“Put the book down,” said she, “what a lot of nonsense!  Send it back to Prince Paul with my thanks....  But where is the carriage?”

“The carriage is ready,” said Lizaveta, looking out into the street.

“How is it that you are not dressed?” said the Countess.  “I must always wait for you.  It is intolerable, my dear!”

Liza hastened to her room.  She had not been there two minutes before the Countess began to ring with all her might.  The three waiting-maids came running in at one door, and the valet at another.

“How is it that you cannot hear me when I ring for you?” said the Countess.  “Tell Lizaveta Ivanovna that I am waiting for her.”

Lizaveta returned with her hat and cloak on.

“At last you are here!” said the Countess.  “But why such an elaborate toilette?  Whom do you intend to captivate?  What sort of weather is it?  It seems rather windy.”

“No, your Ladyship, it is very calm,” replied the valet.

“You never think of what you are talking about.  Open the window.  So it is; windy and bitterly cold.  Unharness the horses, Lizaveta, we won’t go out—­there was no need to deck yourself like that.”

“What a life is mine!” thought Lizaveta Ivanovna.

And, in truth, Lizaveta Ivanovna was a very unfortunate creature.  “The bread of the stranger is bitter,” says Dante, “and his staircase hard to climb.”  But who can know what the bitterness of dependence is so well as the poor companion of an old lady of quality?  The Countess A——­ had by no means a bad heart, but she was capricious, like a woman who had been spoiled by the world, as well as being avaricious and egotistical, like all old people, who have seen their best days, and whose thoughts are with the past, and not the present.  She participated in all the vanities of the great world, went to balls, where she sat in a corner, painted and dressed in old-fashioned style, like a deformed but indispensable ornament of the ballroom; all the guests on entering approached her and made a profound bow, as if in accordance with a set ceremony, but after that nobody took any further notice of her.  She received the whole town at her house, and observed the strictest etiquette, although she could no longer recognize the faces of people.  Her numerous domestics, growing fat and old in her antechamber and servants’ hall, did just as they liked, and vied with each other in robbing the aged Countess in the most bare-faced manner.  Lizaveta Ivanovna was the martyr of the household.  She made tea, and was reproached with using too much sugar; she read novels aloud to the Countess, and the faults of the author were visited upon her head; she accompanied the Countess in her walks, and was held answerable for the weather or the state of the pavement.  A salary was attached to the post, but she very rarely received it, although she was expected to dress like everybody else, that is to say, like very few indeed.  In society she