Venus In Furs 1 I was in charming company. Facing me, before the massive
Renaissance fireplace, sat Venus: not the casual demi-mondaine who measures
swords with the enemy sex under a pseudonym -- no "Madame Phryne" or
"Mademoiselle" -- but the real Goddess of Love. She was sitting in an
armchair, and had kindled a roaring fire whose reflections ran in red flames
over her pale face with its white eyes and from time to time over her naked
feet when she tried to warm them. Her head was magnificent in spite of the
dead stony eyes, but this was all I could see of her: the divinity had wrapped
her marble body in a great fur and was curled up, quivering, like a cat. "I
don't understand it, dear lady," I said. "It's not really cold now. These past
two weeks we have had perfect spring weather. It must be your nerves." "My
compliments on your spring," she replied in a deep stony voice, and at once
sneezed divinely, twice in succession. "I really cannot bear it here much
longer, and I am beginning to understand --" She paused. "What, dear lady?" "I
am beginning to believe the incredible and to understand the incomprehensible.
Suddenly I understand the virtue of German women, and German philosophy -- and
I no longer wonder why you of the North do not know how to love, why you have
no idea of love." "But madam," I replied with spirit, "I at least have surely
given you no cause --" "Oh, not you..." The goddess smiled, then suddenly
sneezed again, and shrugged her shoulders with inimitable grace. "Not you.
Which is why I've always been kind to you, and even visit you now and then --
though I catch cold every time, even with all these furs. Do you remember the
first time we met?" "How could I forget? You wore your flowing hair in brown
curls and you had brown eyes and a red mouth, but I knew you at once by the
curve of your cheek and its marble pallor. And you were wearing a violet
velvet jacket edged with squirrel." "Yes, you were quite in love with the
costume. And how teachable you were!" "You taught me what love really is -- a
serene form of worship which made me forget two thousand years." "And my
fidelity was unequalled!" "Why, as for strict fidelity --" I smiled.
"Ungrateful man!" "I make no reproaches. You are a divinity, but nonetheless a
woman and, like every woman, cruel in matters of love." "What you call
cruelty," the Goddess of Love replied with animation, "is simply the element
of passion and sensuality which is part of woman's nature, and which makes her
give herself whenever she loves, and love everything that pleases her." "But
can there be any greater cruelty than to make a love endure the faithlessness
of the woman he loves?" She shrugged, making her beautiful breasts quiver
within the fur. "We are faithful as long as we love, but you demand that a
woman be faithful when she has ceased to love, and that she give herself
without any but the most degrading, mechanical enjoyment. Who is cruel there,
the woman or the man? You of the North take love too seriously. You talk of
duties, when there should be only a question of pleasure." "Yes, madam, that
is why our feelings are respectable and virtuous, and our relations
permanent." "And yet you retain a restless, unsatisfied yearning for the
nudity of paganism," she said. "But that love which is the height of joy, that
central union of breath and limbs and feeling by which our bodies figure forth
the original divine unity of man and woman, that is not for you moderns, you
children of reflection. In you it turns to something evil. Whenever you wish
to be natural, you become gross. For you, nature is something hostile; you
have made devils of the smiling gods of Greece, and of me a demon. You can
only exorcise and curse me, or immolate yourselves in a bacchantic ecstasy
before my altar. And should one of you ever have the courage to kiss my red
mouth, he must make a barefoot pilgrimage to Rome in penitential garb and
expect flowers to grow from a withered staff, while under my very feet roses,
violets and myrtles spring up every hour -- only their fragrance does not
agree with you. Remain here among the clouds of your northern fogs and
Christian incense; leave us pagans lying under the debris, under the lava; do
not dig us up. Pompeii was not built for you, nor our villas, our baths, our
temples. You do not need gods like us. Our world was not made for you, and we
are chilled in yours." The beautiful marble woman gave a little cough and drew
the dark sables still closer around her naked shoulders. "A thousand thanks
for the classical lesson," I replied, "but you cannot deny that man and woman
are mortal enemies in your serene sunlit world as well as in our foggy one. In
the act of love they merge and are reconciled for a short time only, when they
have but one thought, one sensation, one will, and then they disunite and
become greater enemies than ever. And whichever of the two fails to dominate
will -- as you know better than I -- soon feel the other's foot on his neck
--" "And as a rule it is the man who feels the woman's," said lady Venus with
mocking satisfaction. "As you know still better than I." "Of course. That is
why I have no illusions." "You mean you are now my slave without illusions?"
Her brows contracted. "Ah, for that I shall tread on you without mercy..."
