The Dedalus Book of German Decadence (5 page)

‘Give them here.’

As I was unfolding and reading the documents Wanda fetched a pen and some ink; she sat next to me, put her arm around my neck and looked over my shoulder. The first paper read as follows:

‘Agreement between Frau Wanda von Dunajew and Herr Severin von Kusiemski. Today Herr Severin von Kusiemski ceases from this day forth to be the fiancé of Frau Wanda von Dunajew and renounces all rights and privileges; he swears on his oath and word of honour as a gentleman and a nobleman that he will henceforth be her
slave
for as long and until she gives him back his freedom.

As slave of Frau von Dunajew he has to bear the name of Gregor; he must carry out each of her wishes, obey every command and serve his mistress in abject servility; he must regard any token of her favour as a sign of extraordinary grace.

Frau von Dunajew is not only permitted to punish her slave as she thinks fit for the slightest inadvertence or oversight but she has the right to ill-treat him according to her moods, or as a diversion, just as she wishes; she may even kill him if she wishes. He is, in short, her property.

If Frau von Dunajew should free her slave by an act of manumission, so Herr Severin von Kusiemski must forget everything that he suffered as a slave and
never, under no circumstances, must he contemplate revenge or retribution.
On her part Frau von Dunajew promises, as his Mistress, to appear in furs as frequently as possible, particularly when she wishes to be cruel towards her slave.’

Today’s date stood beneath the agreement. And the second document only contained a few words:

‘Tired of life and of its disappointments I have voluntarily put an end to my worthless existence.’

I was seized with horror when I finished reading. There was still time, I could retract, but passion and its madness, the sight of the lovely woman, leaning at ease against my shoulder, carried me away.

‘First of all you must copy this, Severin,’ Wanda said, pointing to the second document. ‘It must be written in your handwriting, but it doesn’t matter about the agreement.’

I quickly copied the few lines in which I had signed my own death warrant and handed them over to Wanda. She read the paper and, smiling, placed it on the table.

‘Now, have you got the courage to sign the agreement?’ she asked, her head on one side and a faint smile on her lips.

I took the pen.

‘Let me sign it first,’ Wanda said. ‘Your hand is trembling, are you frightened of so much happiness?’

She took the pen and the document. I gazed around, distraught, and looked up at the paintings. It was then that I became aware of the unhistorical character of the painting on the ceiling, like other paintings of the Dutch and Italian schools, and this gave it a strange and, it seemed to me, weird aura. Delila was a voluptuous woman with flaming red hair; she was lying half undressed in a dark fur cloak on a red ottoman and was bending towards Samson with a smile on her lips. Samson had been flung down by the Philistines and was bound. The mocking coquetry of her smile was of a truly infernal cruelty; her eyes, half-closed, were gazing into Samson’s whose last gaze hung on her with an almost demented love, and one of the enemy was already kneeling on his breast, about to plunge in the glowing iron.

‘So,’ cried Wanda, ‘you’re quite distracted, what’s the matter? It’ll be just as it was before, even after you’ve signed  …  Don’t you know me yet, my sweet?’

I looked at the agreement. There was her name, in large, bold letters. I looked once more into her enchanting eyes, then seized the pen and quickly added my signature.

‘You were trembling,’ Wanda said quietly. ‘Shall I guide the pen for you?’

She gently took my hand, and my name was on the second pierce of paper. Wanda looked once more at both documents, then locked them in the table which stood at the head of the ottoman.

‘Now, give me your passport and your money.’

I took out my wallet and handed it to her: she looked in it, nodded and put it with the other papers whilst I knelt before her and let my head sink in sweet intoxication upon her breast.

She suddenly lashed out with her foot and kicked me from her; she jumped up and pulled the bell-rope, at which three young, slim negresses appeared, black as though carved from ebony, and wearing red satin. They approached, each one carrying a length of rope.

I suddenly realised what was happening, and tried to rise, but Wanda, rearing up and turning her cold, beautiful face towards me, with darkening brows and scornful eyes, gestured imperiously to the three and before I knew what was happening they had thrown me to the ground and tied me up, my arms tied behind me like someone on his way to the executioner. I could scarcely move.

