May 10th
Wilhelm, my one true friend, I must offer my sincerest apologies for not writing sooner. I have suffered greatly in not seeking your council on matters of the heart as I once did, back when we were simple college boys with stars in our eyes and hope in our abdomens. I am well aware that, had I been in contact with you throughout these harrowing past few years, I would never have fallen for such a lowly, plebian trap as the one I have found myself entangled in. You see, I have recently made the gravest of mistakes. I have become engaged to a heartless she-beast. Please, Wilhelm, I implore you. You are my last hope.
Respond at your earliest convenience.
S.
May 27th
You cannot imagine my relief, Wilhelm, upon receiving your response. You are correct, in my desperation I described only a brief hint of my plight; I must elaborate further if you are to understand the situation. I’m certain you remember the horrid rejections I suffered at the hands of one Countess Paradise. Though she was happily married, the wicked woman had hold of my blood-pumping muscle in a white knuckled vice grip, and she led me in circles with it for years. It is true, my friend, that she never directed any explicit flirtation towards my person. However, you witnessed, I know you did, the level of affection she held for me. To claim that it was purely platonic, a love founded in nothing but friendship, was as inaccurate as it was offensive. She was making one such statement, on the final night I spent with her, when I finally accepted my pursuits would be forever fruitless. She enjoyed only the attention I lavished upon her, and contained not one ounce of true love for me. It was in the state of despair and recklessness which this aforementioned aborted affair left me that I made the mistakes which would lead to my current predicament. In an effort to learn from my errors, I was seeking a relationship quite the opposite of the one I had endured in the company of the Countess. I had the mad idea of finding a woman who was incapable of the coquetries which had cost me so many wasted years in pursuit of an evil harlot. Enter Miss Fœdora: The least flirtatious woman I have ever encountered.
Fœdora is as unfeeling as she is beautiful, a fact visible at even a brief glance at her long black hair. Parted in the middle, with each slight movement, of which she makes very few, as if she has a daily allowance of kinetic energy which she has to spend frugally, her long tresses will haphazardly fall out of place, obstructing her visage. It does not, however, obstruct anything of importance, for her facial expression remains forever frozen in the same neutral state, with her plump, pink lips slightly parted and eyes full of melancholy. When she, rarely, emerges from her state of lethargy and commits to some small trek across the abode we now (unfortunately) share, her movements are sudden, jerky and awkward; she moves as if she is on marionette strings. In fact, her entire appearance, always dressing totally in white, frills galore, with the exception of some oversized hats of differing colours, gives the impression of a doll. Her skin, so fair and pale, as if she has never been under direct sunlight in her life, reminds one of porcelain. I am struggling to decide whether she even contains a soul, or if she is some pinocchio-woman, brought to life by a sort of pagan black magik spell in order to destroy my peace.
My comments, reducing my fiancee to some object, may come off as overly harsh to you, Wilhelm. Let me assure you, I do not make that statement with malice or cruelty, but instead of legitimate reason. For example, as you know, I am a man of romance; I live for amorous outings with beautiful women. Last weekend, I treated Fœdora to a trip to the theater, to enjoy their modern retelling of Euripides’ Medea. Almost instantly, I was brought to a state of weeping at the plights of the titular woman, scorned and abandoned. Through tears, I observed my date; not one hint of emotion shown on her white face during the entire length of the production. Not only this, but once the curtains were drawn she had the gall to bestow harsh judgement on the morality of Medea’s brutal massacre. This woman! She does not contain an ounce of passion! She cannot even comprehend being overcome with emotion, with grief, to the point of losing one's moral compass. These are fundamental human behaviors, my friend, and I am appalled at being associated with one who is without them. It brought to mind a quote from Honoré de Balzac, whom I had the pleasure of entertaining once, and whom you’ve surely studied: Her soul was a waterless desert.
Wilhelm, oh Wilhelm, I do not move her! My effortless charm, which has afforded me so much, is nothing but a trifle, an ant beneath her feet, a light gust of wind in her long hair. Every morning, I wake alone and descend down stairs to where she sits on her wooden rocking chair, motionless as ever, with one goal in mind: I wish for nothing more than to initiate even the most polite, chaste intimacies between us. She recoils at my touch, even whilst promising her future to only me. Once, I managed to kneel before her and kiss her hand. With the most delicacy I could muster, I brushed my lips against her soft fingers; she proceeded to mindlessly wipe her knuckles on her frock. The horror! I believe in earnest that even following our marriage she will not allow me to possess her fully. I am condemned to a life without lovemaking! Can you imagine? You knew me as a seducer, a scoundrel, a Byronic hero. Me! Reduced to this! It is made all the worse by that mangy mutt she carries around. I swear, you have never laid eyes on a creature so pathetic. One of those disgusting little pugs, brought into existence by the hubris of men trying to play God, attempting to invent new species through their own imperfect hands. The little mongrel can’t even breathe properly, it struggles and pants and makes horrid guttural noises with every movement of its weak lungs. Does there exist any greater proof in a higher power, any clearer condemnation of Darwin than this? I shudder at the thought. And yet she lauds her affections onto it! Affections which are meant for me!
Please advise, should I end this facade of a relationship with haste?
I eagerly await your next letter.
