“Oh, I forgot that I am talking with a slave; I need some fresh air, I
want to be diverted, I want to forget.
“The carriage, quick!”
Her new dress is extravagant: Russian half-boots of violet-blue velvet
trimmed with ermine, and a skirt of the same material, decorated with
narrow stripes and rosettes of furs. Above it is an appropriate,
close-fitting jacket, also richly trimmed and lined with ermine. The
headdress is a tall cap of ermine of the style of Catherine the Second,
with a small aigrette, held in place by a diamond-agraffe; her red hair
falls loose down her back. She ascends on the driver’s seat, and holds
the reins herself; I take my seat behind. How she lashes on the horses!
The carriage flies along like mad.
Apparently it is her intention to attract attention to-day, to make
conquests, and she succeeds completely. She is the lioness of the
Cascine. People nod to her from carriages; on the footpath people
gather in groups to discuss her. She pays no attention to anyone,
except now and then acknowledging the greetings of elderly gentlemen
with a slight nod.
Suddenly a young man on a lithe black horse dashes up at full speed. As
soon as he sees Wanda, he stops his horse and makes it walk. When he is
quite close, he stops entirely and lets her pass. And she too sees
him—the lioness, the lion. Their eyes meet. She madly drives past him,
but she cannot tear herself free from the magic power of his look, and
she turns her head after him.
My heart stops when I see the half-surprised, half-enraptured look with
which she devours him, but he is worthy of it.
For he is, indeed, a magnificent specimen of man, No, rather, he is a
man whose like I have never yet seen among the living. He is in the
Belvedere, graven in marble, with the same slender, yet steely
musculature, with the same face and the same waving curls. What makes
him particularly beautiful is that he is beardless. If his hips were
less narrow, one might take him for a woman in disguise. The curious
expression about the mouth, the lion’s lip which slightly discloses the
teeth beneath, lends a flashing tinge of cruelty to the beautiful face—
Apollo flaying Marsyas.
He wears high black boots, closely fitting breeches of white leather,
short fur coat of black cloth, of the kind worn by Italian cavalry
officers, trimmed with astrakhan and many rich loops; on his black
locks is a red fez.
I now understand the masculine Eros, and I marvel at Socrates for
having remained virtuous in view of an Alcibiades like this.
* * * * *
I have never seen my lioness so excited. Her cheeks flamed when she
left from the carriage at her villa. She hurried upstairs, and with an
imperious gesture ordered me to follow.
Walking up and down her room with long strides, she began to talk so
rapidly, that I was frightened.
“You are to find out who the man in the Cascine was, immediately—
“Oh, what a man! Did you see him? What do you think of him? Tell me.”
“The man is beautiful,” I replied dully.
“He is so beautiful,” she paused, supporting herself on the arm of a
chair, “that he has taken my breath away.”
“I can understand the impression he has made on you,” I replied, my
imagination carrying me away in a mad whirl. “I am quite lost in
admiration myself, and I can imagine—”
“You may imagine,” she laughed aloud, “that this man is my lover, and
that he will apply the lash to you, and that you will enjoy being
punished by him.
“But now go, go.”
* * * * *
Before evening fell, I had the desired information.
Wanda was still fully dressed when I returned. She reclined on the
ottoman, her face buried in her hands, her hair in a wild tangle, like
the red mane of a lioness.
“What is his name?” she asked, uncanny calm.
“Alexis Papadopolis.”
“A Greek, then,”