Venus in Furs

‘Yes, at any price.’

‘But of what value, for instance, would that be?’ – She pondered; a lurking uncanny expression entered her eyes – ‘If I no longer loved you, if I belonged to another.’

A shudder ran through me. I looked at her. She stood firmly and confident before me, and her eyes disclosed a cold gleam.

‘You see,’ she continued, ‘the very thought frightens you.’ A beautiful smile suddenly illuminated her face.

‘I feel a perfect horror when I imagine that the woman I love and who has responded to my love could give herself to another, regardless of me. But have I still a choice? If I love such a woman, even unto madness, shall I turn my back to her and lose everything for the sake of a bit of boastful strength; shall I send a bullet through my brains? I have two ideals of woman. If I cannot obtain the one that is noble and simple, the woman who will faithfully and truly share my life, well then I don’t want anything half-way or lukewarm. Then I would rather be subject to a woman without virtue, fidelity or pity. Such a woman in her magnificent selfishness is likewise an ideal. If I am not permitted to enjoy the happiness of love, fully and wholly, I want to taste its pains and torments to the very dregs; I want to be maltreated and betrayed by the woman I love, and the more cruelly the better. This too is a luxury.’

‘Have you lost your senses,’ cried Wanda.

‘I love you with all my soul,’ I continued, ‘with all my senses, and your presence and personality are absolutely essential to me, if I am to go on living. Choose between my ideals. Do with me what you will, make of me your husband or your slave.’

‘Very well,’ said Wanda, contracting her small but strongly arched brows, ‘it seems to me it would be rather entertaining to have a man, who interests me and loves me, completely in my power; at least I shall not lack pastime. You were imprudent enough to leave the choice to me. Therefore I choose; I want you to be my slave, I shall make a plaything for myself out of you!’

‘Oh, please do,’ I cried half-shuddering, half-enraptured. ‘If the foundation of marriage depends on equality and agreement, it is likewise true that the greatest passions rise out of opposites. We are such opposites, almost enemies. That is why my love is part hate, part fear. In such a relation only one can be hammer and the other anvil. I wish to be the anvil. I cannot be happy when I look down upon the woman I love. I want to adore a woman, and this I can only do when she is cruel towards me.’

‘But, Severin,’ replied Wanda, almost angrily, ‘do you believe me capable of maltreating a man who loves me as you do, and whom I love?’