Venus in Furs
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 is 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 Lemberg and has found a new
admirer here. She deceives all three and yet is honored 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 one’s self without love or pleasure
because if you do it in cold blood, you can reap profit 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 woman’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. _Woman’s character is characterlessness._ The best
woman will momentarily go down into the mire, and the worst
unexpectedly rises to 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 hand of nature. She has the nature of a
savage, who is faithful or faithless, 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,_ woman
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 had saved up all the love, which had been kept from her,
for this superlative evening; never had she been so kind, so near, so
full of tenderness.
What happiness to cling to her lips, and to die away in her arms! In a
state of relaxation and wholly mine, her head rests against my breast,
and with drunken rapture our eyes seek each other.
I cannot yet believe, comprehend, that this woman is mine, wholly 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, you are a dreamer, a
charming cavalier, and you certainly would be a priceless slave, but I
cannot imagine you as 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
rob 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 fill me with a sort of horror.”
“Do you love me any the less?”
“On the contrary.”
Wanda had 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
hetaira?”
“There is a painful stimulus in the unfaithfulness of a beloved woman.
It is the highest kind of ecstacy.”
“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 daemonic
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. Were I say to you: this
serene, sensual life, this paganism is my ideal, would you be strong
enough to bear it?”
“Certainly. I could endure anything so as not to lose you. I feel how
little I really mean to you.”
“But Severin—”
“But it is so,” said I, “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
fullness, while surrounded by luxury, you enjoy the serene happiness
and Olympian love, I want to be your servant, put on and take off your
shoes.”
“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 to me,” 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 do you ask? I am a goddess and sometimes I descend from my
Olympian heights to you, softly, very softly, and secretly.
“But what does all this 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 still 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 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.
“You are talking as in a fever,” said Wanda agitatedly, “and you really
love me so endlessly.” 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!”
“All 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 wholly mine, dependent on my will and caprice, my
possession and slave, while 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. “I am beginning to enjoy it, and,
heaven help me, we won’t stick to fancies now. You shall become my
slave, and I—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 the soberest seriousness.
She has drawn up a contract according to which I give my word of honor
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 contract 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 will have to look upon my favors as pure benevolence.
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 to pieces, whenever I want an hour’s
amusement. You are nothing, I am everything. Do you understand?” 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. “Ah! You are afraid already,
or perhaps you regret, but it is too late now. You have sworn, I have
your word of honor. 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—”
“But Severin,” exclaimed Wanda with her voice full of emotion and with
tears in her eyes, “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 dishonor me. Forgive me the ugly thought.”
Wanda smiled happily, leaned her cheek against mine, and seemed to
reflect.
“You have forgotten something,” she whispered coquettishly, “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, do you understand?”
“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 and 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 civilized sober, Philistine world, and a
slave who submits helplessly 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 wore her ermine jacket, her
hair was loose and fell like a lion’s mane down her back. She clung to
my lips, drawing my soul from my body. My head whirled, my blood began
to seethe, my heart beat violently against hers.
“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