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A Vênus das Peles: Sacher-Masoch
A Vênus das Peles: Sacher-Masoch
A Vênus das Peles: Sacher-Masoch
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A Vênus das Peles: Sacher-Masoch

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Escrito em 1870, o livro A Vênus das Peles, de Leopold Sacher-Masoch, narra os diálogos e práticas sexuais dos protagonistas: Severin e Wanda — casal que, por meio de um contrato, registram formalmente que Severin se torna escravo sexual de Wanda. Em sua vida privada, Masoch firmou contrato semelhante — com duração de seis meses — com sua amante, a baronesa Fanny de Pistor, tornando Severin nada mais que o alter ego do autor e Wanda uma espécie de cópia de Fanny. O nome Vênus das Peles deriva de um capricho sexual do personagem que é ver sua amada vestida com roupas de pele de animais durante os momentos de prazer.  A Vênus das Peles foi o primeiro romance a descrever fantasias sadomasoquistas explicitamente e a derivação da o nome Masoch acabou se tornando referência como a prática de buscar o prazer por meio da dor e humilhação. 
LanguagePortuguês
Release dateMay 31, 2019
ISBN9788583863243
A Vênus das Peles: Sacher-Masoch

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Rating: 3.461920626490066 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

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  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5
    "You interest me. Most men are very commonplace, without verve or poetry. In you there is a certain depth and capacity for enthusiasm and a deep seriousness, which delight me. I might learn to love you." (20)

    This line really jumped out at me, because it's just what I imagine a lot of nerds imagine some lady will say to them some day. And they'll be like yeah! I have a depth and capacity for enthusiasm! I was just waiting for someone to notice! I bet nerds really like this book, which was written by a nerd and then translated to English by a different nerd.

    You know that old defunct Tumblr, "Nice Guys Of OK Cupid"? It was a collection of dating profiles from guys who were all "I'm so nice, why don't any women love me? I would treat a woman like a goddess but I guess they don't want to be treated like goddesses, they all want some asshole instead! Women are such bitches, because they don't love me!"

    Masoch can't stop quoting this one line from Goethe, "You must be hammer or anvil." He thinks that "Woman demands that she can look up to a man, but one like [our dorktagonist Severin] who voluntarily places his neck under foot, she uses as a welcome plaything, only to toss it aside when she is tired of it." (105)

    The problem here isn't with Severin's (or Masoch's) particular fetish, which is to have ladies whip them. That's fine, man, have your fun. The problem is that he extends it to some kind of conclusion about human nature that's not at all true. Women do not by nature demand either to look up to a man or toy with them. (Men aren't like that either.) That's a dumb idea. Here's another thing that's not true: "Man even when he is selfish or evil always follows principles, woman never follows anything but impulses." (43)

    And it's boring! God, for a book about whipping there is none too much whipping. Instead there's a whole lot of him begging to be her slave, and then her treating him vaguely slave-y, and then him getting all indignant, and then her all "Well see, you're being a dick about it," and then him being all "Oh, you're mad at me, treat me like a slave," and then we circle back around to the beginning like fifty times. Wahhhhh.

    If you flip the characters' genders in your head while you're reading, the book goes an awful lot like that 50 Shades thing does. (I know more or less how it goes from hearing a million readers and feminists get all pissy about it. It's hard to tell who's more offended about that book - readers or feminists.) But there's a funny twist at the end (spoilers follow for this and I think 50 Shades too): you'd expect a female protagonist to win over the guy and be with him (one way or another). But here, she just dumps him. She's all "I can easily imagine belonging to one man for my entire life, but he would have to be a whole man, a man who would dominate me, who would subjugate me by his innate strength" (23) and then she runs off with a dude who's just like that. So Masoch's kink assumes that one who has it isn't enough to satisfy a woman. That's weird, and probably kindof a bummer for him.

    So this is a book about a self-defeating fetish for being controlled, born out of a weird hatred and fear for women. It's unpleasant, and boring, and all too familiar because I still hear that shit today, from miserable nerds.

