* * * * * The charcoal outline of the painting is done; the heads and flesh parts are painted in. Her diabolical face is already becoming visible under a few bold strokes, life flashes in her green eyes. Wanda stands in front of the canvas with her arms crossed over her breast. “This picture, like many of those of the Venetian school, is simultaneously to represent a portrait and to tell a story,” explained the painter, who again had become pale as death. “And what will you call it?” she asked, “but what is the matter with you, are you ill?” “I am afraid—” he answered with a consuming look fixed on the beautiful woman in furs, “but let us talk of the picture.” “Yes, let us talk about the picture.” “I imagine the goddess of love as having descended from Mount Olympus for the sake of some mortal man. And always cold in this modern world of ours, she seeks to keep her sublime body warm in a large heavy fur and her feet in the lap of her lover. I imagine the favorite of a beautiful despot, who whips her slave, when she is tired of kissing him, and the more she treads him underfoot, the more insanely he loves her. And so I shall call the picture: _Venus in Furs_.” * * * * * The painter paints slowly, but his passion grows more and more rapidly. I am afraid he will end up by committing suicide. She plays with him and propounds riddles to him which he cannot solve, and he feels his blood congealing in the process, but it amuses her. During the sitting she nibbles at candies, and rolls the paper-wrappers into little pellets with which she bombards him. “I am glad you are in such good humor,” said the painter, “but your face has lost the expression which I need for my picture.” “The expression which you need for your picture,” she replied, smiling. “Wait a moment.” She rose, and dealt me a blow with the whip. The painter looked at her with stupefaction, and a child-like surprise showed on his face, mingled with disgust and admiration. While whipping me, Wanda’s face acquired more and more of the cruel, contemptuous character, which so haunts and intoxicates me. “Is this the expression you need for your picture?” she exclaimed. The painter lowered his look in confusion before the cold ray of her eye. “It is the expression—” he stammered, “but I can’t paint now—” “What?” said Wanda, scornfully, “perhaps I can help you?” “Yes—” cried the German, as if taken with madness, “whip me too.” “Oh! With pleasure,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders, “but if I am to whip you I want to do it in sober earnest.” “Whip me to death,” cried the painter. “Will you let me tie you?” she asked, smiling. “Yes—” he moaned— Wanda left the room for a moment, and returned with ropes. “Well—are you still brave enough to put yourself into the power of Venus in Furs, the beautiful despot, for better or worse?” she began ironically.