At first I could find no answer. The most antagonistic emotions were
battling within me. In the meantime she sat down on one of the stone-
benches, and played with a flower.
"Well--am I?"
I kneeled down and seized her hands.
"Once more I beg you to become my wife, my true and loyal wife; if
you can't do that then become the embodiment of my ideal, absolutely,
without reservation, without softness."
"You know I am ready at the end of a year to give you my hand, if
you prove to be the man I am seeking," Wanda replied very seriously,
"but I think you would be more grateful to me if through me you
realized your imaginings. Well, which do you prefer?"
"I believe that everything my imagination has dreamed lies latent in
your personality."
"You are mistaken."
"I believe," I continued, "that you enjoy having a man wholly in
your power, torturing him--"
"No, no," she exclaimed quickly, "or perhaps--." She pondered.
"I don't understand myself any longer," she continued, "but I have
a confession to make to you. You have corrupted my imagination and
inflamed my blood. I am beginning to like the things you speak of.
The enthusiasm with which you speak of a Pompadour, a Catherine the
Second, and all the other selfish, frivolous, cruel women, carries
me away and takes hold of my soul. It urges me on to become like those
women, who in spite of their vileness were slavishly adored during
their lifetime and still exert a miraculous power from their graves.
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