“Just wait, you will yet whine like a dog beneath my whip,” she
threatened, and simultaneously began to strike me again.
The blows fell quickly, in rapid succession, with terrific force upon
my back, arms, and neck; I had to grit my teeth not to scream aloud.
Now she struck me in the face, warm blood ran down, but she laughed,
and continued her blows.
“It is only now I understand you,” she exclaimed. “It really is a joy
to have some one so completely in one’s power, and a man at that, who
loves you—you do love me?—No—Oh! I’ll tear you to shreds yet, and with
each blow my pleasure will grow. Now, twist like a worm, scream, whine!
You will find no mercy in me!”
Finally she seemed tired.
She tossed the whip aside, stretched out on the ottoman, and rang.
The negresses entered.
“Untie him!”
As they loosened the rope, I fell to the floor like a lump of wood. The
black women grinned, showing their white teeth.
“Untie the rope around his feet.”
They did it, but I was unable to rise.
“Come over here, Gregor.”
I approached the beautiful woman. Never did she seem more seductive to
me than to-day in spite of all her cruelty and contempt.
“One step further,” Wanda commanded. “Now kneel down, and kiss my
foot.”
She extended her foot beyond the hem of white satin, and I, the
supersensual fool, pressed my lips upon it.
“Now, you won’t lay eyes on me for an entire month, Gregor,” she said
seriously. “I want to become a stranger to you, so you will more easily
adjust yourself to our new relationship. In the meantime you will work
in the garden, and await my orders. Now, off with you, slave!”
* * * * *
A month has passed with monotonous regularity, heavy work, and a
melancholy hunger, hunger for her, who is inflicting all these torments
on me.
I am under the gardener’s orders; I help him lop the trees and prune
the hedges, transplant flowers, turn over the flower beds, sweep the
gravel paths; I share his coarse food and his hard cot; I rise and go
to bed with the chickens. Now and then I hear that our mistress is
amusing herself, surrounded by admirers. Once I heard her gay laughter
even down here in the garden.
I seem awfully stupid to myself. Was it the result of my present life,
or was I so before? The month is drawing to a close—the day after
to-morrow. What will she do with me now, or has she forgotten me, and
left me to trim hedges and bind bouquets till my dying day?
A written order.
“The slave Gregor is herewith ordered to my personal service.
Wanda Dunajew.”
With a beating heart I draw aside the damask curtain on the following
morning, and enter the bed-room of my divinity. It is still filled with
a pleasant half darkness.
“Is it you, Gregor?” she asks, while I kneel before the fire-place,
building a fire. I tremble at the sound of the beloved voice. I cannot
see her herself; she is invisible behind the curtains of the
four-poster bed.
“Yes, my mistress,” I reply.
“How late is it?”
“Past nine o’clock.”
“Breakfast.”