“Once more I beg you to become my wife, my true and loyal wife; if you
can’t do that then become the embodiment of my ideal, absolutely,
without reservation, without softness.”
“You know I am ready at the end of a year to give you my hand, if you
prove to be the man I am seeking,” Wanda replied very seriously, “but I
think you would be more grateful to me if through me you realized your
imaginings. Well, which do you prefer?”
“I believe that everything my imagination has dreamed lies latent in
your personality.”
“You are mistaken.”
“I believe,” I continued, “that you enjoy having a man wholly in your
power, torturing him—”
“No, no,” she exclaimed quickly, “or perhaps—.” She pondered.
“I don’t understand myself any longer,” she continued, “but I have a
confession to make to you. You have corrupted my imagination and
inflamed my blood. I am beginning to like the things you speak of. The
enthusiasm with which you speak of a Pompadour, a Catherine the Second,
and all the other selfish, frivolous, cruel women, carries me away and
takes hold of my soul. It urges me on to become like those women, who
in spite of their vileness were slavishly adored during their lifetime
and still exert a miraculous power from their graves.
“You will end by making of me a despot in miniature, a domestic
Pompadour.”
“Well then,” I said in agitation, “if all this is inherent in you, give
way to this trend of your nature. Nothing half-way. If you can’t be a
true and loyal wife to me, be a demon.”
I was nervous from loss of sleep, and the proximity of the beautiful
woman affected me like a fever. I no longer recall what I said, but I
remember that I kissed her feet, and finally raised her foot and put my
neck under it. She withdrew it quickly, and rose almost angrily.
“If you love me, Severin,” she said quickly, and her voice sounded
sharp and commanding, “never speak to me of those things again.
Understand, never! Otherwise I might really—” She smiled and sat down
again.
“I am entirely serious,” I exclaimed, half-raving. “I adore you so
infinitely that I am willing to suffer anything from you, for the sake
of spending my whole life near you.”
“Severin, once more I warn you.”
“Your warning is vain. Do with me what you will, as long as you don’t
drive me away.”
“Severin,” replied Wanda, “I am a frivolous young woman; it is
dangerous for you to put yourself so completely in my power. You will
end by actually becoming a plaything to me. Who will give warrant that
I shall not abuse your insane desire?”
“Your own nobility of character.”
“Power makes people over-bearing.”
“Be it,” I cried, “tread me underfoot.”
Wanda threw her arms around my neck, looked into my eyes, and shook her
head.
“I am afraid I can’t, but I will try, for your sake, for I love you
Severin, as I have loved no other man.”
* * * * *
To-day she suddenly took her hat and shawl, and I had to go shopping
with her. She looked at whips, long whips with a short handle, the kind
that are used on dogs.
“Are these satisfactory?” said the shopkeeper.
“No, they are much too small,” replied Wanda, with a side-glance at me.
“I need a large—”
“For a bull-dog, I suppose?” opined the merchant.
“Yes,” she exclaimed, “of the kind that are used in Russia for
intractable slaves.”
She looked further and finally selected a whip, at whose sight I felt a
strange creeping sensation.
“Now good-by, Severin,” she said. “I have some other purchases to make,
but you can’t go along.”
I left her and took a walk. On the way back I saw Wanda coming out at a
furrier’s. She beckoned me.
“Consider it well,” she began in good spirits, “I have never made a
secret of how deeply your serious, dreamy character has fascinated me.
The idea of seeing this serious man wholly in my power, actually lying
enraptured at my feet, of course, stimulates me—but will this
attraction last? Woman loves a man; she maltreats a slave, and ends by
kicking him aside.”
“Very well then, kick me aside,” I replied, “when you are tired of me.
I want to be your slave.”
“Dangerous forces lie within me,” said Wanda, after we had gone a few
steps further. “You awaken them, and not to your advantage. You know
how to paint pleasure, cruelty, arrogance in glowing colors. What would
you say should I try my hand at them, and make you the first object of
my experiments. I would be like Dionysius who had the inventor of the
iron ox roasted within it in order to see whether his wails and groans
really resembled the bellowing of an ox.
“Perhaps I am a female Dionysius?”
“Be it,” I exclaimed, “and my dreams will be fulfilled. I am yours for
good or evil, choose. The destiny that lies concealed within my breast
drives me on—demoniacally—relentlessly.”
“My Beloved,
I do not care to see you to-day or to-morrow, and not until evening the
day after tomorrow, and then _as my slave_.