An Author's note: This is not a parody but a rewrite inspired by the epic 'its bloody early evening' but not funny. The guy who really wrote this was the Austrian who put the M in BDSM. Literally! Leopold von Sacher-Masoch. MASOCH, get it?
Sort of an AU but not really, just a deviation of history. Though I could never really imagine the awesome one act like this. I have tried to keep in a similar style for the main story. Not any proper Lemons or anything like that, more devotion and a need to feel someone's property. I read this book then used an e-book version to change it. Cheating but I think it will be worth it to get a version of the story out there to you people.
The original document was almost 100 pages long. Its goanna be a Bitch to finish.
Message me about any major cock-ups on spelling, grammar ect if ya want, but remember I am English so there might be some "extra U"s in words like colour. Because that is how it is written. X
VENUS IN FURS
"But the Almighty Lord hath struck him,
and hath delivered him into the hands of
a woman."
—The Vulgate, Judith, xvi. 7.
Canada dreamt. His dream was of a woman dressed in dark furs, marble Goddess: Venus. They talked of the role of men and of women and of how they would battle for dominance. Of how he was ungrateful for the affection she gave him. Of how passion places a man in the hand of the woman.
"Wake up, little retard." Said Gilbert staring down at his favourite Canadian. "You begged me to tell you my story about why I hate specks so much and then go and fall asleep. Ungrateful bastard."
"I think 'beg' is a little extreme" came the sleepy reply
"Whatever," He said as he sat on the couch next to his companion. "Take it. It's made up of stuff from the awesome records of my life!" Passing a small manuscript. He sounds bitter, though.
This was the first time Mathew had been allowed in to this part of the house (reserved for the awesome). The room was dark, lit by candles, as electricity is for losers. The walls lined with bookcases and a large oil painting hung on the wall above a marble fire place. Its subject was strange enough.
A beautiful woman with a radiant smile upon her face, with abundant hair tied into a classical knot, on which white powder lay like a gentle snow, was resting on an ottoman, supported on her left arm. She was nude but for her dark furs. Her right hand played with a lash, while her bare foot rested carelessly on a man, lying before her like a slave, like a dog. In the thick brush strokes of the painting this man lay brooding melancholy and passionate devotion; he looked up to her with the ecstatic burning eye of a martyr. This man, the footstool for her feet, was Gilbert, but missing many scars, and, it seemed, a few human years younger.
"Venus in Furs," Mathew cried, pointing to the picture. "That is the way I saw her in my dream."
"Yeah," sighed Gilbert, "only I dreamed my dream with open eyes."
"What?"
"It is a tiresome story. The one in that book you hold."
"I guess you picture suggested it," the younger continued. "I just can't imagine you playing a role like that in your time. Care to explain."
"Look at its counterpart," replied his strange friend, ignoring the questions, as per usual. Gilbert rose and pointed with his finger at the fur with which Titian garbed his goddess of love.
"It, too, is a 'Venus in Furs,'" he said with a slight smile. "I don't believe that the old Venetian had any secondary intention. He simply painted the portrait of some aristocratic bitch Mesalina, and was tactful enough to let Cupid hold the mirror in which she makes sure she still has a face. The picture is painted flattery. Later some 'expert' in that Rococo period baptized the lady with the name of Venus. The furs of the despot in which Titian's fair model wrapped herself, probably more for fear of a cold than out of modesty, have become a symbol of the tyranny and cruelty that constitute woman's essence and her beauty."
He resumed: "But enough of that. The picture, as it now exists, is a bitter satire on our love. Venus in this abstract North, in this icy Christian world, has to creep into huge black furs so as not to catch cold—"
Gilbert laughed, and lighted a fresh cigarette.
"You're slipping into old speech, again, Gil"
Just then the door opened and an attractive, stoutish, blonde girl entered. She had kindly eyes, was dressed in black silk, and brought us cold meat and eggs with our tea. Gilbert took one of the latter, and decapitated it with his knife.
"Oi! Didn't I tell you that I want them soft-boiled?" he cried with a violence that made the young woman tremble.
"But my dear Gil—" she said timidly.
"Gil, nothing," he yelled, "you are to obey, obey, do you understand?" and he tore the lance which was hanging beside the weapons from its hook.
The woman fled from the chamber quickly and timidly like a little doe.
"Just fuck off!" he called after her.
"But Gilbert," Mathew said placing his hand on the other's arm, "how can you treat them like that? Don't get all 'how can they resist me' rubbish, an' tell me!"
"Look at the woman," he replied, blinking. "Had I flattered her, she would have no respect. Assume I am anything like some human. Treat her like this: she treads careful. Not my fault she adores me."
"Bullshit!"
"Bullshit, nothing, that is the way you have to break in women."
"Well, I don't like it. It's not the Middle ages anymore, no matter how bad you wish it was."
"Why not," he said animatedly. "Did Francy not tell you about the 'hammer and anvil'? Didn't Lady Venus in your dream prove that to you? Woman's power lies in man's passion, and she knows how to use it, if man doesn't understand himself. He has only one choice: to be the tyrant over or the slave of woman. As soon as he gives in, the lash will soon fall upon him."
"You like it when I have the whip in my hands!"
"I know you will stop. I know I could make you stop if otherwise. I know I can make you and I know that it's just for the bedroom on the odd occasion," he replied, nodding his head, "I have actually felt the lash. I am cured. Do you still care to know how?"
He moved the book again "Read."
