Torture Garden

“Is what old fatty just said true?”
“What’s that, dear Clara? What do you care about fatty?”
“Just now he said that a single female flower sometimes requires twenty males to satisfy her. Is that true?”
“Certainly!”
“Really true? Really, really true?”
“Of course it is.”
“So old fatty wasn’t mocking us? You’re sure?”
“How odd you are! Why do you ask? Why look at me with such strange eyes? Of course it’s true!”
“Ah!”
She remained thoughtful, her eyelids closed for a second. Her breath magnified, her throat almost panting. And, very low, she murmured as she rested her head against my chest:
“I’d like to be a flower. I’d like, I’d like to be … everything!”
“Clara!” I pleaded. “My little Clara …”
I held her tightly, rocking her in my arms:
“Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you want that? You’d prefer to spend the rest of your life as a soft little good-for-nothing. Huh – it’s shameful!”
After a short pause, during which we distinctly heard the red sand of the avenue crunch beneath our heavy steps, she continued in a sing-song voice:
“And I’d also like – when I’m dead, I’d like very strong perfumes, and thalictus flowers to be put in my coffin, together with images of sin – beautiful images, ardent and naked, like those which adorn the mats in my room. Or else I’d like to be buried without clothes or shroud, in the crypts of the Elephanta temple among those strange stone bacchantes who caress and tear each other in such furious lusts. Ah, my dear, I’d like, I’d like to be dead already!”

“Tell me I’m just a woman, a perfectly small woman, a woman as fragile as a flower, as delicate and frail as a bamboo shoot, and that, of the two of us, I’m the man … and I’m worth ten men like you!”
And the desire her flesh provoked in me was complicated with an immense pity for her distracted and crazy soul.
She then spoke, with a light contemptuous whistle, words which frequently came to her lips:
“Men! They don’t know what love is, nor what death is, which is still more beautiful than love. They know nothing – they’re always depressed and weeping, or fainting for no reason, for mere nothings! Huh! Huh! Huh!”

“Clara, dear Clara!” I implored. “Let’s go, please!”
“Oh, how pale you are! Why? Isn’t this fun?”
“Clara, dear Clara!” I insisted. Let’s go, I beg you! I can’t stand the smell any more.”
“But it’s not a bad smell, my love. It smells of death, that’s all!”
It didn’t seem to affect her. No grimace of disgust marked her white skin, as fresh as cherry tree blossom. To judge by the veiled ardour of her eyes and the pulsing of her nostrils, it seemed as though she was sensually aroused … She inhaled decay with delight, as though it was a perfume.