The painter paints slowly, but his passion grows more and more rapidly. I am afraid he will end up by committing suicide. She plays with him and propounds riddles to him which he cannot solve, and he feels his blood congealing in the process, but it amuses her.
During the sitting she nibbles at candies, and rolls the paper-wrappers into little pellets with which she bombards him.
“I am glad you are in such good humor,” said the painter, “but your face has lost the expression which I need for my picture.”
“The expression which you need for your picture,” she replied, smiling. “Wait a moment.”
She rose, and dealt me a blow with the whip. The painter looked at her with stupefaction, and a child-like surprise showed on his face, mingled with disgust and admiration.
While whipping me, Wanda’s face acquired more and more of the cruel, contemptuous character, which so haunts and intoxicates me.
“Is this the expression you need for your picture?” she exclaimed. The painter lowered his look in confusion before the cold ray of her eye.
“It is the expression—” he stammered, “but I can’t paint now—”
“What?” said Wanda, scornfully, “perhaps I can help you?”
“Yes—” cried the German, as if taken with madness, “whip me too.”