pretence.  A man had only to come into our room—­whoever it might be, a waiter, or a baron—­for her eyes, her expression, her voice to change, even the contour of her figure was transformed.  At the very first glance at her then, you would have said there were no more wealthy and fashionable people in Italy than we.  She never met an artist or a musician without telling him all sorts of lies about his remarkable talent.

“You have such a talent!” she would say, in honeyed cadences, “I’m really afraid of you.  I think you must see right through people.”

And all this simply in order to please, to be successful, to be fascinating!  She waked up every morning with the one thought of “pleasing”!  It was the aim and object of her life.  If I had told her that in such a house, in such a street, there lived a man who was not attracted by her, it would have caused her real suffering.  She wanted every day to enchant, to captivate, to drive men crazy.  The fact that I was in her power and reduced to a complete nonentity before her charms gave her the same sort of satisfaction that visitors used to feel in tournaments.  My subjection was not enough, and at nights, stretched out like a tigress, uncovered—­she was always too hot—­she would read the letters sent her by Lubkov; he besought her to return to Russia, vowing if she did not he would rob or murder some one to get the money to come to her.  She hated him, but his passionate, slavish letters excited her.  She had an extraordinary opinion of her own charms; she imagined that if somewhere, in some great assembly, men could have seen how beautifully she was made and the colour of her skin, she would have vanquished all Italy, the whole world.  Her talk of her figure, of her skin, offended me, and observing this, she would, when she was angry, to vex me, say all sorts of vulgar things, taunting me.  One day when we were at the summer villa of a lady of our acquaintance, and she lost her temper, she even went so far as to say:  “If you don’t leave off boring me with your sermons, I’ll undress this minute and lie naked here on these flowers.”

Often looking at her asleep, or eating, or trying to assume a naive expression, I wondered why that extraordinary beauty, grace, and intelligence had been given her by God.  Could it simply be for lolling in bed, eating and lying, lying endlessly?  And was she intelligent really?  She was afraid of three candles in a row, of the number thirteen, was terrified of spells and bad dreams.  She argued about free love and freedom in general like a bigoted old woman, declared that Boleslav Markevitch was a better writer than Turgenev.  But she was diabolically cunning and sharp, and knew how to seem a highly educated, advanced person in company.

Even at a good-humoured moment, she could always insult a servant or kill an insect without a pang; she liked bull-fights, liked to read about murders, and was angry when prisoners were acquitted.