Wanda had raised herself on her left arm. “I believe,” she said, “that to hold a man permanently, it is vitally important not to be faithful to him. What honest woman has ever been as devotedly loved as a hetaira?” “There is a painful stimulus in the unfaithfulness of a beloved woman. It is the highest kind of ecstacy.” “For you, too?” Wanda asked quickly. “For me, too.” “And if I should give you that pleasure,” Wanda exclaimed mockingly. “I shall suffer terrible agonies, but I shall adore you the more,” I replied. “But you would never deceive me, you would have the daemonic greatness of saying to me: I shall love no one but you, but I shall make happy whoever pleases me.” Wanda shook her head. “I don’t like deception, I am honest, but what man exists who can support the burden of truth. Were I say to you: this serene, sensual life, this paganism is my ideal, would you be strong enough to bear it?” “Certainly. I could endure anything so as not to lose you. I feel how little I really mean to you.” “But Severin—” “But it is so,” said I, “and just for that reason—” “For that reason you would—” she smiled roguishly—“have I guessed it?” “Be your slave!” I exclaimed. “Be your unrestricted property, without a will of my own, of which you could dispose as you wished, and which would therefore never be a burden to you. While you drink life at its fullness, while surrounded by luxury, you enjoy the serene happiness and Olympian love, I want to be your servant, put on and take off your shoes.” “You really aren’t so far from wrong,” replied Wanda, “for only as my slave could you endure my loving others. Furthermore the freedom of enjoyment of the ancient world is unthinkable without slavery. It must give one a feeling of like unto a god to see a man kneel before one and tremble. I want a slave, do you hear, Severin?” “Am I not your slave?” “Then listen to me,” said Wanda excitedly, seizing my hand. “I want to be yours, as long as I love you.” “A month?” “Perhaps, even two.” “And then?” “Then you become my slave.” “And you?” “I? Why do you ask? I am a goddess and sometimes I descend from my Olympian heights to you, softly, very softly, and secretly. “But what does all this mean,” said Wanda, resting her head in both hands with her gaze lost in the distance, “a golden fancy which never can become true.” An uncanny brooding melancholy seemed shed over her entire being; I have never seen her like that. “Why unachievable?” I began. “Because slavery doesn’t exist any longer.” “Then we will go to a country where it still exists, to the Orient, to Turkey,” I said eagerly. “You would—Severin—in all seriousness,” Wanda replied. Her eyes burned.