Venus in Furs | Page 8

beautiful sanguinary end.

"The almighty Lord hath struck him, and hath delivered him into the hands of a woman."
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 housekeeper, 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 hemlocks 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 intoxicates.
What solemnity! What music round about! A nightingale sobs. 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.
The statue of Venus stands out august and luminous.
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 amazement; 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
throbbing 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 shimmers 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 diabolical 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 thicket where only single moonbeams can pierce. I can no longer find my
way, I wander about utterly confused, with cold drops of perspiration on the forehead.
Finally I stand still, and engage in a short monologue.
It runs--well--one is either very polite to one's self or very rude.
I say to myself:
"Donkey!"
This word exercises a remarkable effect, like a magic formula, which sets me free and
makes me master of myself.
I am perfectly quiet in a moment.
With considerable pleasure I repeat: "Donkey!"
Now everything is perfectly clear and distinct before my eyes again. There is the fountain,
there the alley 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 embroidered 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 dilettante or a great big donkey?
A sultry morning, the atmosphere is dead, heavily laden with odors, yet stimulating.
Again I am sitting in my honey-suckle arbor, reading in the Odyssey about the beautiful
witch who transformed her admirers into beasts. A wonderful picture of antique love.
There is a soft rustling in the twigs and blades and