“First of all you shall have a taste of the whip in all seriousness, without having done anything to deserve it, so that you may understand what to expect, if you are awkward, disobedient, or refractory.” With a wild grace she rolled back her fur-lined sleeve, and struck me across the back. I winced, for the whip cut like a knife into my flesh. “Well, how do you like that?” she exclaimed. I was silent. “Just wait, you will yet whine like a dog beneath my whip,” she threatened, and simultaneously began to strike me again. The blows fell quickly, in rapid succession, with terrific force upon my back, arms, and neck; I had to grit my teeth not to scream aloud. Now she struck me in the face, warm blood ran down, but she laughed, and continued her blows. “It is only now I understand you,” she exclaimed. “It really is a joy to have some one so completely in one’s power, and a man at that, who loves you—you do love me?—No—Oh! I’ll tear you to shreds yet, and with each blow my pleasure will grow. Now, twist like a worm, scream, whine! You will find no mercy in me!” Finally she seemed tired. She tossed the whip aside, stretched out on the ottoman, and rang. The negresses entered. “Untie him!” As they loosened the rope, I fell to the floor like a lump of wood. The black women grinned, showing their white teeth. “Untie the rope around his feet.” They did it, but I was unable to rise. “Come over here, Gregor.” I approached the beautiful woman. Never did she seem more seductive to me than to-day in spite of all her cruelty and contempt. “One step further,” Wanda commanded. “Now kneel down, and kiss my foot.” She extended her foot beyond the hem of white satin, and I, the supersensual fool, pressed my lips upon it. “Now, you won’t lay eyes on me for an entire month, Gregor,” she said seriously. “I want to become a stranger to you, so you will more easily adjust yourself to our new relationship. In the meantime you will work in the garden, and await my orders. Now, off with you, slave!” * * * * * A month has passed with monotonous regularity, heavy work, and a melancholy hunger, hunger for her, who is inflicting all these torments on me. I am under the gardener’s orders; I help him lop the trees and prune the hedges, transplant flowers, turn over the flower beds, sweep the gravel paths; I share his coarse food and his hard cot; I rise and go to bed with the chickens. Now and then I hear that our mistress is amusing herself, surrounded by admirers. Once I heard her gay laughter even down here in the garden. I seem awfully stupid to myself. Was it the result of my present life, or was I so before? The month is drawing to a close—the day after to-morrow. What will she do with me now, or has she forgotten me, and left me to trim hedges and bind bouquets till my dying day? A written order. “The slave Gregor is herewith ordered to my personal service. Wanda Dunajew.”