Her friends awaited developments in suspense. None expected her to
offer Maidanoff any serious resistance. When she seemed to hold out,
her subtlety was admired. Paris predicted a radiant future for her.
Much public curiosity centred upon her, and many newspaper columns were
devoted to her.
When she arrived in Russia it was clear that the authorities and
officials had received special instructions. No queen could have been
treated with more subtle courtesy. Palatial rooms in a hotel were in
readiness and adorned. A slavish humility surrounded her.
When the Grand Duke called, she begged him to rescind the orders
that made her his debtor. He devoured her words with a frosty and
lurking expression, but remained inactive. She was indignant at this
slothfulness of a rigid will, this deaf ear that listened so greedily.
His contempt of mankind had something devastating in it. His slow eyes
seemed to say: Man, thou slimy worm, grovel and die!
In his presence Eva felt her thoughts to be so loud at times that she
feared he would perceive them.
She ventured to oppose and judge him. A young girl, Vera Cheskov, had
shot the governor of Petrograd. Eva had the courage to praise that
deed. The Grand Duke’s answer was smooth, and he left quite unruffled.
She challenged him more vigorously. Her infinitely expressive body
vibrated in rhythms of bitterness and outrage. She melted in grief,
rage, and sympathy.
He watched her as one would watch a noble beast at its graceful antics
and said: “You are extraordinary, Madame. I cannot tell what wish of
yours I would leave ungranted for the reward of winning your love.”
He said that in a deep voice, which was hoarse. He had also a higher
voice, which had a grinding sound like that of rusty hinges.
Eva’s shoulders quivered. His iron self-sufficiency reflected no image
of her or her influence. Against it all forces were shattered.
Twice she saw him change countenance and give a start. The first time
was when she told him of her German descent. An inbred hatred against
all Germans and everything German filled him. An evil mockery glared in
his face. He determined not to believe her and dropped the subject.
And the second time was when she spoke of Ivan Michailovitch Becker.
She could not help it; she had to bring that name to the light. It was
her symbol and talisman.
A glance like a whip’s lash leaped out of those slothful eyes. The
two deep grooves between the eyebrows stretched like the antennæ of
an insect. A diagonal groove appeared and formed with the others a
menacing cross. The face became ashen.
Susan was impatient. She urged her on and lured her on. “Why do you
hesitate?” she said to her mistress one evening. “So near the peak one
cannot go back. Remember our dreams in Toledo! We thought they were
insolent then. Reality puts us to shame. Take what is given you. Never
will your sweet, little dancing feet win a greater prize.”
Eva walked in a circle about the rug. “Be quiet,” she said thoughtfully
and threateningly, “You don’t know what you are advising me to do.”
Crouching near the fire-place, Susan’s lightless, plum-like eyes
followed her mistress. “Are you afraid?” she asked with a frown.
“I believe I am afraid,” Eva replied.
“Do you remember the sculptor whom we visited in Meudon last winter?
He showed us his work, and you two talked art. He said: ‘I mustn’t be
afraid of the marble; the marble must be afraid of me.’ You almost
kissed him in gratitude for those words. Don’t be afraid now. You are
the stronger.”
Eva stood still, and sighed: “Cette maladie, qu’on appelle la sagesse!”
Then Susan went to the piano-forte, and with her fluttering angularity
of movement began to play a Polonaise of Chopin. Eva listened for a
while. Then she went up to Susan from behind, tapped her shoulder, and
said, as the playing ceased, with a dark, strange cooing in her voice:
“If it must be, I shall first live one summer of love, the like of
which has not been seen on earth. Do not speak, Susan. Play on, and do
not speak.”
Susan looked up, and shook her puzzled head.