The Painter

The bell at the garden-gate rings. It is a familiar face. The man
from the Cascine.

“Whom shall I announce?” I ask him in French. He timidly shakes his
head.

“Do you, perhaps, understand some German?” he asks shyly.

“Yes. Your name, please.”

“Oh! I haven’t any yet,” he replies, embarrassed–”Tell your
mistress the German painter from the Cascine is here and would like–
but there she is herself.”

Wanda had stepped out on the balcony, and nodded toward the stranger.

“Gregor, show the gentleman in!” she called to me.

I showed the painter the stairs.

“Thanks, I’ll find her now, thanks, thanks very much.” He ran up the
steps. I remained standing below, and looked with deep pity on the
poor German.

Venus in Furs has caught his soul in the red snares of hair. He will
paint her, and go mad.

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