asked, “than
in one in which some are not free?”
“I do not know,” I said. The thought of miserable, competitive, crowded,
frustrated, hostile populations crossed my mind.
“Mistress?” she asked.
“I do not know!” I said.
“Yes, Mistress,” said the girl.
“Slavery denies freedom!” I reiterated.
“Yes, Mistress,” she said.
“It denies freedom I said.
“It denies some freedoms, and precious ones,” said the girl.
“But, ,,too, it makes others possible, and they, too, are precious.
“People simply cannot be owned!” I said, angrily.
“I am owned,” she said.
I did not speak. I was frightened.
“My Master is Ligurious, of the city of Corcyrus,” she said.
“Slavery is illegal,” I said, lamely.
“Not here,” she said.
“People cannot be owned,” I whispered, desperately, horrified.
“Here,” she said, “in point of fact, aside from all questions of legality or
moral propriety, or the lack thereof, putting all such questions aside for the
moment, for they are actually irrelevant to the facts, people are, I assure you,
owned.”
“People are in fact owned?” I asked.
~ she said. “And fully.”
“Then, truly,” I said, “there are slaves here. There are slaves in this place.”
“Yes,” she said. “And generally.”
Again I did not understand the meaning of “generally.”
She spoke almost as though we might not be on Earth, somewhere on Earth. My
heart was heating rapidly. I put my hand to my bosom. I looked about the room,
frightened. It was like no other room I had ever been in. It did not seem that
it would be in England or America. I did not know where I was. I did not even
know on what continent I might be. I looked at the girl. I was in the presence
of a slave, a woman who was owned. Her master was Ligurious, of this city, said
to be Corcyrus. I looked to the barred window, to the soft expanses of that
great, barbaric couch, to the chain at its foot, to the rings fixed in it, and
elsewhere, to the whip on its hook, to the door which I could not lock on my
side. I was again terribly conscious of my nudity, my vulnerability.
“Susan,” I said.
“Yes, Mistress,” she said.
“Am I a slave?” I asked.
“No, Mistress,” said the girl.
I almost fainted with relief. The room, for a moment, seemed to swirl about me.
I was unspeakably pleased to discover that I was not a slave, and then,
suddenly, unaccountably, I felt an inexplicable anguish. I realized, suddenly,
shaken, that there was something within me that wanted to be owned. I looked at
the girl. She was owned In that instant I envied her her collar.
“I am a slave!” I said, angrily. “Look at me Do you doubt that I am a slave? I
am wearing only an anklet and perfume”
“Mistress is not marked. Mistress is not collared,” said the girl.
“I am a slave” I said. I wondered, when I said this, if I was only insisting
that I was a slave, that I must be a slave, because of such things as the barred
window and the anklet, or if I was speaking what lay in my heart.
“Mistress is free,” said the girl.
“I cannot be free,” I said.
“If Mistress is ‘not free,” she said, “who is Mistress’ master?”
“I do not know,” I said, frightened. I wondered if I did belong to someone and
simply did not yet know it.
“I know Mistress is free,” said the girl.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Ligyrious, my master, has told me,” she said.
But I am naked,” I said.
“Mistress had not yet dressed,” she said. She then went to the sliding doors at
the side of the room, and moved them aside. Thus were revealed the habiliments
of what was apparently an extensive and resplendent wardrobe.
She brought forth a lovely, brief, lined, sashed, shimmering yellow-silk robe
and, holding it up, displayed it for me.
I was much taken by it, but it seemed almost excitingly sensuous.
“Have you nothing simpler, nothing plainer, nothing coarser?” I
in one in which some are not free?”
“I do not know,” I said. The thought of miserable, competitive, crowded,
frustrated, hostile populations crossed my mind.
“Mistress?” she asked.
“I do not know!” I said.
“Yes, Mistress,” said the girl.
“Slavery denies freedom!” I reiterated.
“Yes, Mistress,” she said.
“It denies freedom I said.
“It denies some freedoms, and precious ones,” said the girl.
“But, ,,too, it makes others possible, and they, too, are precious.
“People simply cannot be owned!” I said, angrily.
“I am owned,” she said.
I did not speak. I was frightened.
“My Master is Ligurious, of the city of Corcyrus,” she said.
“Slavery is illegal,” I said, lamely.
“Not here,” she said.
“People cannot be owned,” I whispered, desperately, horrified.
“Here,” she said, “in point of fact, aside from all questions of legality or
moral propriety, or the lack thereof, putting all such questions aside for the
moment, for they are actually irrelevant to the facts, people are, I assure you,
owned.”
“People are in fact owned?” I asked.
~ she said. “And fully.”
“Then, truly,” I said, “there are slaves here. There are slaves in this place.”
“Yes,” she said. “And generally.”
Again I did not understand the meaning of “generally.”
She spoke almost as though we might not be on Earth, somewhere on Earth. My
heart was heating rapidly. I put my hand to my bosom. I looked about the room,
frightened. It was like no other room I had ever been in. It did not seem that
it would be in England or America. I did not know where I was. I did not even
know on what continent I might be. I looked at the girl. I was in the presence
of a slave, a woman who was owned. Her master was Ligurious, of this city, said
to be Corcyrus. I looked to the barred window, to the soft expanses of that
great, barbaric couch, to the chain at its foot, to the rings fixed in it, and
elsewhere, to the whip on its hook, to the door which I could not lock on my
side. I was again terribly conscious of my nudity, my vulnerability.
“Susan,” I said.
“Yes, Mistress,” she said.
“Am I a slave?” I asked.
“No, Mistress,” said the girl.
I almost fainted with relief. The room, for a moment, seemed to swirl about me.
I was unspeakably pleased to discover that I was not a slave, and then,
suddenly, unaccountably, I felt an inexplicable anguish. I realized, suddenly,
shaken, that there was something within me that wanted to be owned. I looked at
the girl. She was owned In that instant I envied her her collar.
“I am a slave!” I said, angrily. “Look at me Do you doubt that I am a slave? I
am wearing only an anklet and perfume”
“Mistress is not marked. Mistress is not collared,” said the girl.
“I am a slave” I said. I wondered, when I said this, if I was only insisting
that I was a slave, that I must be a slave, because of such things as the barred
window and the anklet, or if I was speaking what lay in my heart.
“Mistress is free,” said the girl.
“I cannot be free,” I said.
“If Mistress is ‘not free,” she said, “who is Mistress’ master?”
“I do not know,” I said, frightened. I wondered if I did belong to someone and
simply did not yet know it.
“I know Mistress is free,” said the girl.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Ligyrious, my master, has told me,” she said.
But I am naked,” I said.
“Mistress had not yet dressed,” she said. She then went to the sliding doors at
the side of the room, and moved them aside. Thus were revealed the habiliments
of what was apparently an extensive and resplendent wardrobe.
She brought forth a lovely, brief, lined, sashed, shimmering yellow-silk robe
and, holding it up, displayed it for me.
I was much taken by it, but it seemed almost excitingly sensuous.
“Have you nothing simpler, nothing plainer, nothing coarser?” I
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