The Dedalus Book of German Decadence Read Online Free PDF

Borgia, Anne of Hungary, Queen Margot, Isabeau, the Sultana Roxalane, the Russian tsarinas of the last century – and I saw them all in furs or robes lined with ermine.’
    ‘And so this fur is beginning to inspire your extraordinary imagination,’ Wanda cried, and began to drape herself coquettishly with her fur coat so that the darkly gleaming sable played charmingly about her arms and breasts. ‘Now – how do you feel about this? Are you on the rack already?’
    Her green piercing eyes were fixed on me with a strange, scornful ease; overwhelmed by passion I threw myself before her and flung my arms around her.
    ‘Yes  …  you have aroused in me my favourite fantasies, longings which have lain dormant for years.’
    ‘And what are these?’ she asked, placing her hand upon my neck.
    I was seized, beneath this little warm hand, beneath her gaze which questioned, beneath those half closed lids, with a sweet intoxication.
    ‘ To be the slave of a woman, a beautiful woman, one whom I love and worship !’
    ‘And one who ill-treats you for it!’ Wanda interrupted me, laughing.
    ‘Yes, one who binds me and whips me, one who kicks me whilst belonging to another.’
    ‘And one who, when you are insane with jealousy, will go to your happy rival and go so far as to present you to him and give you over to his crudeness, his brutality. Why not? Do you like my final picture?’
    I looked at Wanda, terrified.
    ‘It exceeds my wildest dreams!’
    ‘Yes, we women are resourceful’ she said. ‘Be careful when you have found your ideal, as it can easily happen that she will treat you more cruelly than is good for you.’
    ‘I fear that I have found my ideal already!’ I cried, and pressed my glowing face into her lap.
    ‘But you don’t mean me, do you?’ Wanda cried, throwing off her furs and dancing about the room. She was still laughing as I went downstairs, and when I was standing in the courtyard, deep in thought, I could hear that wilful, malicious laughter still.

    *        *        *        *
    ‘Am I really to incorporate your ideal?’ Wanda asked roguishly when we met in the park.
    I could not answer at first. The most contrary of sensations raged within me. She had sat down upon a stone bench and was playing with a flower.
    ‘Well  …  am I?’
    I knelt and seized her hands.
    ‘I beg you once more – be my wife, my faithful, honourable wife; if you cannot do this, then be my ideal, but completely without reservation, without mitigation.’
    ‘You know that I will give you my hand after a year if you are the man I am looking for,’ said Wanda, very seriously. ‘But I think you would be more grateful to me if I were to realise your fantasies. So, which do you prefer?’
    ‘I think that everything in my imagination lies in your nature.’
    ‘You are wrong.’
    ‘I think,’ I continued ‘that it gives you pleasure to have a man completely in your power, to torment him –.’
    ‘No, no!’ she cried, agitated. ‘And yet  …’ She paused. ‘I don’t understand myself any more. I must make a confession to you. You have corrupted my imagination and heated my blood, I’m now starting to find pleasure in it all  …  The animation with which you’ve been speaking about Mme de Pompadour, about Catherine the Second and all the other frivolous, cruel, self-indulgent women has captivated me, overwhelmed me and makes me want to be like these women who were slavishly idolised throughout their lives and would perform miracles, even in the grave. And now you’ve made me a miniature despot, a Mme de Pompadour for domestic use.’
    ‘Well,’ I said, excited, ‘if that’s what you’re capable of, then give in to it, let nature take its course, but don’t be half-hearted about it: if you can’t be a good, faithful wife, then be a devil!’
    I was excitable, overwrought, and the nearness of this beautiful woman made me feverish. I don’t remember what I was talking