    Lame, dudes. Lame.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    In between Westerns, and awaiting my used copy of McCarthy's "The Crossing" from Alibris, I decided to read something completely different to keep my senses sharp. And, boy, did I pick a pink-welted doozy. However, I was unprepared for how funny "Venus in Furs" actually is:“Whip me,” I begged, “whip me without mercy.”Wanda swung the whip, and hit me twice. “Are you satisfied now?”“No.”“Seriously, no?”And how well written:"Stay among your northern fogs and Christian incense; let us pagans remain under the debris, beneath the lava; do not disinter us."Or just whip-crackingly quotable:"I have a vague feeling now that such a thing as beauty without thorn and love of the senses without torment does exist."Much like George Bataille's "Story of the Eye" (though less extreme), I am pleasantly surprised that its contribution to literature isn't just a new term in a lexicon of perversion. Now, you'll excuse me while I play ottoman to my mistress's stilettos.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    From a certain literary perspective, "Venus in Furs" is a failure of a novel. Two rich, excessively cultured Europeans go on and on in a stiff, maddeningly formal tone, discecting their relationship and their complexes while neglecting to take their clothes off. It doesn't sound like a good time, does it?. But "Venus in Furs" is an accomplishment of sorts: while it can't be said to be a complete description of human sexuality, it provides a pretty good analysis of one very particular corner of it. Maybe you need to live there already to get it, but it's all there: the curious, paradoxical mixture of self-abnegation and egoism that drives most masochists, the combination of fear and intense desire that drives men who prefer a certain kind of strong-willed woman, and a general preference for extremes and drama. Modern readers may quibble with the author's take on the female character (inconstant, flighty) or race relations (decidedly exoticist), but it's hard to argue that he didn't know the terrain of his own desire. And desire's what this one's all about, really. The novel's by turns sumptous and shockingly physical, but its focus never strays much from the topic of beauty, even if it's a sort of beauty that's, ahem, somewhat unconventional. It's clear that the author, precious has he might be, doesn't just get a sexual thrill from seeing Wanda, the domme herself, bedecked in fur, but also real aesthetic pleasure: his references to European master painters seem fitting. Wanda herself is also a more comoplex character than one might expect. She's often very conscious of her own pleasure, the book asks whether Severin created her -- like a sexual version of Frankenstein's monster -- or if the games that they play merely brought out some dormant facet of her personality. Anyway, she never hesitates to call Severin's bluff, challenging him in ways that he finds both unconfortable and less than sexy. There's no "topping from below" from Wanda. The translation of my version seemd a good one, too: its lush and suitably ornate while maintaining a trace of what I'd like to imagine is a little Teutonic rigor. In a few scenes, the novel hits a perfect balance between sexy and cold-bloodedly terrifying. "Memorable" doesn't even begin to describe them. Finally, I got the sense that "Venus in Furs" is a better novel than it strictly has to be. The author probably deserves our praise for taking a subject that's ripe for cheap exploitation and writing a quality novel about it instead. It's recommended to a certain audience, and you know who you are. Perverts, suprasensualits, and raincoat-wearing sex creeps: this one's for you.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Venus in Furs is a bad book.Like seemingly all of the underwhelming literature before 1900, it is a pointlessly nested story about a “supersensual” man throwing himself in the arms and the hands of a briefly reluctant mistress. Beginning with a sinister attempt at levity, it ends as a rather self-unaware farce including a lover hiding behind furniture. That awkward drollery is detrimental to the subject, and the inherent ridicule of the 19th century does not help ; I much prefer incidentally an other short story by the same author about a tragic voivod and his merciless queen in the Middle Ages, but I cannot remember the title and possibly it was not even by Sacher-Masoch ; anyway Venus in Furs's characters themselves express their longing for more primitive times, where lust and passion had more stark, unironic overtone.So if even the author could see that why did he put them in the 19th century ? It's like setting an action movie in the 21st one ! Is it a stupid satire or what ?Fornication, of course, is very much a laughing matter ! or at the very least a smirking matter. But Sacher-Masoch cannot manage a smirk, or even the deadpan which lends a goofy gravitas to most preposterous stories of throbbing flesh. No, he is too pygmalionically enamoured with his own subject, telling his story with love-struck eyes and dropping jaw, and both extremities of the tale suffer from it.There is room for moments of grace in a story with a bad beginning and a sloppy end ; but an eighty-page story that does not make much room, unfortunately. Such moments are there, though. Magically magnificent purple prose oozes from the page on occasion, such as the most magnificent sentence of all “ she even gave me a kiss, and her cold lips had the fresh frosty fragrance of a young autumnal rose, which blossoms alone amid bare stalks and yellow leaves and upon whose calyx the first frost has hung tiny diamonds of ice ” (by the way, the word of the week is whithersoever). Outrageous situations and the narrator's violent torments did echo somewhat in my jaded soul. And at least we are spared the triviality of explicit copulation, Gott sei dank ; it's all heaving bosom and such.Venus in Furs is a bad book. But for a while, it manages to be a good bad book.Also a funny thing is that Sacher Masoch fills his story to the brim with never-mentioned again Jews, without even portraying them negatively, which would have been more understandable given the context, or positively for that matter. He just sees them everywhere. Go figure.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Didn't realise when I bought this, but the word masochism is derived from the author's name, and this was one of the first pieces of erotic fiction to deal with dominance and submission.The hero, Severin has a fetish for women dressed in fur, and dreams of being the abject slave of the woman he loves. He isn't prepared though for how far she decides to take his fantasy ...