Chapter 6 arouse man's lust

"If a woman puts her foot on a man's neck, the man must feel it. That's the rule," Ms. Venus yelled at me, full of contempt. "So, you know better than I do." "Of course, obviously that's why I have no illusions." "You mean to say that you are my slave now, and if you don't have any other ideas, then I can ruthlessly ravage you!" "Miss!" "Don't you know me now? Yes, I'm cruel—since you've had so much fun in your world—don't I have the right to be cruel? Men pursue women, and women are pursued by men. That's all about women." But here lies the decisive advantage. Nature places man's affections at the mercy of woman. If a woman cannot subdue a man, make him her slave, her plaything, and ridicule and betray him , she was simply misled."

"My dear lady, this is your principle—" I interrupted her angrily. "—I'm basing this on thousands of years of historical experience," she retorted sarcastically, playing with her black fur with her white fingers. "The more a woman invests, the faster a man wakes up, and he starts to do his best. But the more cruel and ruthless a woman is, the more she abuses a man, the more she plays with a man wantonly, the less sympathy she has for a man, the more she can Arouse men's lust, such a man can be liked by women and admired by women. From the era of Helen and Delilah to the era of Catherine the Great and Lola Montez, this is the case in any era."

I said, "There's nothing more exciting to a man than the sight of a beautiful, voluptuous, cruel female tyrant who is constantly changing favors and playing with no regard for the consequences. I can't deny that—" "And a fur coat and boots with fur!" cried the Goddess. "What do you mean?" "I know your hobbies very well." "But you know what, you've been coquettish since the last time I met you," I interjected. "What's wrong with that, may I ask?" "There's nothing better to dress your white body in than a black fur coat, and you—"

The goddess laughed. "You're dreaming," she cried, "wake up!" Her hand, as cold and hard as marble, gripped my arm. "Wake up!" Her voice grew louder. I opened my eyes with difficulty. I saw a hand shaking me, but it was brown like bronze and had the voice of a Cossack drinking a lot of whiskey, and he stood right in front of me, almost six feet tall. "Hey, wake up," the Xiaonan continued, "You should be ashamed." "why?" "You fell asleep fully dressed and reading a torn book! Shouldn't you be ashamed?" His snort made the candle dangle and picked up the book that had slipped from my hand. "A book—" he opened it: "Hegel's. God! It's time for us to drive to Mr. Savunin's—he's waiting for us to drink tea."

"A strange dream," said Savunin after I had finished describing it.He rested his arms on his knees and cupped his face in his well-kept, veined hands, lost in thought. I knew he was going to sit there for a long time, silent, barely breathing, the way he always was.But for me, nothing struck me as odd as his behavior: having been his close friend for almost three years, I got used to his self-centered way of life.He was self-centered - there was no denying that - although he was far from the dangerous person his neighbors and the whole Colommel neighborhood imagined.I think his personality is not only funny but also really cute (which is why many people think I'm a bit crazy too).

For a Galician nobleman and landowner, for a man his age, he looked remarkably sober, with a certain earnestness and even a pedantic air.He lived in a carefully planned, half-theoretical, half-practical environment, in fact he lived in the world of alarm clocks, gas hydrometers, hydrometers, Hippocrates, Houfferand, Plato, Kant, Koenig and Chester. In the world formed by Lord Field.But there are times when he feels so much emotional pain that he wants to bang his head against the wall.At that time, everyone would rather stay away from him. As if to compensate for his silence, the fire in the fireplace began to sing, and so did the great old Russian teapot, and so did my grandfather's chair as I rocked it back and forth to smoke my cigar.Crickets in old walls are no exception.I glanced at some strange paraphernalia, animal skeletons, fed birds, globes, some plaster figures that Savunin had collected around the house.At this time, my eyes stayed on an oil painting, which I had seen many times before.Illuminated by the red firelight, the painting had an incredible effect on me.

It is a large oil painting, with the contrasting colors and strong style of the Belgian Academy; the subject feels very strange.A beautiful woman, with a sunny smile on her delicate face, her classical curly hair dressed as a rich man is covered with white powder, which seems to be covered with a thin layer of frost; she is only wearing a black fur coat, sitting on the sofa.The weight of her body rests on her left shoulder, her right hand plays with a leather whip, and her bare feet step casually on a man's back.The man lay before her like a slave, like a dog.It's easy to see the man's expression is a mixture of melancholy and devotion.The man gazed at her with the ecstasy of a martyr.This man, this man who serves as a woman's footstool—he is Savunen, but he has no beard, and it is obviously Savunin who is ten years younger than he is now.

"Venus in a fur coat!" I exclaimed, pointing to the painting. "This is her I saw in my dream." "Me too," said Savunin, "only I dream with my eyes open." "what?" "Oh, that's a stupid story." "Obviously the oil painting made me have this dream," I continued. "Please do tell me what part this painting has played in your life? It may have played a cruel part, I suspect. I look forward to the details of your story."