Venus In Furs This is section 7 of 8. = Today I went to see the Venus de'
Medici. It was still early in the morning, and the little octagonal room in
the Tribuna was filled with a half- light like that of a sanctuary or a
shrine, and with clasped hands I stood in profound adoration before the silent
image of the goddess. But I did not remain standing for long... Not a soul was
in the gallery, not even an Englishman, and in a moment I fell on my knees and
gazed up at the lovely slender body, the budding breasts, the virginal but
voluptuous face with its half-closed eyes, the flower-like curls which seemed
to be hiding tiny horns at each side of the brow. My mistress' bell. It is
midday. But she is still in bed, her arms locked behind her head. "I wish to
bathe," she says. "You will wait on me while I do. Lock the door." I obey.
"Now go down and make sure the lower door is locked also." I went down the
winding stairs that led from her bedroom to the bath; my knees were shaking
and I had to cling to the iron stair-rail. Having made sure the door leading
to the loggia and the garden was locked, I returned. Wanda was now sitting on
the bed with her hair loose, wrapped in her fur- trimmed robe of green velvet.
When she made a sudden movement I could see she was naked beneath her furs,
and this sent a terrible shudder through me. I could not say why, but I felt
like a condemned man who knows he is being led to the scaffold and yet begins
to tremble as soon as he sees it. "Come, Gregor, take me in your arms."
"Mistress, you mean --" "You are to carry me, do you understand?" I lifted her
so that she lay across my arms, and her own arm twined around my neck; then,
slowly, step by step, I went down the stairs, her hair brushing against my
cheek, her foot braced against my knee, while I trembled under the lovely
burden, thinking every moment I might crumple beneath it. The bathing room was
a wide lofty rotunda which received a soft, diffused light from a cupola of
red glass overhead. Two palm trees extended their broad leaves, like a roof,
over a couch spread with velvet cushions, from which steps covered with
Turkish rugs led down to the wide marble basin in the centre of the room.
"There is a green ribbon on my toilet-table upstairs," said Wanda as I laid
her on the couch. "Go and get it, and bring the whip also." I ran upstairs and
back again, and then, kneeling, placed both in the hands of my mistress, who
made me twist her heavy, electrically charged hair into a large knot and tie
it with the green ribbon. I then prepared her bath, which I did most
awkwardly, for my hands and feet almost refused to do my bidding; again and
again I had to look at the beautiful woman lying on the red velvet cushions,
with her wonderful flesh gleaming here and there beneath the dark furs. It was
some magnetic power beyond my conscious will which drew my gaze; I had always
felt that all sensuality and lust is awakened by what is either half hidden or
intentionally revealed -- and I recognized the truth of this when, the basin
being full, Wanda threw off her furs with a single gesture and stood before me
like the goddess in the Tribuna. At that instant, in all her unveiled beauty,
she seemed as sacred and inviolable as the ancient goddess herself; I fell on
my knees before her, and devoutly pressed my lips to her foot. My soul only
recently a prey to stress and confusion all at once became perfectly calm: I
could now discern no element of cruelty in Wanda. Slowly she descended the
marble steps; and I could watch her with a serenity unalloyed by any atom of
torment or desire as she dipped, plunged and emerged in the crystalline water
while the little waves which she raised played about her as if enamoured of
her marmoreal flesh. Our nihilist aesthetician is right when he says: A real
apple is more beautiful than a painted one, and a living woman more beautiful
than a Venus of stone. And when she left the bath and the silvery drops
streamed down her body in the rosy light I was seized by a wordless ecstasy. I
wrapped the linen towels about her, drying her splendid body, and the same
calm bliss still filled me even when, placing one foot on me as if on a
footstool she sank back among the cushions in her heavy velvet robe, the
springing sables nestling desirously against the cool marble of her body,
leaning on her left arm which lay like a sleeping swan in the dark fur of her
sleeve, while with her right hand she played idly with the whip. At that
moment my gaze happened to light on the great mirror on the opposite wall, and
I cried out: I saw us both as if in a picture in a golden frame and this
picture was so wonderfully beautiful, so strange, so fantastic, that I was
filled with a sudden sharp sorrow that its outlines and colours must soon
dissolve like a mirage. "What is it?" Wanda demanded. I pointed to the mirror.
