“But whoever wants to enjoy must take life gaily in the sense of the ancient world; he dare not hesitate to enjoy at the expense of others; he must never feel pity; he must be ready to harness others to his carriage or his plough as though they were animals. He must know how to make slaves of men who feel and would enjoy as he does, and use them for his service and pleasure without remorse. It is not his affair whether they like it, or whether they go to rack and ruin. He must always remember this, that if they had him in their power, as he has them they would act in exactly the same way, and he would have to pay for their pleasure with his sweat and blood and soul. That was the world of the ancients: pleasure and cruelty, liberty and slavery went hand in hand. People who want to live like the gods of Olympus must of necessity have slaves whom they can toss into their fish-ponds, and gladiators who will do battle, the while they banquet, and they must not mind if by chance a bit of blood bespatters them.” Her words brought back my complete self-possession. “Unloosen me!” I exclaimed angrily. “Aren’t you my slave, my property?” replied Wanda. “Do you want me to show you the agreement?” “Untie me!” I threatened, “otherwise—” I tugged at the ropes. “Can he tear himself free?” she asked. “He has threatened to kill me.” “Be entirely at ease,” said the Greek, testing my fetters. “I shall call for help,” I began again. “No one will hear you,” replied Wanda, “and no one will hinder me from abusing your most sacred emotions or playing a frivolous game with you.” she continued, repeating with satanic mockery phrases from my letter to her. “Do you think I am at this moment merely cruel and merciless, or am I also about to become cheap? What? Do you still love me, or do you already hate and despise me? Here is the whip—” She handed it to the Greek who quickly stepped closer. “Don’t you dare!” I exclaimed, trembling with indignation, “I won’t permit it—” “Oh, because I don’t wear furs,” the Greek replied with an ironical smile, and he took his short sable from the bed. “You are adorable,” exclaimed Wanda, kissing him, and helping him into his furs. “May I really whip him?” he asked. “Do with him what you please,” replied Wanda. “Beast!” I exclaimed, utterly revolted. The Greek fixed his cold tigerish look upon me and tried out the whip. His muscles swelled when he drew back his arms, and made the whip hiss through the air. I was bound like Marsyas while Apollo was getting ready to flay me. My look wandered about the room and remained fixed on the ceiling, where Samson, lying at Delilah’s feet, was about to have his eyes put out by the Philistines. The picture at that moment seemed to me like a symbol, an eternal parable of passion and lust, of the love of man for woman. “Each one of us in the end is a Samson,” I thought, “and ultimately for better or worse is betrayed by the woman he loves, whether he wears an ordinary coat or sables.”