(Some things are better kept in your head, mate!)If sexual power-play is your thing (and it isn't my cup of latte) you will probably be fascinated by this. But don't expect a racy read, as we don't get much further than kisses and a heaving bosom and poor old Severin slapped about and abused every way the lady can devise.The novel is based on Sacher-Masoch's real-life exploits and the drama is entirely in the head-games. Kathryn Gross in her excellent essay Venus in Furs: The Story of a Real-life Masochist says: You have to decide for yourself if it is sex, pathology, mind games or to some degree an exaggerated reflection of life at that time and place.I felt the writing, or at least the translation by Joachim Neugroschel, seemed at times clunky and I thought this reader's quote on Amazon was pretty apt: To regard this as a "classic" in literary terms is a mistake. It is a historical oddity and one best read in a period translation rather than one which - however inadvertently - smooths and modernises it. If all this has grabbed your attention and you'd like to read the book, you can actually download it for free from Project Guttenburg.Now then, where did I leave my whip?
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I think I may have pinpointed the reason this novel didn’t impress me so much: In the end of the novel, a moral to the story is introduced—that women and men, at the time of Sacher-Masoch’s writing, were not able to live as equal companions, but that one must inherently dominate the other because of the inequalities made for them in their society. But I don’t think that moral applies quite so well in the present time, and I have to agree that, in the end, the novel probably is a product of its times. You kind of read the novel with certain expectations, knowing (and perhaps misbelieving) what people do today about masochism through psychology and mainstream or underground media. I think this novel may be a bit different than our usual perceptions, because, after all, it was only the basis for the definition of a word taken from the author’s name over a century ago.I thought the characters were kind of comic throughout the novel; the book is actually funny at times. As such, I didn’t really “connect” with any of the characters. Severin seems to dabble in a lot of the arts, all the while seemingly obsessed with powerful women in history and mythology—the Roman Goddess Venus in particular. He seeks to realize his interpretation of a cruel Venus in Wanda, a tenant in the same house as he. Wanda decides to play along with his fantasies, on the pretense that she’ll get this "weird" fantasy out of the way so they can marry and live normally. As the novel progresses, she unexpectedly becomes crueler and crueler, and the scenes, perhaps, become more and more off the wall. The novel does get a bit repetitive at this point, but I didn’t find it boringly so. However, only in the end did I actually “connect” and feel sad and sorry for poor Severin. And then, of course, Severin’s change of mind shocked me out of that! :)Don’t be fooled if this book is described as “erotica”—it is very well written (probably unlike most of the books that would surround it on an “erotica” shelf at the bookstore!), and it grabs your senses and may change your perception of things. Most of all, there are absolutely no crude terms, nor even any descriptions of sex at all in this book. It mainly plays with your senses and your imagination.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I wonder if perhaps I should be worried: reading this philosophical-sexual novel, I began to identify strongly with Severin, and understood a lot of the logic behind his supposedly illogical actions.The book itself is finely written, although I had tried this one before and struggled, not realising that the first few pages formed an artistic dream that Severin would be woken from; I'm not good with books that begin this way, and last time I put the book down, not to take it up again. That was something like three years ago. Now that I've read it again, I can say that Sacher-Masoch's work is of the upmost importance for all of us who have a tendency to put ourselves down and belittle our characters, especially around women. I don't think that I've learnt enough from Severin's folly to help myself in the future, but at least I can be reassured with the knowledge that I am not alone. Though I have no intention of ever allowing myself to be whipped!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I'm not a fan of the style of most 19th Century writing, and this book is no exception. However, as the origin of the word Masochism, it can't really be passed up and it's mercifully short if, like me, you don't like the style.It's an odd mix of the perverse and the coquettish, it's not erotica, not by any modern standard anyway, but it contains so many elements that permeate BDSM as we know it now that it's a fascinating read.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Much more relevant than I expected.As a Domme who deals with all kinds of sexual masochist I found this 137 year old novel a much more useful insight into the mind of male masochists then Stephen Elliott's "My Girlfriend Comes to the City and Beats me Up." Leopold is more aware of his own inner emotional state. I'm am amused to see how many reviewers think this book is not "erotic" because it does not contain graphic descriptions of sex. I think what those reviews fail to realize is that, for some people, descriptions of humiliation and abuse *are* sexual.For some people this is a very hot scene: "To be the slave of a woman, a beautiful woman, whom I love, whom I worship.""And who on that account maltreats you," interrupted Wanda, laughing."Yes, who fetters me and whips me, treads me underfoot, the while she gives herself to another.""And who in her wantonness will go so far as to make a present of you to your successful rival when driven insane by jealousy you must meet him face to face, who will turn you over to his absolute mercy. Why not? This final tableau doesn't please you so well?"I looked at Wanda frightened. "You surpass my dreams.""Yes, we women are inventive," she said, "take heed, when you find your ideal, it might easily happen, that she will treat you more cruelly than you anticipate.""I am afraid that I have already found my ideal!" I exclaimed, burying my burning face in her lap.