Gilbert sat down by the chimney with his back toward me, and seemed to dream with open eyes. Silence had fallen so he put on his headphones, out of place in this traditional room, leaving his friend and lover to read. Mathew opened the manuscript and read:
CONFESSIONS OF A SUPERSENSUAL MAN.
In the margin of the manuscript was a variation of the well- known lines from Faust:
"Thou supersensual sensual woer
A woman leads you by the nose."
—MEPHISTOPHELES.
The teen turned the title-page and read: "What follows has been extracted from my Diary as it is hard to remember my emotions vividly enough. This way, it is as if it only happened a week before and I had not learnt from my mistakes" The style was different to Gilberts usual tone but retained some of his blunt nature.
It was once said that "the real comic muse is the one under whose laughing mask tears roll down."
A wonderful saying, for a mortal.
It is a curious feeling, writing in the calm so far from the sounds and scent of war. The atmosphere is calm yet stimulating with the overbearing smell of flowers giving me a head ache. The smoke for the fireplace curls in the air. Condensing into figures which dance and mock me as they move about me. Yet I smile and laugh involuntarily at how absurd it is for me to be recording this little adventure. It is true I am amazing. Why not include this little part of me. I am not writing in any ink, though. This is the red blood that flows from my heart. All my wounds reopening, throbbing, burning, but the wet drops on the page are clear. Like water or tears. But defiantly not tears. Men don't cry. This is not my memorial. Just what happened.
The days creep along sluggishly as usual when there is no war or harvest. They have placed me in a flat somewhere in Hungary until they realise how important I am. You see no one, and no one sees you. It is boring enough to write. I would have enough leisure time here to supply a whole gallery of paintings. I could write a book of plays. Pointless tasks to take up time. In this resort I am nothing but a stranger.
Up to now I have lived. I have written poetry and painted and played my violin. But with the poetry I never go further than preparation, planning and the first few lines. I know there are those who always begin but never finish. I am one of their number.
But what am I saying?
On to today's business
I lie in my window, and the miserable little town, which fills me with despondency, really seems infinitely full of poetry. Beautiful valleys, mountains and rivers. Dull. No excitement to fill what's missing. Not that anything is missing.
The house in which I live stands in a sort of park, or forest, or wilderness, whatever it's called, and is very solitary. Not lonely. There are always people. Just they will never talk to me. Strange man from strange parts with eyes stranger still. Not that I would ever want to have their company.
The only inhabitants are myself, the house keeper and Hungary. The house keeper is not aware of who we are but she is a little old woman, growing shorter and blinder by the day. She would never notice how we never age. There is a dog with one leg shorter than the other that limps around and snaps at Gilbird. The bastard. A cat lives around here. Stupid creature. No use for it. Just plays with a ball of yarn. I believe, belongs to the nation.
She is said to be beautiful. Looks very young still strong.
She is said to be really beautiful, this widow, still very young, nineteen at the most, and very strong. It is her territory now I am on. I remember her when she was young but all confusion is gone. She dwells in the first story, and I on the ground floor. She always keeps the green blinds drawn, and has a balcony entirely overgrown with green climbing-plants to shield her from view. Clearly her people want to keep her safe. Fools. She could kill everyone in this tiny place with ease. It seems both our rulers don't want us doing anything fun.
I for my part, down below, have a comfortable, intimate balcony of honeysuckle, in which I read and write and paint and sing with my bird among the twigs. I can look up on the balcony. Sometimes I actually do so, and then from time to time a white gown gleams between the dense green network. Never see up her dress, though.
Really the beautiful woman up there doesn't interest me very much, for I am in love with someone else, and terribly unhappy at that; far more unhappy than Francis after a rejection, because the object of my adoration is of stone.
In the garden of my tiny wilderness, there is a meadow on which the deer can graze in peace. In it's centre is a stone statue of Venus. I believe the original is with a friend in Florence. This Venus is undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I have ever looked upon in my life.
That, however, does not mean much at all, for I have seen few beautiful women, or rather few women at all. My company has always been of men. Of war. Of blood. There is something of an innocence of the pure white marble.
As if something that is beautiful could be surpassed?
It is sufficient to say that this Venus is beautiful. I love her passionately with a morbid intensity; madly as one can only love a woman who never responds to our love with anything but an eternally uniform, eternally calm, stony smile. I literally adore her.
I read my old diaries beneath the leafy shade of a young tree when the sun is high. Too often I visit my cold mistress of mine by night. I lay on my knees before her. My prayers go to her now, not God. Pressing my face against the cold pedestal on which she proudly stands.
The rising moon, which just now is waning, produces an indescribable effect. As it hovers over the trees it casts a silver glow over the scene and my love's cold skin. The goddess stands as if transfigured, and seems to bathe in the soft moonlight.
Once when I was returning from my devotions by one of the walks leading to the house, I suddenly saw a woman's figure, white as stone, under the illumination of the moon and separated from me merely by a screen of trees. It seemed as if the beautiful woman of marble had taken pity on me, become alive, and followed me. I was seized by a nameless fear, my heart threatened to burst, and instead—
Well, as always, I broke down at the second part of my poem; rather, on the contrary, I did not break down, but ran away as fast as my legs would carry me.
O.K! Please, look at the original. Try project Gutenberg for a free online copy. Ya can download it free too. Wonderful people. I don't know how often this will be updated but I will try me best. Please comment or tell me if this needs any changes. Hopefully no lines too similar to the original. Fingers crossed, ay?