"Madam!" "You do not know me yet? Yes, I am cruel -- since you take such
delight in the word -- and have I not the right to be? Man is the one who
desires, woman the one who is desired: this is her complete and decisive
advantage. Through his passions, Nature has put man in thraldom to woman, and
the woman who does not know how to make him her subject, her slave, her toy,
and now to betray him at last with a smile, is a fool." "Your own principles,"
I said drily. "They are based on several thousands of years' experience," she
replied with an ironical smile as her white fingers played over the dark fur.
"The more devotion a woman shows, the sooner the man recovers his sanity and
begins to domineer. The more cruelly she treats him, the more faithless she
is, the more wantonly she plays with him, the less pity she shows -- by so
much does she heighten his desire and compel his love and worship. So it has
always been, from the times of Helen and Delilah down to those of Catherine
the Great and Lola Montez." "I will not deny," I said, "That nothing attracts
a man more than the image of a beautiful, passionate, cruel and despotic
woman, who changes her lovers freely and without scruple according to her whim
--" "And who in addition wears furs," the goddess struck in with a mocking
look. "What do you mean by that, madam?" "I know your weakness. Who better?"
"Do you know," I said, "that since our last meeting you have become very much
the coquette?" "In what way, may I ask?" "In having found there is no better
way of displaying your white body than in those dark furs, and that --" The
goddess laughed. "You are dreaming," she cried. "Wake up!" and she seized my
arm with her marble hand. "Do wake up," she repeated hoarsely, her voice
dropping into the lower register. I opened my eyes with difficulty. I saw the
hand which was shaking me, but this hand was as brown as tobacco, while the
voice was the thick, vodka-roughened voice of my Cossack servant who was
towering over me at his full height of over six feet. "Do get up," the good
fellow was saying. "It is really disgraceful." "What is disgraceful?" "To fall
asleep like this in your clothes, and with a book as well." He snuffed the
candles which had burned down, and picked up the volume which had fallen from
my hand. "With a book by --" he looked at the cover "-- by Hegel. Besides,
it's time we were starting for Herr Severin's where you're expected for tea."
"A curious dream," said Severin when I had finished. He rested his arms on his
knees, holding his face in his delicate finely veined hands, and plunged into
thought. I knew he would remain so for a long time, hardly even breathing.
This often happened, and by now I looked on his behaviour as in no way
remarkable. I had been on terms of close friendship with him for nearly three
years, and was used to his peculiarities. For it could not be denied he was
peculiar, although not quite the dangerous madman which the neighbourhood, and
indeed the entire district of Kolomea, considered him. I found his personality
not only interesting but -- and this was why many people looked on me as a
little mad also -- highly sympathetic. For a Galician nobleman and landowner,
and considering his age -- he was barely over thirty -- he showed a surprising
maturity of outlook, a gravity verging on the pedantic. He lived by a minutely
elaborated, half-philosophical, half-practical system, like a piece of
clock-work; and not by this alone, but also by the thermometer, barometer,
aerometer, hydrometer, Hippocrates, Hufeland, Plato, Kant, Knigge and Lord
Chesterfield. But at times he had sudden attacks of violent passion, and gave
the impression of being about to run his head right through the wall. At such
times everyone found it better to keep out of his way. While he remained
silent the fire sang in the chimney, and the big old samovar sang too; the
ancient chair in which I sat rocking to and fro, smoking my cigar, was also
singing rather creakily, as was a cricket somewhere in the old walls. I let my
eyes roam over the curious apparatus which crowded his room, the skeletons of
animals, stuffed birds, globes and plaster-casts, until by chance my gaze fell
on a painting which I had often seen in this room but which today, touched by
the red reflections of the fire, made a new and indescribable impression on
me. It was a large oil painting done in the robust, full-blooded manner of the
Flemish school. The subject was curious enough. A beautiful woman with a
radiant smile on her lips, her luxuriant hair tied in a classical knot, was
half lying on an ottoman, supporting herself on her left arm, quite naked in
her dark furs. Her right hand was playing with a long-lashed whip, while her
bare foot rested carelessly on a man lying before her like a slave or a dog.
This man, in whose stark but well-formed features there lay a brooding sadness
and passionate devotion, looked up at her with the ecstatic burning gaze of a
martyr. And this man, this footstool for the woman's feet, was Severin, but
beardless and, as it seemed, some ten years younger. "Venus in Furs!" I cried,
pointing to the picture. "That is how I saw her in my dream." "So did I," said
Severin, his voice remote. "Only I dreamed my dream with open eyes." "Indeed?"
"Ah, it's a tedious story..." "Your picture must have suggested my dream," I
went on. "Now tell me what it means. I can guess it played a role in your
life, perhaps a decisive one, but you alone can give me the details." "Look
then at its model and counterpart," my strange friend replied without heeding
my request, as he gestured towards a picture hanging opposite -- a fine copy
of Titian's famous Venus with the Mirror in the Dresden Gallery.