Book preview

A Vênus das Peles - Léopold Sacher-Masoch

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LÉOPOLD SACHER-MASOCH

A VÊNUS DAS PELES

Primeira Edição

CLÁSSICOS ERÓTICOS

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ISBN: 9788583863243

LeBooks.com.br

Prefácio

Escrito em 1870, o livro A Vênus das Peles, de Sacher-Masoch, narra os diálogos e práticas sexuais dos protagonistas: Severin e Wanda — casal que, por meio de um contrato, registra formalmente qual o papel de cada um dentro da relação. Basicamente um contrato em que Severin se torna escravo sexual de Wanda.

Em sua vida privada, Masoch firmou contrato semelhante — com duração de seis meses — com sua amante, a baronesa Fanny de Pistor, tornando Severin nada mais que o alter ego do autor e Wanda uma espécie de cópia de Fanny. 

O nome Vênus das Peles deriva de um capricho sexual do personagem que é ver sua amada Wanda, vestida com roupas de pele de animais durante as cenas eróticas.  Foi o primeiro romance a descrever fantasias sadomasoquistas explicitamente, e o nome Masoch acabou se tornando referência como a prática de buscar o prazer por meio da dor e humilhação.

LeBooks Editora

Sumário

Sobre o autor e obra

A VÊNUS DAS PELES

Sobre o autor e obra

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Sacher-Masoch

Leopold, cavaleiro de Sacher Masoch, nascido em 1835 e falecido em 1895, foi escritor austríaco de enorme projeção mundial. O êxito que obteve um seu primeiro trabalho literário, o romance Conto Galiciano, publicado em 1858, fê-lo renunciar às funções de professor que exercia em Praga, às quais, no entanto, regressaria mais tarde.

Algumas das suas obras tratam de cenas da vida galiciana, ou judia, e entre elas distinguem-se O Legado de Caim (1817), Contos Polacos (1887), Contos Judeus (1878) e Narrações Galicianas (1876 e 1881). Celebrizou-se, porém, como autor maldito de romances inicialmente considerados simplesmente sentimentais, mas onde se viria a descobrir um estranho traçado erótico que veio a ser denominado masoquismo, posteriormente incluído no estudo da psicologia como uma filia sexual.

