Chapter 7

That night I saw Marevna. She was coming home after a long day with her gang of Russian painters. She carried some small canvasses and the look of a woman whose work was going badly.

I never found her to be beautiful, yet she had a certain Russian charm that attracted many men. Unlike her tall slim father, she was small and boyish in many ways and her appearance matched her personality.

She Had Lived in Many Places

At 28, she had already lived in many places including Moscow, Rome, Capri, and now Paris, not to mention the small community of Cheboksary in the Department of Kazan, a place of freezing winters and tropical summers. She did, however have her father's pale-blue Polish eyes that became, as she explained, paler still and flashed like crystal in the sun when she laughed.

(Painting Gertrude)

Before she came to France, she lived on Capri with a communal group of expatriate Russians including Maxim Gorky. Often she would spend hours at la Russe, drinking tea and singing Gorky's songs from the Caucasus. Nostalgia plagued her all her life.

"Ah, Robert," she greeted me. "I hardly see you. Are you well?"
"Yes, fine. I've been in and out, painting, seeing friends and walking. I love walking near the river."
"Yes," she responded. Water can be a magnetic subject."
"You must be tired," I said. "Why don't you relax and we can have tea."
"Yes, tea relaxes me. Come I'll make some for both of us."

Inside the musty flat, Marevna put down her canvasses and sank into a faded armchair. As usual she was dressed without regard for style.
"So," she started. "Vee gaits?"

Marevna Spoke in Many Languages

You could never count on Marevna to stick to one language.
It could be Polish or Russian, French or English. This time it was German, and this much German I understood.
"I'm fine...just fine and I'm really glad to see you. I have so many things to tell you; important things."
"Good or bad?" she asked.
"Both", I suppose, "But mostly good."
"Ah, good news I like. Here, I have an orange that Zadkin gave me. We will eat the orange and share your good news first. I have time- - nothing but time."

Marevna reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a large orange. "We will share this and drink tea, n'est-ce pas? Like true 'tavaretchi'. We eat, drink tea, and talk."

She poured water into the samovar, then lit tiny splints of wood, and placed a tall soft-leather boot upside down over the chimney. She pushed the boot up and down, and the air was drawn into the fire chamber. The splints began to glow as the flames licked at the wood.

"This is a trick my father taught me. The Cossacks used these samovars in the fields. It's the fastest way to boil water without a proper stove."

When she had it going, she placed a small teapot on the samovar and sank into the chair.

"You have met a woman," she observed. "I can tell it in your eyes".
"No," I protested." This isn't about a woman, at least not in the sense that you suggest."
"But there is a woman. I can tell," she smiled at me in a motherly way. She sensed something.
"Yes, I met an interesting woman, but one much older."
"Aha, you are a man of mystery. Tell me everything, from the beginning."
"It's not what you think. A few days ago, I had the occasion to meet the American writer, Gertrude Stein."

"I have heard of her." She spoke with a mouthful of orange.
"She's very rich and very unusual, n'est-ce pas?"
"Perhaps," I began. "But, she is very nice, and she has a wonderful collection of paintings. I saw Matisses, Juan Gris, Degas, Picassos, Cézannes. And she knows everybody, even the writers. She's been a great help to many."

She Calls It "Survival"

"But a bigger help to herself," she said, sarcastically.
"Yes, but we all do the same. We call it ambition."
"I call it survival," she added. "It's easier to help others when you're rich. If I had that much money..."
"But she does put it to good use," I interrupted. Kissling speaks very highly of her. I found her very nice."

"Yes, perhaps. I never met her. She is a collector friend of Picasso. She has made him the vogue. Now he sells for high prices."
"I also met him yesterday," I added.
"Mama mia," she shouted. "You certainly are moving in fancy circles!"
"It's not what you think. I met Picasso at Le Select. He knows Pascin and Kissling. Gertrude Stein is something else. I think it's good that she helps young painters and writers."

"Yes, but many of her gang would do well even without her."
"Then you agree. She does have an eye for talent."
"Yes, and an ability to make their prices rise if they paint in a style she likes. I have never seen her collection, but I hear it's bizarre."
"That's good," I exclaimed." How else can they get ahead and start making money?"
"So, now you can interest her in my work," she joked. "But seriously, how did you get to meet her?"
"This," I started," is the interesting part. She found out through Sylvia Beach at the bookstore that I lived here next to you. It's really you she's interested in."

"Me?" She seemed shocked. "Why me? I can't compete with her entourage. My work can't possibly interest her."
"That's not entirely true. She knows you copy paintings at the Louvre. She asked me to talk to you about a commission."
"What!" she exclaimed. "I don't believe it. There must be a mistake."
"No mistake. She knows about the Courbet you did for that Polish count. She actually saw you working on it one day."

Marevna finished her half of the orange and took a long sip of her tea. She sucked the hot brew through a large lump of hard sugar as most of the Russians at that time did.

Why Would Gertrude Stein Want a Copy of Something at the Louvre?

"La Foret aux Bides. I remember it well. I had to work on a step ladder. The Courbet was so tall."
Then she asked, "Why would Gertrude Stein want a copy of something at the Louvre? She's a modern. Besides, I'm not the best person to ask. Even the Courbet was never finished. I got into a lot of trouble with the man who commissioned it. He was a lecherous tyrant. I accepted because I was poor, and young.
"She doesn't want a Louvre painting. She wants you to copy a Picasso."

