“Now watch me break him in,” said the Greek. He showed his teeth, and his face acquired the blood-thirsty expression, which startled me the first time I saw him. And he began to apply the lash—so mercilessly, with such frightful force that I quivered under each blow, and began to tremble all over with pain. Tears rolled down over my cheeks. In the meantime Wanda lay on the ottoman in her fur-jacket, supporting herself on her arm; she looked on with cruel curiosity, and was convulsed with laughter. The sensation of being whipped by a successful rival before the eyes of an adored woman cannot be described. I almost went mad with shame and despair. What was most humiliating was that at first I felt a certain wild, supersensual stimulation under Apollo’s whip and the cruel laughter of my Venus, no matter how horrible my position was. But Apollo whipped on and on, blow after blow, until I forgot all about poetry, and finally gritted my teeth in impotent rage, and cursed my wild dreams, woman, and love. All of a sudden I saw with horrible clarity whither blind passion and lust have led man, ever since Holofernes and Agamemnon—into a blind alley, into the net of woman’s treachery, into misery, slavery, and death. It was as though I were awakening from a dream. Blood was already flowing under the whip. I wound like a worm that is trodden on, but he whipped on without mercy, and she continued to laugh without mercy. In the meantime she locked her packed trunk and slipped into her travelling furs, and was still laughing, when she went downstairs on his arm and entered the carriage. Then everything was silent for a moment. I listened breathlessly. The carriage door slammed, the horse began to pull—the rolling of the carriage for a short time—then all was over. * * * * * For a moment I thought of taking vengeance, of killing him, but I was bound by the abominable agreement. So nothing was left for me to do except to keep my pledged word and grit my teeth. * * * * * My first impulse after this, the most cruel catastrophe of my life, was to seek laborious tasks, dangers, and privations. I wanted to become a soldier and go to Asia or Algiers, but my father was old and ill and wanted me. So I quietly returned home and for two years helped him bear his burdens, and learned how to look after the estate which I had never done before. To _labor_ and to _do my duty_ was comforting like a drink of fresh water. Then my father died, and I inherited the estate, but it meant no change. I had put on my own Spanish boots and went on living just as rationally as if the old man were standing behind me, looking over my shoulder with his large wise eyes. One day a box arrived, accompanied by a letter. I recognized Wanda’s writing. Curiously moved, I opened it, and read. “Sir.—