Venus In Furs This is section 4 of 8. = The little bronze clock, crowned with
a cupid who has just shot his arrow, struck the hour of midnight. I rose and
made to leave. Wanda said nothing, but she embraced me and drew me back on the
ottoman; she began kissing me again, and this speechless language was so
clear, so convincing -- It told me more than I dared comprehend; a languorous
abandon seemed to pervade Wanda's entire being: what voluptuous softness there
was in the twilight of her half-closed eyes, in the red torrent of her hair
shimmering faintly under its white powder, in the red and white satin which
crackled around her with every movement, in the heaving ermine of the jacket
which swathed her so negligently! "Please..." I stammered, "-- but no, you
will be angry with me." "Do with me what you will," she whispered. "Well then,
whip me, or I shall go mad." "Have I not forbidden all that!" she said
sharply. "You are incorrigible." "Ah, I am so terribly in love..." I had sunk
to my knees, burying my burning face in her lap. "I really believe," she said
thoughtfully, "that your madness is nothing but the rage of unsatisfied
desire. Our unnatural way of life must produce such illness. If you were less
chaste, you would be quite sane." "Then make me sane," I murmured. My hands
were running through her hair and playing tremulously with the gleaming fur
which threw all my senses into disorder as it rose and fell like a moonlit
wave on her heaving breast. And I kissed her -- no, it was she who kissed me,
fiercely, mercilessly, as if she wanted to murder me with her kisses. I was as
if in a delirium, I had long since lost my reason, and now I was as breathless
as she. I sought to free myself. "What is the matter?" she asked. "I am
suffering agonies..." "You are suffering?" She burst into bitter, mocking
laughter. "You laugh!" I groaned. "Have you no idea --" All of a sudden she
became serious. She took my head between her hands and with a violent movement
drew me to her breast. "Wanda..." "Yes, but you enjoy suffering," she said,
and laughed again. "Come now, let me bring you to your senses." "Yes," I
cried, "I no longer care whether you will belong to me for ever or only for a
moment of ecstasy, I wish only to drink my happiness to the full. You are mine
now -- and it is better to lose you than never possess you." "Now you are
sensible," she said. She kissed me again with her murderous lips; I tore the
ermine and the film of lace aside, and her naked breast surged against mine.
Then my senses left me -- The first thing I remember is the instant when I saw
blood dripping from my hand, and I asked, with all the languor of satiety,
"Did you scratch me?" "No, I think I have bitten you." Strange, how every
relationship assumes a different aspect as soon as a third person steps in. We
have spent marvellous days together; we have visited the mountains and lakes,
have read together, and I have finished Wanda's portrait. And how well we
loved each other all that time, how well attuned was our flesh, how beautiful
her smiling face! Now a friend of hers has arrived, a woman living apart from
her husband, somewhat older, more experienced and less scrupulous than Wanda;
her influence is already making itself felt at every turn. Wanda wrinkles her
brows, shows a certain impatience with me. Has she ceased to love me? For
nearly a fortnight this intolerable restraint has weighed on us. Her friend
lives with her; we are never alone. A circle of men now surrounds the two
young women. With my serious and melancholy air I am playing an absurd role as
lover.

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 Wanda treats me like a stranger. Today, while we were all out walking,
she lingered behind with me. I saw this was done intentionally, and I
rejoiced. But then, what she said to me! "My friend," she said, "does not see
how I can love you. She thinks you neither handsome nor otherwise specially
attractive, and she keeps telling me from morning to night about the charm of
the gay life in the capital, she hints at the advantages I could enjoy there,
the brilliant parties I could go to, the handsome and distinguished admirers I
could have. But what good is all that to me, since I happen to be in love with
you." For a moment my breath failed me, then I said, "I would not, for the
world, stand in the way of your happiness, Wanda. Do not consider me, I beg
you." I raised my hat and allowed her to walk ahead. She looked at me in
surprise, but did not say a word. When I happened to be beside her on the way
back, she pressed my hand by stealth, and her glance was so radiant, so full
of the promise of bliss, that in a moment all the torments of these past days
were forgotten and all my wounds were healed. Now I know how much I love her.
"My friend has complained of you," Wanda told me today. "Perhaps she feels
that I despise her." "But why do you despise her, you foolish young man?" she
cried, pulling my ears with both hands. "Because she is a hypocrite," I said.
"I respect only a woman who is really virtuous or one who lives openly for
pleasure." "Like myself, for example," Wanda replied merrily. "But you see, my
child, a woman cannot do that very often. She can be neither as gaily sensual
nor as emotionally free as a man. While in her heart she wishes to enslave one
man for good, she herself is the creature of her own desire for change. The
result is a conflict, and thus -- usually against her will -- falsehood and
deception enter into her behaviour and corrupt her whole character." "That is
quite true," I said. "It is the transcendental quality with which women wish
to invest love that leads them into deception." "But the world also demands
such deception of them," Wanda retorted. "Look at my friend, she has a husband
as well as a lover in Lemberg, and has found a new admirer here; and she
deceives all three, yet is cherished by them all, and respected by the world
into the bargain." "That is no concern of mine," I exclaimed. "But she should
leave you alone. She is treating you like an article of commerce --" "And why
not?" my beautiful mistress interrupted. "Every woman has the impulse or
desire to draw some advantage from her attractions -- and there is a good deal
to be said for giving oneself without either love or pleasure, because by
doing so in cold blood one can reap the greatest profit." "Wanda, what are you
saying?" "Why not?" she said. "And now, mark well what I am telling you. Never
feel secure with the woman you love, for there are more dangerous elements in
a woman's nature than you imagine. Women are neither as good as their admirers
and defenders claim they are, nor as bad as their detractors make them out.
Woman's character is the want of character. The best woman will on occasion
descend into the mire, and the worst will unexpectedly rise to deeds of
greatness and goodness and put to shame those who despise her. No woman is so
good, or so bad, but that at some moment she may be capable of the most
diabolical and divine, the filthiest and the purest of thoughts, sentiments
and actions. Despite the march of civilisation, woman remains the same as when
she came from the shaping hand of nature, she has the nature of a savage, 

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