Os psicanalistas explicam o masoquismo como uma punição que se procura num tipo de prazer considerado culpado, ou como uma aplicação de tendências sádicas do sujeito contra ele próprio. Mas o masoquismo, de que se faz perfeita descoberta através das páginas de A Vênus das Peles, também se associa às tendências sádicas mais generalizadas e aplicadas aos outros, num conjunto de impulsos contraditórios que se convencionou designar por sadomasoquismo. Os textos de Leopold Sacher Masoch, documentam essa filia, sem, no entanto, deixarem de ser excelentes peças de ficção, conseguidas numa linguagem das mais decisivas da literatura erótica e das letras austríacas do século XIX.

Vênus das Peles tornou-se o livro mais conhecido do autor, eternizado após o psiquiatra Richard von Krafft-Ebing cunhar, a partir do sobrenome Masoch, o termo masoquismo — posteriormente empregado por Sigmund Freud —, o que garantiu a Sacher-Masoch e sua obra uma visibilidade ainda maior.

O romance foi responsável por inspirar de músicas a filmes, como a canção Venus in furs de Lou Reed para o álbum The Velvet Underground and Nico, e o longas Venus In Furs, de Joseph Marzano (1967)

Só se pode verdadeiramente amar o que está acima de nós, o que nos oprime pela beleza, pelo temperamento, pelo espírito, pela força de vontade, e se torna nossa déspota.

LEOPOLD SACHER MASOCH

A VÊNUS DAS PELES

Deus castigou-o pondo-o nas mãos de uma mulher.

(Livro de Judith), 16, Cap. VII)

ENCONTRAVA-ME em amável companhia. Vênus estava ante mim, sentada à frente da grande chaminé estilo Renascença. Esta Vênus não era uma mulher galante tal qual as que como Cleópatra — combateram sob esse nome o sexo inimigo. Não; era a deusa do amor em pessoa.

Recostada numa cadeira, remexia o fogo que chispava, enrubescendo a palidez do seu rosto e os delicados pés, que acercava da chama de quando em quando.

Apesar do seu olhar de estátua tinha uma cabeça admirável, que era quanto eu via dela. Cobria o seu divino corpo marmóreo uma grande capa de Peles, no qual se envolvia como uma gata friorenta.

— Não compreendo senhora — disse. — Na realidade não faz frio; há já duas semanas que está uma encantadora Primavera. Estais, sem dúvida, nervosa.

— Boa está a ditosa Primavera — respondeu com voz opaca, espirrando, depois, de uma maneira deliciosa. — Ainda mal posso suster-me e começo a compreender...

— O quê, senhora minha?

— Começo a crer no inverossímil e a entender o incompreensível. Compreendo agora a virtude dos Alemães e a sua filosofia, e não me assombra que vós, no Norte, não saibais amar, antes pareceis ignorar o que é o amor.

— Perdoai-me, senhora — repliquei com viveza. — Mas nunca vos dei motivo de queixa.

A divina criatura bocejou pela terceira vez e soergueu um pouco os ombros com uma graça inimitável. Em seguida disse:

— Por isso sou sempre graciosa para convosco e até vos procuro de tempos a tempos, ainda que me constipe de cada vez, apesar das minhas peles. Recordai-vos ainda do nosso primeiro encontro?

— Poderia esquecê-lo? Tínheis espessos caracóis cinzentos, olhos negros, boca de coral... Reconheci-vos pelos traços da cara e na palidez do mármore. Vestíeis sempre uma jaqueta de veludo azul-violeta guarnecida de pele de esquilo.

— Sim: e que seduzido estáveis com aquele vestido e quão dócil éreis:

— Vós me ensinastes o que é o amor, e o culto divino que vos consagrava transportava-me dois mil anos atrás.

— E não vos guardei fidelidade sem exemplo? — Se vamos a falar nisso...

— Ingrato!

— Não quero repreender-vos. Fostes uma mulher divina, mas sempre mulher, e no amor, cruel como todas.

— É que vós chamais cruel — replicou com viveza a deusa do amor, ao que constitui precisamente o elemento da voluptuosidade, o amor puro, a própria natureza da mulher de entregar-se a quem ama e de amar a quem queira.

— O que pode haver de mais cruel para quem ama do que a infidelidade do ser amado?

— Ah! — respondeu. — Somos fiéis enquanto amamos; mas vós exigis que a mulher seja fiel sem amor, que se entregue sem gozo. Onde está então a crueldade, no homem ou na mulher? As gentes do Norte concedem demasiada importância e seriedade ao amor. Falais de deveres donde não há outra coisa senão prazer.

