovers above the level of the water, luminous in the sunlight as
though she were transparent, with red flames about her head and neck.
She turns her face toward me and smiles.
* * * * *
I am back again, dripping, wet through, glowing with shame and fever.
The negress has delivered my letter; I am judged, lost, in the power of
a heartless, affronted woman.
Well, let her kill me. I am unable to do it myself, and yet I have no
wish to go on living.
As I walk around the house, she is standing in the gallery, leaning
over the railing. Her face is full in the light of the sun, and her
green eyes sparkle.
“Still alive?” she asked, without moving. I stood silent, with bowed
head.
“Give me back my poinard,” she continued. “It is of no use to you. You
haven’t even the courage to take your own life.”
“I have lost it,” I replied, trembling, shaken by chills.
She looked me over with a proud, scornful glance.
“I suppose you lost it in the Arno?” She shrugged her shoulders. “No
matter. Well, and why didn’t you leave?”
I mumbled something which neither she nor I myself could understand.
“Oh! you haven’t any money,” she cried. “Here!” With an indescribably
disdainful gesture she tossed me her purse.
I did not pick it up.
Both of us were silent for some time.
“You don’t want to leave then?”
“I can’t.”
* * * * *
Wanda drives in the Cascine without me, and goes to the theater without
me; she receives company, and the negress serves her. No one asks after
me. I stray about the garden, irresolutely, like an animal that has
lost its master.
Lying among the bushes, I watch a couple of sparrows, fighting over a
seed.
Suddenly I hear the swish of a woman’s dress.