‘Give me the whip, Haydée,’ Wanda ordered with a sinister calm.

Kneeling, the negress handed it to her Mistress.

‘And take off this heavy fur,’ Wanda continued, ‘it gets in the way.’

The negress obeyed.

‘Give me the jacket.’

Haydée fetched the ermine trimmed jacket which was lying on the bed, and Wanda slipped into it with two incomparably charming movements.

‘Tie him to that pillar.’

The negresses lifted me up, fixed a thick rope about my body and tied me, standing, to one of the massive pillars supporting the wide Italian bed. They then disappeared as though the earth had swallowed them.

Wanda quickly stepped up to me, her white satin robe flowing like a silver train, like moonlight, after her, and her hair gleaming like fire against the white fur of her jacket. She now stood before me, her left hand on her hip, her right holding the riding-crop, and she gave a short, sharp laugh.

‘Now the game is over between us,’ she said, and there was ice in her voice, ‘now it is serious. You fool, I laugh at you, I despise you, you, who have become a plaything in a moment of blind infatuation, a plaything in the hands of an arrogant, capricious woman. You are no longer my lover, but my
slave,
given over to my arbitrary whims, and it’s now a matter of life or death. You will get to know me now! And firstly you will in all seriousness get to know the whip, without ever having done anything, so that you will know what to expect the moment you are clumsy, disobedient or recalcitrant.’

With a wild gracefulness she rolled up the fur trimmed sleeve and whipped me across the back.

I shuddered: the whip cut like a knife into my flesh.

‘Well, how did you like that?’

I remained silent.

‘Just you wait, you will soon whimper like a dog beneath the lash!’ she threatened, and began to whip.

The lashes fell thick and fast, with terrifying force, on to my back, my arms, my neck: I bit my teeth together in order not to cry aloud. And then she hit me in the face, the warm blood ran down me, but she only laughed and continued to wield the whip.

‘Now I understand you’ she was crying ‘it is truly a great pleasure to have someone in your power like this, and especially the man who loves me – you still love me, don’t you? Do you? I’ll rip the flesh from you, I enjoy it more with every blow! So flinch, whine, whimper! You will find no mercy here!’

Finally she started to tire.

She threw the whip away, stretched herself out on the ottoman and rang the bell.

The negresses entered.

‘Untie him.’

As they undid the rope I fell to the floor like a lump of wood. The black women laughed, showing their white teeth.

‘Undo the bonds around his feet.’

This they did, and I was able to rise.

‘Come to me, Gregor.’

I approached that beautiful woman who was never so seductive as that moment, in her cruelty and her scorn.

‘One step closer,’ Wanda ordered, ‘kneel down and kiss my foot.’

She thrust her foot from under the white satin hem and I, like a transfigured fool, pressed my lips on it.

‘You will not see me for a whole month, Gregor,’ she said seriously. ‘Then I shall become a stranger to you, and you will be able to adapt all the more easily to your new position. During this time you will work in the garden and await my orders. Now march, slave!’

[…]

Today she is going to a ball at the Greek embassy. Does she know that she will meet him there, this Greek nobleman, this Alexis Papadopolis?

She has certainly dressed as though she does. A heavy sea green dress of silk clings to her divine figure, leaving her arms and bust exposed: in her hair, done in one single gleaming knot, a white waterlily is gleaming, with green fronds linked with loose strands of hair falling upon her neck. There is no trace of excitement, nothing feverish or agitated, about her: she is calm, so calm that I feel my blood freeze and my heart grow cold beneath her gaze. Slowly, with majestic lassitude, she climbs the marble stairs, letting her precious wrap slip from her shoulder: with nonchalant ease she enters the ball-room, the silver mist of a hundred candles.

I stare at her, lost, for a moment, and then I pick up her furs which had sunk from my hands without my knowing it. It is still warm from her shoulders.

I kiss the spot, and tears fill my eyes.

There he is, her Greek.

In his black velvet coat, richly embroidered with dark sable, he is like a proud despot who plays with human lives and human souls. He is standing in the vestibule, gazing arrogantly around him, and he fixes me with a long, unsettling gaze.