"A Picasso? That's ridiculous. She owns so many and can afford to buy more even at today's prices."
"That's what makes this commission so interesting," I replied. "She wants you to copy the portrait that Picasso did of her."
"I am confused," she said with furrowed brow. "Why would she want a copy of a picture she already owns?"
"She is very attached to the portrait. I saw it in her atelier. It's beautiful. But she goes away every winter and wants to take a copy with her; - - a good copy."

"But she can take the original." she protested.
"No," I replied calmly. "That's too dangerous. It would not be easy to transport on the back roads in the Savoie. It might tear or be taken from her car. She wants the copy for the time she is out of Paris. She's willing to pay well."

"It could cost more than the original at today's price," she observed.
"Definitely." I replied. "The original was a gift."

Marevna Noticed Me Watching Her

Marevna rose and added water to the samovar. She poured two more cups of water and sat down heavily. The strange sucking noise of the tea passing through the sugar started again. She noticed me watching her and smiled.

"This is the way they drink tea in the Caucasus - - through a sugar lump. If you get it just right, the sugar will outlast the whole cup. But if you have no sugar, the best thing to do is, cut an apple into thin slices, and soak it in the tea. First you drink the tea. Then you eat the partly cooked apple. We always drank tea that way in my father's home."

I tried to imitate her. It was difficult getting the tea to pass through the sugar without the lump falling apart. She watched me and laughed.

(Rue de Rivoli)

"It takes practice. You'll get it after a while."
Then she walked to the window, rubbing her hands on the hot cup. After a pensive moment, she turned and said,
"I could use the money. It's hard to sell things these days. The only thing I'm doing to make a few francs is painting portraits of great Jewish poets for a Russian émigré who has a printing press. It pays for the coal and some food. There's too much competition in Paris. But the Americans are all rich. How much will she pay?"
"I have no idea," I shrugged. "We didn't talk price, but I'm sure it will be worth it."

"Yes," she mused. "We shall see."
"She wants to meet you," I announced.
"Yes? When?"
"As soon as possible. She is leaving Paris in two weeks. She wants it settled before she leaves. I can take you to meet her."
She sipped her tea. "Yes," she finally stated. "It will be a good thing, but I won't work for nothing and I won't be rushed."

"I'll tell her," I said happily. It felt good to be able to help Marevna. She was down on her luck these days, or so it seemed to me. "I'll see her on Saturday." I decided not to tell her about Picasso's party.
"I'm happy you decided to do it. It will be good for both of you. It may even bring you more jobs," I added.

"Perhaps," she smiled. "Thank you for helping. You arrange it."
"I will. On Saturday. I'll arrange a time. I'll go with you if you like"
"Good, it is settled, but I'm still disappointed. I thought you had fallen in love. How do they say? Un coup de foudre. But no. You bring me a commission instead." She laughed and poured more water from her samovar.
"There's another matter," I said after a moment's hesitation." I must talk to Diego as soon as possible."

A Matter of Honor

"You have a commission for him too?" she smiled." He doesn't copy paintings."
"No, it's a different matter. As they say, a matter of honor. You probably know that Diego will be Gottlieb's second in the duel with Kissling."
She nodded soberly. "Yes, a crazy waste of life. Someone could die. I don't want him to..."
"I'm going to be Kissling's second," I interrupted.
"You!" she exclaimed. "But you know nothing of these matters. Why did you get involved with these beasts?"

"Kissling is a friend. He helps me with my work. I can't refuse him."
"You men," she shouted. "Like little school boys fighting in the yard. You should not be involved with such things. You are a fool. Diego is a bigger fool. You are all fools."

"Nonetheless, I must talk to him. Do you know where I can find him?"
She sat heavily in her armchair. "He'll be here tonight. He'll knock on your door."

I could see that her mood had changed. The little tea party was over. She stared into space. There were orange rinds all around her feet.
I gathered my things and went to the door.
"Thanks for the tea", I whispered. "I will be in my studio."
There was no reply. All I heard as I closed her door was the bubbling sound of the samovar.

A Knock at Ten at Night

The knock came around ten that night. I knew it was Diego. I asked him in. He remained standing in a formal, business-like fashion.
Diego was an enormous man, not handsome, but impressive looking. His most striking feature was his eyes which were big and black and set aslant somewhat like Picasso's.

His nose was short and thick and the small moustache covering his upper lip gave him the appearance of a Saracen or Moor. His short beard fringed his chin in an oval. He wore blue dungarees spattered with paint and carried an enormous Mexican walking stick that I found menacing. He wore a wide brimmed hat. I had seen him before but this was our first formal meeting if you could call it that.

We discussed the time, place, and weapons. One pistol shot at twenty paces, and if that wasn't decisive, it would be followed by sabers for one hour or less. He cautioned me about secrecy. The authorities frowned on foreigners dueling with flexible blades. They could be a menace for passing strangers. Kissling was to bring the sabers. Rivera would bring his Mexican dueling pistols - - a gift from a friend.

"Perhaps we can all go together. After all, Kissling and Gottlieb lived in the same building." It was only after these words were off my tongue that I realized how naive they sounded.
"No", Diego barked. "Dueling men must find their way with their seconds only. There is no friendship here. Friendship ended with the insult."

He extended his huge hand. I'm sure I trembled at the gravity of the situation. He looked at me with his black piercing eyes.

"You must be strong to live...strong as an eagle, otherwise it will eat away at you." He turned to the door then stopped.
"You have found Marevna a commission. That is good."

Before I had a chance to reply, he was gone.

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