“What impudence.”
She shoved me away with her foot.
“Out of my sight, slave!”
* * * * *
After having spent a feverish night filled with confused dreams, I
awoke. Dawn was just beginning to break.
How much of what was hovering in my memory was true; what had I
actually experienced and what had I dreamed? That I had been whipped
was certain. I can still feel each blow, and count the burning red
stripes on my body. And _she_ whipped me. Now I know everything.
My dream has become truth. How does it make me feel? Am I disappointed
in the realization of my dream?
No, I am merely somewhat tired, but her cruelty has enraptured me. Oh,
how I love her, adore her! All this cannot express in the remotest way
my feeling for her, my complete devotion to her. What happiness to be
her slave!
* * * * *
She calls to me from her balcony. I hurry upstairs. She is standing on
the threshold, holding out her hand in friendly fashion. “I am ashamed
of myself,” she says, while I embrace her, and she hides her head
against my breast.
“Why?”
“Please try to forget the ugly scene of yesterday,” she said with
quivering voice, “I have fulfilled your mad wish, now let us be
reasonable and happy and love each other, and in a year I will be your
wife.”
“My mistress,” I exclaimed, “and I your slave!”
“Not another word of slavery, cruelty, or the whip,” interrupted Wanda.
“I shall not grant you any of those favors, none except wearing my
fur-jacket; come and help me into it.”
* * * * *
The little bronze clock on which stood a cupid who had just shot his
bolt struck midnight.