She is like an oriental despot, and the men sit like Indian
deities, straight upright against the walls and scarcely dare to
breathe.
* * * * *
She stops over in Vienna for a day to go shopping, and particularly
to buy series of luxurious gowns. She continues to treat me as her
servant. I follow her at the respectful distance of ten paces. She
hands me her packages without so much as even deigning a kind look,
and laden down like a donkey I pant along behind.
Before leaving she takes all my clothes and gives them to the hotel
waiters. I am ordered to put on her livery. It is a Cracovian costume
in her colors, light-blue with red facings, and red quadrangular cap,
ornamented with peacock-feathers. The costume is rather becoming to
me.
The silver buttons bear her coat of arms. I have the feeling of
having been sold or of having bonded myself to the devil. My fair
demon leads me from Vienna to Florence. Instead of linen-garbed
Mazovians and greasy-haired Jews, my companions now are curly-
haired Contadini, a magnificent sergeant of the first Italian
Grenadiers, and a poor German painter. The tobacco smoke no longer
smells of onions, but of salami and cheese.
Night has fallen again. I lie on my wooden bed as on a rack; my arms
and legs seem broken. But there nevertheless is an element of poetry
in the affair.
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