Venus in Furs. Леопольд фон Захер-Мазох

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,’ she replied smiling. ‘Would you care to see mine?’

      ‘And then –’

      ‘What then?’

      ‘Beautiful, free, serene, and happy human beings, such as 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, ‘an 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 startle her in the least.

      She drew back her lips a little so that her small white teeth became visible, and then said lightly, as if she were discussing some trifling matter, ‘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 the 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.’

      ‘And now?’

      ‘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 arbour, 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 study of all the various sciences, my playing at all 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 Astarte. It depends upon the expression in her eyes, whether it is vaguely dreamy, or half-consuming, filled with tired desire. 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?

      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 heaved.

      Or was I mistaken.

      The rain beat in melancholy fashion on the windowpanes, the fire crackled in the fireplace in wintery comfort. I felt quite at home with her, and for a moment 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,

      Oh thou, half of hell, half of dreams;

      Among the shadows, dark and grave,

      Thy extended body softly gleams.

      And so on. This time I really got beyond the first 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 first 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 flashes 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 – she merely smiles.

      Without any provocation she suddenly said to me today: ‘You interest me. Most men are very commonplace, without verve 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.’

      After a short but severe shower we went out together to the meadow and the statue of Venus. All about us the earth steamed; mists rose up towards heaven like clouds of incense; a shattered rainbow 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 a 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; illuminated by the sun, it seems to hover above her like an aureole.

      Wanda is enjoying the lovely scene. As all the benches along the walk are still wet, she supports herself on my arm to rest awhile. 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 gown.

      ‘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 towards 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. Towards evening as I was sitting in my arbour her gay red head peered suddenly through the greenery of her balcony. ‘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 are really in love – with me?’

      ‘Yes, and I suffer more from it than you can imagine.’

      ‘You suffer?’ she laughed again.

      I was revolted, mortified, annihilated, but all this was quite useless.

      ‘Why?’ she continued, ‘I like you, with all my heart.’

      She