"Ah that is really beautiful," she exclaimed. "What a pity this moment can not
be caught and held..." "And why not?" I asked. "Is there no artist, even the
most famous, who would not be proud to be allowed to paint you so, and make
you immortal by his brush?" I paused. "The very thought that this
extraordinary beauty should be lost to the world is horrible -- this glorious
countenance, those mysterious eyes filled with green fire, this demonic hair,
this sumptuous body -- it fills me with a horror of death and annihilation.
No, the hand of an artist shall snatch you from such a death, you shall not
vanish absolutely and forever like the rest of mankind, without leaving a
trace behind -- your picture must live and breathe even when you yourself have
crumbled into dust, your beauty must triumph over death! Wanda smiled. "It is
a pity," she said, "that modern Italy has no Titian or Raphael, but perhaps
love may make amends for genius -- who knows? Our little German might do..."
She pondered. "Yes," she said, "he shall paint me, and I shall see to it that
the god of love mixes his colours." The young painter has set up his atelier
in the villa; he is completely in her toils. He has even proposed a Madonna --
a Madonna with red hair and green eyes! Only the idealism of a German would
conceive of such a high-bred woman as a model for the Virgin. The poor fellow
is really almost a bigger donkey than I am. Our misfortune is that Titania has
discovered our ass's ears too soon. Now she is laughing at us -- and how she
laughs! From where I am standing, listening jealously under the window, I hear
her insolent melodious laughter coming from the studio. "Are you mad? I -- oh
it's unbelievable -- I, as the Mother of God!" she is crying. "Wait, I will
show you another picture of myself, one that I have myself composed -- and you
shall copy it." Her head appears in the window shining like a red flame in the
sunlight. "Gregor!" I hurried up the stairs, through the gallery and into the
studio. "Take him to the bathing-room," she ordered, and disappeared. I
beckoned to the painter, and led him downstairs. In a few moments Wanda
appeared, wearing nothing but her sables and carrying the whip; she descended
the stairs and once again stretched out on the velvet cushions, while I
crouched before her and she set her naked foot on me, her right hand caressing
the whip. "Look at me, Gregor," she said, "with your deep, fanatical
expression -- yes -- like that." The painter had turned terribly pale; he
devoured the pose with his beautiful dreamy blue eyes; his lips opened but he
remained speechless. "Well how do you find the pose?" "Yes -- that is how I
will paint you," said the German, but it was not so much the language of
speech as an eloquent moaning, the weeping of a soul sick almost to death. The
charcoal outline of the picture is done, the heads and flesh portions are
painted in, her diabolical face has already emerged in a few bold strokes, and
life is flashing from her green eyes. Wanda stands before the canvas with her
arms folded. "This picture, like those of the Venetian school, is at once a
portrait and tells a story," explained the painter, once again pale as death.
"And what will you call it?" she asked. "But what is the matter with you? Are
you ill?" "I am afraid --" he began, fixing a devouring look on the beautiful
woman in furs, "but no -- let us talk of the picture." "Yes, let us talk of
the picture." "I imagine, then, the goddess of love who has descended from
Mount Olympus for the sake of some mortal man and who, shivering in this
modern world, must wrap her sublime body in great heavy furs and warm her feet
in the lap of her lover; I imagine too the favourite of a beautiful despot who
whips him when she has grown tired of kissing him, and the more she treads him
underfoot the more madly he loves her... I shall call the picture Venus in
Furs." The painter works slowly, but his passion mounts more and more rapidly.
I am afraid he will end by taking his own life. She plays with him and asks
him riddles he cannot answer, while all the time he feels his blood turning to
ice -- but this amuses her. During the sittings she nibbles at candies and
rolls the paper wrappings into little pellets with which she bombards him. "I
am glad you are in such good humour, Madam," he says, "but -- your face has
lost the expression I need for my picture." "The expression you need," she
replied, smiling. "Wait!" She rose, and struck me a blow with the whip. The
painter looked at her in stupefaction; a childlike surprise showed in his face
-- a blend of revulsion and admiration. She struck me again and again, while
her face gradually acquired the cruel, contemptuous expression which so haunts
and intoxicates me. "Is this the expression you need?" she cried, turning to
face him. The painter lowered his eyes in confusion before her cold stare. "It
is the expression --" he stammered, "but -- I cannot paint now --" "Indeed?"
