For without any doubt he is
Like all the gods of ancient Greece
Only a devil in disguise."
Then I put the picture before me on my table, supporting it with a book, and looked at it.
I was enraptured3 and at the same time filled with a strange fear by the cold coquetry with which this magnificent woman draped her charms in her furs of dark sable4; by the severity and hardness which lay in this cold marble-like face. Again I took my pen in hand, and wrote the following words:
"To love, to be loved, what happiness! And yet how the glamour5 of this pales in comparison with the tormenting6 bliss7 of worshipping a woman who makes a plaything out of us, of being the slave of a beautiful tyrant8 who treads us pitilessly underfoot. Even Samson, the hero, the giant, again put himself into the hands of Delilah, even after she had betrayed him, and again she betrayed him, and the Philistines9 bound him and put out his eyes which until the very end he kept fixed10, drunken with rage and love, upon the beautiful betrayer."
I was breakfasting in my honey-suckle arbor11, and reading in the Book of Judith. I envied the hero Holofernes because of the regal woman who cut off his head with a sword, and because of his beautiful sanguinary end.
This sentence strangely impressed me.
How ungallant these Jews are, I thought. And their God might choose more becoming expressions when he speaks of the fair sex.
"The almighty Lord hath struck him, and hath delivered him into the hands of a woman," I repeated to myself. What shall I do, so that He may punish me?
Heaven preserve us! Here comes the housekeeper13, who has again diminished somewhat in size overnight. And up there among the green twinings and garlandings the white gown gleams again. Is it Venus, or the widow?
This time it happens to be the widow, for Madame Tartakovska makes a courtesy, and asks me in her name for something to read. I run to my room, and gather together a couple of volumes.
Later I remember that my picture of Venus is in one of them, and now it and my effusions are in the hands of the white woman up there together. What will she say?
I hear her laugh.
Is she laughing at me?
It is full moon. It is already peering over the tops of the low hemlocks14 that fringe the park. A silvery exhalation fills the terrace, the groups of trees, all the landscape, as far as the eye can reach; in the distance it gradually fades away, like trembling waters.
I cannot resist. I feel a strange urge and call within me. I put on my clothes again and go out into the garden.
Some power draws me toward the meadow, toward her, who is my divinity and my beloved.
The night is cool. I feel a slight chill. The atmosphere is heavy with the odor of flowers and of the forest. It intoxicates15.
What solemnity! What music round about! A nightingale sobs16. The stars quiver very faintly in the pale-blue glamour. The meadow seems smooth, like a mirror, like a covering of ice on a pond.
But—what has happened? From the marble shoulders of the goddess a large dark fur flows down to her heels. I stand dumbfounded and stare at her in amazement18; again an indescribable fear seizes hold of me and I take flight.
I hasten my steps, and notice that I have missed the main path. As I am about to turn aside into one of the green walks I see Venus sitting before me on a stone bench, not the beautiful woman of marble, but the goddess of love herself with warm blood and throbbing19 pulses. She has actually come to life for me, like the statue that began to breathe for her creator. Indeed, the miracle is only half completed. Her white hair seems still to be of stone, and her white gown shimmers20 like moonlight, or is it satin? From her shoulders the dark fur flows. But her lips are already reddening and her cheeks begin to take color. Two diabolical21 green rays out of her eyes fall upon me, and now she laughs.
Her laughter is very mysterious, very—I don't know. It cannot be described, it takes my breath away. I flee further, and after every few steps I have to pause to take breath. The mocking laughter pursues me through the dark leafy paths, across light open spaces, through the thicket22 where only single moonbeams can pierce. I can no longer find my way, I wander about utterly23 confused, with cold drops of perspiration24 on the forehead.
It runs—well—one is either very polite to one's self or very rude.
I say to myself:
"Donkey!"
This word exercises a remarkable26 effect, like a magic formula, which sets me free and makes me master of myself.
With considerable pleasure I repeat: "Donkey!"
Now everything is perfectly clear and distinct before my eyes again. There is the fountain, there the alley28 of box-wood, there the house which I am slowly approaching.
