Excerpt from
Elinor Glyn’s Three Weeks

It is not a very easy thing to fold up a huge tiger-skin into a brown paper parcel tied with string. But it was accomplished somehow and Dmitry disappeared noiselessly with it and an answer to the note:

“I will be there, sweet lady.

Your own PAUL.”

And he was.

A bright fire burnt in the grate, and some palest orchid-mauve silk curtains were drawn in the lady’s room when Paul entered from the terrace. And loveliest sight of all, in front of the fire, stretched at full length, was his tiger—and on him—also at full length—reclined the lady, garbed in some strange clinging garment of heavy purple crepe, its hem embroidered with gold, one white arm resting on the beast’s head, her back supported by a pile of velvet cushions, and a heap of rarely bound books at her side, while between her red lips was a rose not redder than they—an almost scarlet rose. Paul had never seen one as red before.

The whole picture was barbaric. It might have been some painter’s dream of the Favourite in a harem. It was not what one would expect to find in a sedate Swiss hotel.

She did not stir as he stepped in, dropping the heavy curtains after him. She merely raised her eyes, and looked Paul through and through. Her whole expression was changed; it was wicked and dangerous and provocante. It seemed quite true, as she had said—she was evidently in the devil’s mood.

Paul bounded forward, but she raised one hand to stop him.

“No! You must not come near me, Paul. I am not safe to-day. Not yet. See, you must sit there and we will talk.”

And she pointed to a great chair of Venetian workmanship and wonderful old velvet which was new to his view.

“I bought that chair in the town this morning at the curiosity shop on the top of Weggisstrasse, which long ago was the home of the Venetian envoy here—and you bought me the tiger, Paul. Ah! That was good. My beautiful tiger!” And she gave a movement like a snake, of joy to feel its fur under her, while she stretched out her hands and caressed the creature where the hair turned white and black at the side, and was deep and soft.

“Beautiful one! Beautiful one!” she purred. “And I know all your feelings and your passions, and now I have got your skin—for the joy of my skin!” And she quivered again with the movements of a snake.

It is not difficult to imagine that Paul felt far from calm during this scene—indeed he was obliged to hold on to his great chair to prevent himself from seizing her in his arms.

“I’m—I’m so glad you like him,” he said in a choked voice. “I thought probably you would. And your own was not worthy of you. I found this by chance. And oh! Good God! If you knew how you are making me feel—lying there wasting your caresses upon it!”

She tossed the scarlet rose over to him; it hit his mouth.

“I am not wasting them,” she said, the innocence of a kitten in her strange eyes—their colour impossible to define today. “Indeed not, Paul! He was my lover in another life—perhaps—who knows?”

“But I,” said Paul, who was now quite mad, “want to be your lover in this!”

Then he gasped at his own boldness.

With a lightning movement she lay on her face, raised her elbows on the tiger’s head, and supported her chin in her hands. Perfectly straight out her body was, the twisted purple drapery outlining her perfect shape, and flowing in graceful lines beyond—like a serpent’s tail. The velvet pillows fell scattered at one side.

“Paul—what do you know of lovers—or love?” she said. “My baby Paul!”

“I know enough to know I know nothing yet which is worth knowing,” he said confusedly. “But—but—don’t you understand, I want you to teach me—”

“You are so sweet, Paul! When you plead like that I am taking in every bit of you. In your way as perfect as this tiger. But we must talk—oh! Such a great, great deal—first.”

A rage of passion was racing through Paul, his incoherent thoughts were that he did not want to talk—only to kiss her—to devour her—to strangle her with love if necessary.

He bit the rose.

“You see, Paul, love is a purely physical emotion,” she continued. “We could speak an immense amount about souls, and sympathy, and understanding, and devotion. All beautiful things in their way, and possible to be enjoyed at a distance from one another. All the things which make passion noble—but without love—which is passion—these things dwindle and become duties presently, when the hysterical exaltation cools. Love is tangible—it means to be close—close—to be clasped—to be touching—to be One!”image