Under this icy gaze I sense again that terrible, mortal fear, the suspicion that this man can captivate her, enchant her, subjugate her, and I feel a sense of shame vis-à-vis his wild virility, a sense of envy, of jealousy.

How pitiful to be the anxious, weakly intellectual! And the most shameful thing of all: I would like to hate him, but cannot. And how was it that he should pick on me –
me
– from amongst the crowd of servants?

He beckons me to him with an incomparably elegant movement of the head and, against my will, I obey him.

‘Take off my fur,’ he orders me, calmly.

My whole body trembles in fearful agitation, but I obey, humbly, like a slave.

*        *        *        *

I wait all night in the vestibule, febrile and overwrought. Strange images haunt my imagination – I see them meet, I see the first, deep gaze – I see her drift through the room in his arms, lying on his breast intoxicated, with half-closed eyes – I see him in the sanctity of love, lying as a master on the ottoman, and she at his feet – I see myself kneeling before him, the tea-tray trembling in my hands – he seizes the whip  …  And now the servants are talking about him.

He is a man like a woman: he knows that he is beautiful and behaves accordingly. He changes his clothes, coquettishly, four or five times a day, like a courtesan.

In Paris he first appeared as a woman, and the men stormed him with love letters. An Italian singer – famed through his art, and also through his passion – succeeded in gaining entrance to his villa where he threw himself on his knees and threatened to kill himself if the Greek did not give ‘herself, to him.

‘I regret,’ the latter said, smiling, ‘that I cannot help you, so nothing remains but your death-sentence. I am, you see, a man  …’

The ballroom has emptied, but she obviously has no intention of leaving yet.

Morning is already streaming through the shutters.

Finally I hear her rustling dress which flows like green billows behind her: she comes with him, in deep conversation.

I scarcely exist for her: she cannot even condescend to give me a command.

‘Madame’s wrap,’ he orders me. Obviously he does not think of serving her himself.

He is standing with arms crossed next to her, as I settle the wrap around her shoulders. When I kneel to pull on her fur boots she supports herself lightly with her hand on his shoulder.

‘What is the story of the lioness?’ she asks.

The Greek explains. ‘If the lion she has chosen, and with whom she lives, is attacked by another lion, well, she lies down quietly and watches the fight. If her mate is defeated she doesn’t help him but watches, indifferently, as he dies in his own blood beneath the victor’s claws, and she follows the victor, the stronger one – that is woman’s nature.

At this moment my lioness gave me a quick, strange glance.

I shuddered, I don’t know why, and the red light of dawn bathed him, her and me in blood.

*        *        *        *

She did not go to bed but simply slipped out of her ball gown and let down her hair: she told me to light the fire and sat at the hearth, staring into the flames.

‘Do you have any further wishes, Mistress?’ I asked, and almost choked at the last word.

Wanda shook her head.

I left the room, walked through the gallery and sat down on the steps which led down into the garden. A light northerly wind blew fresh moist air from the River Arno, the green hills stood in a rosy light and a golden vapour hovered over the town, over the cathedral’s round cupola. A few stars still shimmered in the pale blue sky.

I tore open my coat and pressed my glowing forehead against the marble. Everything that had previously happened now seemed like a game – but now it was in deadly earnest. I sensed some sort of catastrophe: I saw her standing before me, I could seize her, but lacked the courage – my courage was broken. And if I am honest with myself, it wasn’t the pain, the torment that could break over me, nor the ill-treatment that I could suffer, none of this frightened me.

I felt only one fear, the fear that I could lose the woman whom I loved fanatically; this fear is so powerful, so crushing that I suddenly began to sob like a child.

*        *        *        *

She remained locked all day in her room, and only let the negress in to serve her. When the evening star was glowing in the azure aether I saw her walking in the garden; I followed her carefully and saw her enter the temple of Venus. I crept after her and spied through a crack in the door.

She was standing before the noble image of the goddess, her hands folded as in prayer, and the holy light of the star of love cast its blue radiance over her.

*        *        *        *

At night in bed the terror of losing her seized me with a violence that made me into a hero, a libertine. I lit the small red oil lamp that was hanging beneath a holy icon in the corridor and entered her bedroom, shielding the lamp with my hand.