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 "And what is
its significance?" Severin rose and pointed at the fur in which Titian had
clothed his goddess of love. "It too is a 'Venus in Furs'," he said with a
faint smile, "though I don't believe the old Venetian had any such ulterior
motive. He simply painted the portrait of some fashionable Messalina, and was
tactful enough to have Cupid hold the mirror in which she appraises her
majestic allure with such cold aplomb -- though the boy looks as if his task
were rather irksome. The title is merely a piece of flattery. Following the
pictorial conventions of the time, the lady was given the name of Venus. But
the imperial furs in which Titian's lovely model draped herself, probably less
from modesty than from fear of catching a chill, have become for us a symbol
of the tyranny and cruelty that are the essence and beauty of woman. But
enough of that... The picture, as it stands, is a pungent satire on our own
conception of love. In this rarefied northland, this icy Christian world,
Venus must creep into a great black fur so as not to catch cold..." He laughed
and lit a fresh cigarette. At that moment the door opened and a plump comely
blonde girl entered; she had wise, kindly eyes, was dressed in black silk, and
had brought us eggs and cold meat for our tea. Severin took one of the eggs
and broke it with his knife. "Didn't I tell you I wanted them soft-boiled?" he
exclaimed with a violence which made the young woman tremble. "But my dear
Sevtchu --" she said timidly. "Sevtchu nothing!" he cried. "You are to obey,
to obey, do you understand!" And he seized a kantschuk from the hook where it
was hanging among his other weapons. The pretty girl fled from the room as
swiftly and shyly as a doe. "Wait -- I'll deal with you later!" he called
after her. "Severin," I said, laying a hand on his arm, "how can you treat a
pretty young woman like this?" "Consider this woman," he replied, his eyes
twinkling mirthfully. "If I had made a habit of flattering her she would have
put a rope around my neck long ago. But now, when I bring her up under the
kantschuk, she adores me." "Nonsense!" "Not at all. This is how one breaks
women in." "Well, you can live like a pasha in your harem if you wish, but do
not lay down theories about it --" "Why not?" he took me up short. "Goethe's
'you must be hammer or anvil' applies very well to the relation between men
and women, or didn't the Lady Venus in your dream convince you? Woman's power
lies in man's passion, and she knows how to use this power if he fails to
understand it. He has only one choice: to be the tyrant or the slave of woman.
No sooner does he give way than his neck is under the yoke, and then the whip
will begin to fall." "Odd maxims!" "Not maxims, but truths verified by
experience," he replied, nodding his head. "I have actually felt the lash. I
am cured. Would you like to know how?" He rose, took a small manuscript from
his massive desk and laid it before me. "You have already asked me about the
picture," he said, "and I have long owed you an explanation. Here, read..." He
sat down by the fire with his back to me, and seemed to dream with open eyes.
Silence had fallen once again, and once again the fire was singing in the
chimney, and the samovar and the cricket in the wall were singing too. I
opened the manuscript and read: CONFESSIONS OF A SUPERSENSUAL MAN In the
margin was the epigraph, a variation of the well-known lines of Mephistopheles
in Faust: Thou sensual, supersensual wooer, A woman leads thee by the nose. I
turned the title-page and read: What follows has been compiled from the pages
of my diary of the period. For it is never possible to write frankly of one's
own past: only in personal records does everything keep the freshness of its
colours, the colours of the moment. Gogol, the Russian Moli Comic Muse is the
one beneath whose mask of laughter the tears are falling." A wonderful
saying... I have a curious feeling as I am writing all this down. The air
seems full of a disturbing fragrance of flowers, an odour which overcomes me
and makes my head swim, the smoke from the fireplace curls up and shapes
itself into the figures of little gray-bearded goblins who point their fingers
mockingly at me, while little plump-cheeked amoretti ride on the arms of my
chair and on my knees -- and then I smile involuntarily, I even laugh aloud as
I record my adventures, even though I am writing not with common ink but with
the red blood that drips from my heart, for all its long-closed wounds have
reopened, throbbing and smarting, and every now and then a tear falls on the
paper. o The days creep by sluggishly in this little Carpathian resort. You
see no one, and no one sees you. It is so boring one could write idylls. I
have enough leisure here to fill an entire picture-gallery, to supply a
theatre with new plays for a whole season and a dozen virtuosos with
concertos, trios and duos, but -- what am I saying? -- the upshot of it all is
that I do no more than stretch the canvas, smooth the bow, line the scores.
For I am -- no false modesty now, friend Severin: you can lie to others but
can't succeed in lying to yourself any longer -- I am nothing but a
dilettante, a dilettante in painting, in poetry, in music and in several of
the other so-called unprofitable arts which, however, secure for their masters
these days the income of a cabinet minister or even of a petty princeling.