Yet—suddenly the appearance is here again. Behind the green screen through which the moonlight gleams so that it seems embroidered29 with silver, I again see the white figure, the woman of stone whom I adore, whom I fear and flee.
With a couple of leaps I am within the house and catch my breath and reflect.
What am I really, a little dilettante30 or a great big donkey?
A sultry morning, the atmosphere is dead, heavily laden31 with odors, yet stimulating32. Again I am sitting in my honey-suckle arbor, reading in the Odyssey33 about the beautiful witch who transformed her admirers into beasts. A wonderful picture of antique love.
There is a soft rustling34 in the twigs35 and blades and the pages of my book rustle36 and on the terrace likewise there is a rustling.
A woman's dress—
She is there—Venus—but without furs—No, this time it is merely the widow—and yet—Venus-oh, what a woman!
As she stands there in her light white morning gown, looking at me, her slight figure seems full of poetry and grace. She is neither large, nor small; her head is alluring37, piquant—in the sense of the period of the French marquises—rather than formally beautiful. What enchantment38 and softness, what roguish charm play about her none too small mouth! Her skin is so infinitely39 delicate, that the blue veins40 show through everywhere; even through the muslin covering her arms and bosom41. How abundant her red hair-it is red, not blonde or golden-yellow—how diabolically42 and yet tenderly it plays around her neck! Now her eyes meet mine like green lightnings—they are green, these eyes of hers, whose power is so indescribable—green, but as are precious stones, or deep unfathomable mountain lakes.
She observes my confusion, which has even made me discourteous43, for I have remained seated and still have my cap on my head.
She smiles roguishly.
Finally I rise and bow to her. She comes closer, and bursts out into a loud, almost childlike laughter. I stammer44, as only a little dilettante or great big donkey can do on such an occasion.
Thus our acquaintance began.
The divinity asks for my name, and mentions her own.
Her name is Wanda von Dunajew.
And she is actually my Venus.
"But madame, what put the idea into your head?"
"The little picture in one of your books—"
"I had forgotten about it."
"The curious notes on its back—"
"Why curious?"
She looked at me.
"I have always wanted to know a real dreamer some time—for the sake of the change—and you seem one of the maddest of the tribe."
"Dear lady—in fact—" Again I fell victim to an odious45, asinine46 stammering47, and in addition blushed in a way that might have been appropriate for a youngster of sixteen, but not for me, who was almost a full ten years older—
"You were afraid of me last night."
"Really—of course—but won't you sit down?"
She sat down, and enjoyed my embarrassment—for actually I was even more afraid of her now in the full light of day. A delightful48 expression of contempt hovered49 about her upper lip.
"You look at love, and especially woman," she began, "as something hostile, something against which you put up a defense50, even if unsuccessfully. You feel that their power over you gives you a sensation of pleasurable torture, of pungent51 cruelty. This is a genuinely modern point of view."
"You don't share it?"
"I do not share it," she said quickly and decisively, shaking her head, so that her curls flew up like red flames.
"The ideal which I strive to realize in my life is the serene52 sensuousness53 of the Greeks—pleasure without pain. I do not believe in the kind of love which is preached by Christianity, by the moderns, by the knights55 of the spirit. Yes, look at me, I am worse than a heretic, I am a pagan.
'Doest thou imagine long the goddess of love took counsel
"In nature there is only the love of the heroic age, 'when gods and goddesses loved.' At that time 'desire followed the glance, enjoyment58 desire.' All else is factitious, affected59, a lie. Christianity, whose cruel emblem60, the cross, has always had for me an element of the monstrous61, brought something alien and hostile into nature and its innocent instincts.
"The battle of the spirit with the senses is the gospel of modern man. I do not care to have a share in it."
"Yes, Mount Olympus would be the place for you, madame," I replied, "but we moderns can no longer support the antique serenity62, least of all in love. The idea of sharing a woman, even if it were an Aspasia, with another revolts us. We are jealous as is our God. For example, we have made a term abuse out of the name of the glorious Phryne.