she said scornfully. "Perhaps I can help you?" "Yes," cried the German, as if
suddenly gripped by madness, "whip me -- whip me too..." "Oh, with pleasure,"
she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "But if I am to whip you, I must whip
you in earnest." "Whip me to death!" he cried. "Then I will tie you," she said
smiling. "Yes?" "Yes..." She left the room for a moment, and returned with the
cords. "Well, have you still the courage to put yourself in the power of Venus
in Furs?" she asked quizzically, "in the power of the fair tyrant, for better
or worse?" "Yes, tie me," the painter replied dully. She fastened his hands
behind his back, passed a cord around his arms and another around his waist,
and lashed him to the crossbars of the window; then she threw back the fur
from her naked body, grasped the whip and stepped back. The scene held a grim
attraction for me which I cannot describe; I felt my heart pounding as, with a
smile, she raised her arm for the first stroke and the whip whistled through
the air; he winced slightly -- and then she rained blow after blow on him, her
mouth half open, her teeth shining between her red lips, until at last he
seemed to be begging for mercy with his piteous blue eyes. It was
indescribable... She is sitting in her room now, alone with him. He is working
on her head. She has stationed me in the adjoining room behind a heavy
curtain, where I can see everything without being seen. What is in her mind
now? Is she afraid of him? She has driven him mad enough, to be sure -- or is
she devising some new torment for me? My knees are trembling. They are
talking. He has lowered his voice so that I cannot catch a word, and she
replies in the same tone. What does it mean? Have they come to an
understanding? I am suffering agonies; my heart seems about to burst. He is
kneeling before her now, embracing her, pressing his head to her breast -- and
she -- in her cruelty -- she is laughing -- and now I can hear her speaking.
"Ah," she says, "you need another taste of the whip." "Woman! Goddess! Have
you no heart -- are you incapable of love?" he cried. "Don't you even know
what it is to love, to be devoured by desire and longing, can't you even
imagine what I am suffering? Have you no pity for me?" "No," she replied
proudly, mockingly, "but I have the whip --" She drew it swiftly from the
sleeve of her fur cloak and struck him across the face with the handle.

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 He
stumbled to his feet and fell back a few steps. "Now, are you ready to paint
again?" she said. He made no reply, but went back to his easel and took up his
brush and palette... The painting is wonderfully successful. As a portrait the
likeness could not be better; but at the same time it has a purely ideal
quality -- so glowing, so supernatural, I might say so diabolical, are the
colours. The painter has put all his suffering, adoration and execration into
the picture. Now he is painting me; we are alone for several hours every day.
Today he suddenly turned to me and said in his vibrant voice: "You love this
woman?" "Yes." "I also love her." His eyes were full of tears. He remained
silent for a while as he continued to paint. "We have a mountain at home, in
Germany, where she lives," he murmured to himself. "She is a demon." The
picture is finished. She wanted to pay him generously, royally, like a queen.
"Oh, you have already paid me," he said, refusing with a painful smile. Before
leaving, he opened his portfolio secretively and let me look at the sketch
inside. I was stupefied. Her head was looking out at me as if from a mirror,
as if it were alive. "I shall take it with me," he said, "it is mine, she
cannot take it from me; I have paid for it with my heart's blood." "I am
really sorry for the poor painter," she said to me today. "It is quite absurd
to be as virtuous as I am. Don't you think so?" I did not dare reply. "Oh, I
forgot I was speaking to a slave. I must go out, I want to amuse myself, to
forget... Quick, the carriage!" Her new costume is wildly extravagant: Russian
half-boots of mauve velvet edged with ermine, and a skirt of the same material
trimmed with narrow bands and rosettes of fur; over it she wears a jacket to
match, close-fitting and also richly trimmed and lined with ermine; on her
head is a tall cap in the style of Catherine the Great, with a small aigrette
secured by a diamond clip; her red hair hangs loose on her back. She mounts
the driver's seat and takes the reins herself, while I take my place in the
boot. How she whips the horses! The carriage flies along madly. Apparently she
means to attract attention today, to make conquests, and she succeeds. She is
the lioness of the Cascine. People bow to her from their carriages, others
gather in groups on the Promenade to talk about her. She pays no attention to
