The Dedalus Book of German Decadence by Ray Furness Read Free Book Online Page A

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