"We prefer one of Holbein's meagre, pallid63 virgins64, which is wholly ours to an antique Venus, no matter how divinely beautiful she is, but who loves Anchises to-day, Paris to-morrow, Adonis the day after. And if nature triumphs in us so that we give our whole glowing, passionate65 devotion to such a woman, her serene joy of life appears to us as something demonic and cruel, and we read into our happiness a sin which we must expiate66."
"So you too are one of those who rave67 about modern women, those miserable68 hysterical69 feminine creatures who don't appreciate a real man in their somnambulistic search for some dream-man and masculine ideal. Amid tears and convulsions they daily outrage70 their Christian54 duties; they cheat and are cheated; they always seek again and choose and reject; they are never happy, and never give happiness. They accuse fate instead of calmly confessing that they want to love and live as Helen and Aspasia lived. Nature admits of no permanence in the relation between man and woman."
"But, my dear lady—"
"Let me finish. It is only man's egoism which wants to keep woman like some buried treasure. All endeavors to introduce permanence in love, the most changeable thing in this changeable human existence, have gone shipwreck71 in spite of religious ceremonies, vows72, and legalities. Can you deny that our Christian world has given itself over to corruption73?"
"But—"
"But you are about to say, the individual who rebels against the arrangements of society is ostracized74, branded, stoned. So be it. I am willing to take the risk; my principles are very pagan. I will live my own life as it pleases me. I am willing to do without your hypocritical respect; I prefer to be happy. The inventors of the Christian marriage have done well, simultaneously75 to invent immortality76. I, however, have no wish to live eternally. When with my last breath everything as far as Wanda von Dunajew is concerned comes to an end here below, what does it profit me whether my pure spirit joins the choirs77 of angels, or whether my dust goes into the formation of new beings? Shall I belong to one man whom I don't love, merely because I have once loved him? No, I do not renounce78; I love everyone who pleases me, and give happiness to everyone who loves me. Is that ugly? No, it is more beautiful by far, than if cruelly I enjoy the tortures, which my beauty excites, and virtuously79 reject the poor fellow who is pining away for me. I am young, rich, and beautiful, and I live serenely80 for the sake of pleasure and enjoyment."
While she was speaking her eyes sparkled roguishly, and I had taken hold of her hands without exactly knowing what to do with them, but being a genuine dilettante I hastily let go of them again.
"Your frankness," I said, "delights me, and not it alone—"
"You were about to say—"
"I was about to say—I was—I am sorry—I interrupted you."
"How, so?"
A long pause. She is doubtless engaging in a monologue, which translated into my language would be comprised in the single word, "donkey."
"If I may ask," I finally began, "how did you arrive at these—these conclusions?"
"Quite simply, my father was an intelligent man. From my cradle onward83 I was surrounded by replicas84 of ancient art; at ten years of age I read Gil Blas, at twelve La Pucelle. Where others had Hop-o'-my-thumb, Bluebeard, Cinderella, as childhood friends, mine were Venus and Apollo, Hercules and Lackoon. My husband's personality was filled with serenity and sunlight. Not even the incurable85 illness which fell upon him soon after our marriage could long cloud his brow. On the very night of his death he took me in his arms, and during the many months when he lay dying in his wheel chair, he often said jokingly to me: 'Well, have you already picked out a lover?' I blushed with shame. 'Don't deceive me,' he added on one occasion, 'that would seem ugly to me, but pick out an attractive lover, or preferably several. You are a splendid woman, but still half a child, and you need toys.'
"I suppose, I hardly need tell you that during his life time I had no lover; but it was through him that I have become what I am, a woman of Greece."
"A goddess," I interrupted.
"Which one," she smiled.
"Venus."
She threatened me with her finger and knitted her brows. "Perhaps, even a 'Venus in Furs.' Watch out, I have a large, very large fur, with which I could cover you up entirely86, and I have a mind to catch you in it as in a net."
"Do you believe," I said quickly, for an idea which seemed good, in spite of its conventionality and triteness87, flashed into my head, "do you believe that your theories could be carried into execution at the present time, that Venus would be permitted to stray with impunity88 among our railroads and telegraphs in all her undraped beauty and serenity?"