anyone, except now and then to acknowledge with a slight nod the salutations
of the older men. Suddenly a young man on a spirited black horse dashes
towards her at full speed; as soon as he sees Wanda he reins in his horse to a
walk -- they are already passing each other -- and he stops altogether to let
her go by. And she sees him too: the lioness beholds the lion. Their eyes meet
-- she drives on recklessly, but cannot escape the magic of his gaze; she
turns her head to look back. My heart stops as I see the half-astonished,
half-enraptured look with which she devours him; but he is worthy of it. God,
what a beautiful man! No, he is rather a man whose like I have never yet seen
among the living. He is in the Belvedere, chiselled in marble, with the same
slender but steely musculature, the same face, the same wavy locks, and what
makes him so peculiarly beautiful is that he is beardless. Were his lips not
so thin one might take him for a woman in masquerade, while the strange set of
his mouth, the curled and leonine lip which just reveals his teeth below,
gives a lambent tinge of cruelty to his beautiful face -- Apollo flaying
Marsyas... He wears high black boots, closely fitting breeches of white
leather, a short coat of black cloth like those worn by Italian cavalry
officers but richly frogged and trimmed with astrakhan; on his black locks is
a red fez. I now understand the masculine Eros, and I marvel at Socrates for
having remained virtuous before such an Alcibiades. I have never seen my
lioness so excited. Her cheeks were flaming as she sprang from the carriage to
the steps of the villa and hastened upstairs, bidding me follow with an
imperious gesture. Pacing up and down the room with rapid strides, she began
speaking so swiftly that I was alarmed. "You are to find out who the man in
the Cascine is, today, at once -- Oh, what a man! Did you see him? What do you
think of him? Tell me." "The man is beautiful," I said dully. "He is so
beautiful --" she paused, steadying herself on the arm of a chair, " -- he has
taken my breath away." "I understand the impression he has made on you," I
replied, carried away by the violence of my own imagination. "I am beside
myself -- I can imagine --" "You may imagine," she said with a laugh, "that
this man is my lover -- that he will take the whip to you, and that you will
enjoy being whipped by him... But now, go!" Before nightfall I had the desired
information. Wanda was still fully dressed when I came back; she was lying on
the ottoman, her face framed in her hands and her hair in wild disarray like
the red mane of a lioness. "What is his name?" she asked with a curious calm.
"Alexis Papadopolis." "A Greek, then." I nodded. "He is very young?" "Barely
older than yourself. They say he was educated in Paris, and that he is an
atheist. He fought against the Turks in Candia, and is said to have
distinguished himself as much by his race-hatred and cruelty as by his
courage." "All in all, then -- a man!" she cried with flashing eyes. "At
present he is living in Florence," I went on. "He is said to be enormously
rich --" "I did not ask about that," she said sharply. "The man is dangerous.
Aren't you afraid of him? I am. Has he a wife?" "No." "A mistress?" "No."
"What theatres does he go to?" "Tonight he will be at the Nicolini, where
Virginia Marini and Salvini are playing -- they are the greatest living
artists in Italy, perhaps in Europe..." "See that you get a box. Quickly,
quickly!" "But, Mistress-" "Would you like a taste of the whip?" "You will
wait in the foyer," she said after I had placed her programme and
opera-glasses on the edge of her box and arranged her footstool. I stood there
for a moment, obliged to lean for support against the wall in order not to
faint with envy and rage -- no, rage is not the right word -- with mortal
anguish... I saw her in her box, dressed in blue moire with a great ermine
cloak around her bare shoulders; he was sitting opposite. I saw them devour
each other with their eyes: for neither of them did the stage, Goldoni's
Pamela, Salvini, Marini, the audience, the whole world, exist -- and as for
me, what was I at that moment? This evening she is attending the ball given by
the Greek ambassador. Does she know she will meet him there? In any event she
is dressed as if she did. A heavy seagreen silk dress closely moulds her
divine form, leaving her breast and arms bare; in her hair, tied in a single
flaming knot, blooms a white water-lily whose reedy leaves, interwoven with a
few loose strands, fall on her neck. There is no longer any trace of agitation
or trembling in her demeanour; she is calm, so calm that I feel my blood
congeal and my heart grow cold beneath her glance. Slowly, with a weary,
indolent majesty, she ascends the marble staircase, lets her wrap slip from
her shoulders and listlessly enters the great hall where the fumes of a