Above all, I am a dilettante in life. Until now I have lived as I have painted
and poetized: that is, I have never got beyond the preliminary work, the plan,
the first act, the first stanza. There are people like that, who begin
everything and finish nothing. I am one of them. But what am I running on
about? To the business in hand. I lounge in my window-seat, and the miserable
little town which fills me with ennui really seems ineffably full of poetry.
How marvellous the prospect of that blue wall of mountains interwoven with
golden sunlight and laced with torrents like ribbons of silver! How clear and
blue the sky into which rise the snow-capped peaks, how fresh and green the
wooded slopes and the meadows grazed by the little knots of cattle-green all
the way down to the yellow waves of grain in which the reapers stand, bend
down and rise again. The house where I live is in a kind of park or forest or
wilderness, whatever you care to call it, and is very secluded. Its only
inhabitants are myself, a widow from Lemberg, and Madame Tartakovska the
landlady, a little old woman who grows older and smaller every day. There is
also an old dog that limps on one leg, and a young cat that is always playing
with a ball of wool. The ball of wool belongs, I believe, to the widow. She is
said to be really beautiful, this widow, still very young, twenty-four at the
most, and very rich. She keeps her green jalousies always closed, and has a
balcony quite embowered with green creepers and climbing plants. I, down
below, have a comfortable cosy arbour of honeysuckle, where I read and write
and paint and sing like a bird among the branches. I can look up at the
balcony; sometimes I actually do, and then from time to time a white gown
gleams amid the dense green network of the leaves. But the beautiful woman up
there doesn't really interest me, because I am in love with someone else, and
most unhappily: far more unhappily than the Knight of Toggenburg or the
Chevalier in Manon Lescaut, because my beloved is made of stone. In the park,
in the little wilderness, there is a pretty meadow where a couple of deer
graze peacefully. In this meadow is a stone statue of Venus- the original of
which, I believe, is in Florence. This Venus is the most beautiful woman I
have seen in all my life. But that does not mean a great deal, for I have not
seen many beautiful women, nor indeed many women at all. In matters of love,
too, I am a dilettante who has never gone beyond the preliminaries, the first
act. But why make comparisons, as if anything beautiful can ever be surpassed?
It is enough to say this Venus is beautiful; and I love her passionately and
with a morbid intensity -- madly, as one can only love a woman who never
responds to one's love save by an unchanging, an eternally calm and stony
smile. Yes. I literally adore her. Often I lie reading under the leafy shelter
of a young birch-tree nearby, while the sun broods over the forest; often I
visit that cold, cruel mistress of mine by night and kneel before her, my
forehead or my lips pressed to the cold pediment on which her feet are
standing -- and my prayers ascend to her. The rising moon, now past its third
quarter, produces an indescribable effect: it seems to hover among the trees,
drenching the meadow in its stream of silver, and the Goddess stands
transfigured and shining, as if she were bathing in the soft radiance. Once,
as I was returning from my orisons by one of the paths leading to the house, I
suddenly saw a woman's moving figure, white as stone under the moon's light
and screened from me only by a row of trees. For a moment it seemed the
beautiful marble woman had taken pity on me, had come to life and was
following me! I was seized by a nameless fear, my heart threatened to burst,
but instead of -- Well, I am a dilettante. As usual, I broke down at the
second stanza, or rather I didn't break down, but on the contrary ran away as
fast as I could. What luck! Through a Jew who deals in prints and engravings I
have secured a picture of my ideal. A small reproduction of Titian's Venus
with the Mirror. What a woman! I would like to write a poem, but instead I
take the reproduction and write on it: "VENUS IN FURS "You are cold, even
while you fan our flames. Wrap yourself then in your despot's furs, for there
is none on whom they sit better, cruel goddess of love and beauty!" After a
while I add a few verses from Goethe, which I found the other day in his
Paralipomena to Faust: To Amor "The pair of wings a fiction are, The arrows,
they are only claws, The wreath conceals the little horns; For there's no
doubt at all that he -- Like all the gods of ancient Greece -- Is only a devil
in disguise. Then I place the picture before me on my table, propping it with
a book, and gaze at it. The cold coquetry with which this superb woman drapes
her charms in her furs of dark sable, the severity and hardness which dwell in
this marmoreal face, fill me with rapture and a strange fear. Once more I take
up my pen and write these words: "To love, to be loved, what happiness! And
yet how this bliss pales before the tormenting ecstasy of worshipping a woman
who makes a plaything of one, of being the slave of a beautiful tyrant who
treads one pitilessly underfoot! So Samson, the hero, the mighty warrior, once
more gave himself into the hands of Delilah even after she had betrayed him,
and then once again she betrayed him, and the Philistines bound him and put
out his eyes which until the last he kept fixed, drunken with rage and love,
on the lovely traitress." 

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