"Undraped, of course not, but in furs," she replied smiling, "would you care to see mine?"
"And then—"
"What then?"
"Beautiful, free, serene, and happy human beings, such as the Greeks were, are only possible when it is permitted to have slaves who will perform the prosaic89 tasks of every day for them and above all else labor90 for them."
"Of course," she replied playfully, "an Olympian divinity, such as
I am, requires a whole army of slaves. Beware of me!"
"Why?"
I myself was frightened at the hardiness91 with which I uttered this "why"; it did not startle her in the least.
She drew back her lips a little so that her small white teeth became visible, and then said lightly, as if she were discussing some trifling92 matter, "Do you want to be my slave?"
"There is no equality in love," I replied solemnly. "Whenever it is a matter of choice for me of ruling or being ruled, it seems much more satisfactory to me to be the slave of a beautiful woman. But where shall I find the woman who knows how to rule, calmly, full of self-confidence, even harshly, and not seek to gain her power by means of petty nagging93?"
"Oh, that might not be so difficult."
"You think—"
"I—for instance—" she laughed and leaned far back—"I have a real talent for despotism—I also have the necessary furs—but last night you were really seriously afraid of me!"
"Quite seriously."
"And now?"
"Now, I am more afraid of you than ever!"
We are together every day, I and—Venus; we are together a great deal. We breakfast in my honey-suckle arbor, and have tea in her little sitting-room94. I have an opportunity to unfold all my small, very small talents. Of what use would have been my study of all the various sciences, my playing at all the arts, if I were unable in the case of a pretty, little woman—
But this woman is by no means little; in fact she impresses me tremendously. I made a drawing of her to-day, and felt particularly clearly, how inappropriate the modern way of dressing95 is for a cameo-head like hers. The configuration96 of her face has little of the Roman, but much of the Greek.
Astarte. It depends upon the expression in her eyes, whether it is
She, however, insists that it be a portrait-likeness.
I shall make her a present of furs.
How could I have any doubts? If not for her, for whom would princely furs be suitable?
* * * * *
I was with her yesterday evening, reading the Roman Elegies99 to her. Then I laid the book aside, and improvised100 something for her. She seemed pleased; rather more than that, she actually hung upon my words, and her bosom heaved.
Or was I mistaken?
The rain beat in melancholy101 fashion on the window-panes, the fire crackled in the fireplace in wintery comfort. I felt quite at home with her, and for a moment lost all my fear of this beautiful woman; I kissed her hand, and she permitted it.
Then I sat down at her feet and read a short poem I had written for her.
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1
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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6
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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8
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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9
philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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10
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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hemlocks
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| 由毒芹提取的毒药( hemlock的名词复数 ) | |
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intoxicates
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| 使喝醉（intoxicate的第三人称单数形式） | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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18
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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shimmers
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| n.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的名词复数 )v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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odyssey
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| n.长途冒险旅行；一连串的冒险 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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diabolically
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discourteous
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| adj.不恭的，不敬的 | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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asinine
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| adj.愚蠢的 | |
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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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51
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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sensuousness
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| n.知觉 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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68
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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71
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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72
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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74
ostracized
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| v.放逐( ostracize的过去式和过去分词 )；流放；摈弃；排斥 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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77
choirs
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| n.教堂的唱诗班( choir的名词复数 )；唱诗队；公开表演的合唱团；（教堂）唱经楼 | |
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78
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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virtuously
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| 合乎道德地，善良地 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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81
dilettantism
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| n.业余的艺术爱好，浅涉文艺，浅薄涉猎 | |
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82
throttled
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| v.扼杀( throttle的过去式和过去分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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83
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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replicas
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| n.复制品( replica的名词复数 ) | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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86
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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triteness
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| n.平凡，陈腐 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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90
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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hardiness
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| n.耐劳性，强壮；勇气，胆子 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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95
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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configuration
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| n.结构，布局，形态，(计算机)配置 | |
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psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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elegies
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| n.哀歌，挽歌( elegy的名词复数 ) | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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101
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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