hundred candles have formed a silvery mist. For a few moments I watch her
forlornly, then I pick up her furs which I have let fall unawares from my
hands. They are still warm from her shoulders. I kiss the place, and my eyes
fill with tears. He arrives. In his black velvet coat extravagantly trimmed
with sable, he is the beautiful haughty tyrant who plays with the lives and
souls of men. He stands in the anteroom gazing proudly around him, and his
eyes rest on me for a curiously long time. Beneath his icy gaze I am once more
seized by a mortal anguish, by a presentiment that this man can enslave her,
captivate and subjugate her -- and, feeling how my weakness contrasts with his
savage masculinity, I am filled with envy and jealousy. How much I feel myself
a feeble, twisted intellectual! What is most humiliating is that I would like
to hate him, but cannot. And why, among all the crowd of servants, does he
single me out? With an inimitably aristocratic lift of the head he summons me
to him, and I -- I obey the summons in spite of myself. "Take my furs," he
says sharply. My whole frame trembles with resentment, but I obey -- abjectly
like a slave. All evening long I waited in the anteroom, a prey to feverish
fancies. Strange images passed before my inward eye: I saw their meeting,
their long exchange of glances, I saw her floating through the great salon in
his arms, drunken with passion, lying with half-closed eyes against his breast
-- I saw him in the very sanctuary of love, lying on the ottoman not as slave
but as master, with her at his feet -- I saw myself serving them on my knees,
the tray trembling in my hands and his own arm reaching for the whip... Now
the servants are talking about him. He is a man who is like a woman; he knows
how beautiful he is, and behaves accordingly; he changes his fancy clothes
four or five times a day, like a courtesan. In Paris he appeared first in
woman's clothing, and the men showered him with love letters. An Italian
singer, famous alike for his art and his passions, even penetrated his house
and falling on his knees before him threatened to commit suicide if he would
not surrender. "I am sorry," the Greek replied, smiling. "I should like to
oblige you, but you will have to carry out your threat -- for I am a man." The
crush in the rooms has already thinned considerably -- but she has apparently
no thought of leaving. Dawn is already peering through the blinds. At last I
hear the rustling of her heavy gown as it floats behind her like a green wave;
she comes forward, step by step, deep in conversation with him. I barely exist
for her; she does not even trouble to give me her orders. "The cloak for
madame," he says. He, of course, does not think of waiting on her himself.
While I am putting her furs about her he stands aloof, his arms folded. As I
am on my knees putting on her fur boots, she supports herself lightly with her
hand on his shoulder. She asks: "And the lioness?" "When the lion she has
chosen, and with whom she pairs, is attacked by another," the Greek continued
his story, "the lioness lies down quietly and watches the contest, and if her
mate is worsted she does not go to his aid -- she looks on indifferently while
he bleeds to death under his opponent's claws, and then follows the victor,
the stronger: that is the female's nature." At that moment my lioness looked
swiftly and searchingly at me. Her look made me shudder, though I hardly knew
why -- and the red dawn bathed all three of us as if in blood. She did not
retire at once, but only slipped off her ballgown and let down her hair; then
she ordered me to build a fire, and sat down by the fireplace, staring into
the flames. "Do you need me further, Mistress?" I asked, my voice failing me
on the last word. Wanda shook her head. I left the room, passed through the
gallery and sat down on one of the steps leading to the garden. A soft north
wind brought a fresh, moist coolness from the Arno, the green hills were lost
in a distant rosy mist and a golden haze hovered above the city and over the
round cupola of the Duomo. A few stars were still trembling in the pale blue
sky. I tore open my coat and pressed my burning forehead against the marble
balustrade. Everything that had happened until now seemed a mere childish
game; now matters were becoming serious, terribly serious. I foresaw a
catastrophe, I visualized it, I could even grasp it in my hands, but I lacked
the courage to meet it; my strength failed me. And, to speak truly, neither
the pain nor the suffering that threatened me, nor the humiliations to come,
were what frightened me. I merely felt a fear, the fear of losing her whom I
loved with a kind of fanatical devotion, but this fear was so overwhelming
that I suddenly began to sob like a child. 

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