— Sim, senhora. Temos sobre esse ponto sentimentos respeitáveis e recomendáveis, e, além disso, sólidas razões.

— E sempre a curiosidade, eternamente desperta e eternamente insaciada, da nudez do paganismo; mas o amor, que é a maior alegria, a própria pureza divina, isso não vos convém a vós, os modernos, filhos da reflexão. Sabe-vos mal. Quando procurais ser naturais, tomai-vos grosseiros. A natureza parece-vos uma coisa hostil e fazeis de nós, sorridentes gênios dos deuses gregos, de mim própria, um demônio. Podeis desterrar-me, maldizer-me, até imolar-me aos pés do meu altar num acesso báquico; mas algum de vós terá tido o mérito de beijar os meus lábios purpúreos.

Vai, por isso, peregrino a Roma, descalço, com cilício, esperando que o teu bastão floresça, enquanto a meus pés surgem a cada momento rosas, mirtos e violetas, que não dão o seu perfume para vós. Ficai nas vossas névoas hiperbóreas, entre o vosso incenso cristão, e deixai-nos repousar sob a lava, não nos desenterreis, não. Pompéia, as nossas cidades, os nossos banhos, o nosso templo, não se fizeram para vós. Nem sequer necessitais de deuses! Nós gelamos no vosso mundo!

A formosa dama de mármore tossiu e se levantou sobre os seus ombros a escura pele de zibelina.

— Obrigado pela vossa lição clássica — ripostei —, mas não me negareis que, tanto no vosso mundo cheio de sol como no nosso brumoso país, o homem e a mulher são inimigos por natureza, dos quais o amor faz durante algum tempo um só e mesmo ser, capaz de uma mesma concepção, de uma mesma sensação, de uma mesma vontade, para os desunir logo a seguir e que — e isto sabei-lo vós melhor do que eu — o que não souber subjugar o outro será imediatamente espezinhado por este.

— E o que vós sabeis melhor do que eu — retorquiu dona Vênus com arrogante tom de desprezo — é que o homem está sob os pés da mulher.

— Seguramente, e disso não me resta qualquer dúvida.

— O que quer dizer que sois sempre meu escravo sem ilusão, pelo qual não terei misericórdia.

— Senhora!

— Não me conheceis ainda? Sim, sou cruel; já que tanto vos agrada essa palavra. Mas não tenho direito a sê-lo? O homem é aquele que solicita, a mulher é o solicitado. Esta é a sua vantagem única, mas decisiva. A natureza entrega-a ao homem pela paixão que lhe inspira, e a mulher que não faz do homem seu súbdito, seu escravo, que digo?, seu brinquedo, e que não o atraiçoa rindo, é uma louca.

— Bons princípios, formosa senhora! — repliquei indignado.

— Apoiam-se em dez séculos de experiência — disse ela em tom de brincadeira, enquanto na sombria pele brincavam os seus dedos brancos. — Quanto mais facilmente se entrega a mulher, mais frio e imperioso é o homem. Mas quanto mais cruel e infiel é, quanto mais joga de uma maneira criminosa, quanto menos piedade lhe demonstra, mais excita os seus desejos, mais ele a ama e a deseja. Sempre foi assim, desde a bela Helena e Dalila até às duas Catarinas e Lola Montês.

— Não posso deixar de concordar — repliquei. — Nada pode excitar mais que a imagem de uma déspota bela, voluptuosa e cruel, arrogante favorita, desapiedada por capricho.

— E que além disso use peles — juntou a deusa. — Por que lembrais isso?

— Conheço os vossos gostos.

— Sabeis que desde que nos vemos se tornou uma magnífica coquete.

— Quereis dizer-me por quê?

— Porque não pode haver mais deliciosa loucura que a de envolver o vosso delicado corpo numa pele tão sombria.

A deusa sorriu.

— Estais a sonhar — exclamou. — Despertai! — Com a sua mão de mármore tomou-me o braço. — Despertai! — voltou a murmurar.

Levantei os olhos a custo. Vi a mão que me tocava, mas a mão era cor de bronze e a voz, áspera, de bebedor de aguardente, a do meu antigo cossaco, que com a sua altura de cerca de seis pés se erguia à minha frente.

— Levante-se — continuava dizendo o bom homem. — É

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