S.
June 14th
I have taken your advice, Wilhelm. Fœdora and I are no more! I severed our connection this morning. She took the news with grace, though I may have witnessed a flash of emotion in her black eyes. Oh well, best not to dwell on it. Freedom! Pure freedom at last. I must now bid adieu, I will be paying a surprise visit to this dark little number who, whilst I was engaged and loyal, never ceased to make seductive eyes at me in court. Farewell!
To bigger and better things.
S.
July 13th
Wilhelm Von Masoch, You are cordially invited to the wedding of one Miss Fœdora Lottchen and one Count Winkelmann on the evening of October 3rd.
Yours truly.
Fœdora.
July 14th
Wilhelm, you scoundrel, you swine. I curse your name, I curse your family, I curse any children you sire in the future! May they be born jaundiced and weak, may they emerge from the womb with a pair of horns, may their mother die in labour! Imagine my shock to learn that Fœdora was none other than your very cousin! You have blinded me, you criminal, to her boundless charm. But I am getting ahead of myself.
The whore, whom I informed you of my plans to visit after the conclusion of my previous letter, had me removed from her home upon learning of my newfound singlehood! This same scene was repeated again and again with the plethora of women who had so clearly been pursuing me whilst I was indisposed. Foolish is the man who puts his faith in the fickle heart of a mistress! A mistake I will never repeat again. To add insult to my unwilling celibacy, Fœdora has announced her engagement to the vile, old and decrepit Count Winkelmann. In such a short time! Beauty truly waits on no one. The Count is a man of means, of great riches. Thus I can infer that Fœdora’s loyalty to me was one of love and not desperation, as she had access to titles leagues beyond mine, and still chose to stay at my side. Oh, what an imbecile I am! I believe it was Thomas of York who said You cause your own wounds, you do, and that is the true source of their pain!
I can see now; my eyes are clear. There is no other woman as angelic, as saintly, as good as Fœdora. Her judgement of Medea, her insistence on waiting for marriage for intimacy, her reserved constitution: all were facets of her great strength! She was a woman ruled by rationality, not emotion. She would have granted me so much freedom, without jealousy, without needless bickering over trifles. She had a strong moral foundation, on which she would not budge even for the man she loves. Oh, Fœdora! How wonderful of a woman you are! How foolish was I to release you from my grasp! And the dog. Oh, that poor, innocent, defenseless pet. I see now. The mutt was I, all along. I too am ugly beyond belief, an affront to God’s designs, and yet she would have loved me just the same. She did love me, Wilhelm, I know this now. That last look she gave me was so filled with emotion it engulfed every poem ever written by mankind's hand, ten times over.
Never again will I find a woman as perfect for me as Fœdora. There is no hope left for my limping, wounded heart. Do we not, when a horse breaks its leg or when a turkey has been mortally wounded, kill the animal quickly, so as to not prolong its suffering? Every night I am tortured. I toss and turn, I picture the Count’s wrinkled, disgusting, vampiric hands over top of Fœdora’s virginal bosom, and I am brought to such a state of agony that death seems nothing more than a sweet release, a refreshing rest in comparison. There is, on my property, a beautiful willow tree atop a cliffside overlooking the turbulent sea. This tree is my favourite out of all of God's creations. Tomorrow, I will cast myself into the water. With any luck they will not find my bloated corpse, for I am too ugly to be reduced to such a state; It would be an affront to all that is holy. Goodbye, Wilhelm. I hope news of my death reaches Fœdora. I can only hope she comes to understand what she has done to me.
I wish upon you ceaseless suffering for the remainder of your blackguard days.
S.
July 16th
Wilhelm, my dear friend! Apologies for my less than kind remarks in the previous letter. I was possessed by something lower than myself, I swear it. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, as you have so many times before. I come seeking your council once more.
I truly did intend to end my life yesterday. The weather was perfect for such a tragic event. A great storm was raging, all the villagers remained indoors to hide from the whipping winds and crashing lightning. The tempest did not bother me; the rain beating down on my shoulders was as refreshing as a glass of water in the desert. It seemed to me, as I was preparing to end my life, that every feeling, every beautiful serenity was magnified by the finality of it all. I awoke at sunrise and thought to myself My final morning! How wonderful! A pity I cannot witness that great ball of fire in the sky, one last time.
I have never appreciated life quite as much as I did yesterday. I waited until evening and climbed to my favourite willow tree on that steep cliff, hardening my soul against the tough decision to come. I was standing right on the edge, overlooking gigantic, turbulent waves crashing into each other, when I noticed someone directly below me. Perched on a large rock on the shoreline was the single most breathtaking woman I have ever laid eyes on. She was holding a paintbrush with one hand, and with the other was keeping steady an easel, which she had haphazardly attached a large umbrella to the top of, to protect it from the rain. She had a wooden palette, bearing many different colours, tucked into the nook of her arm. Though the umbrella managed to keep all of her tools dry, as well as her canvas, she herself was soaked through by the rain. At the same time the umbrella obstructed my view of her work. I must see what she has painted; I must know more about a creature who would go to such lengths in service of her art.
In short, this woman has piqued my interest. I am afraid I must postpone my suicide. Please burn all my previous letters.
Much love,
S.