appeared, at least, that she was accounted a person not only of
great importance, but also, and still more, of great wealth; and
without delay they entered her in the hotel register as "Madame
la Generale, Princesse de Tarassevitcheva," although she had
never been a princess in her life. Her retinue, her reserved
compartment in the train, her pile of unnecessary trunks,
portmanteaux, and strong-boxes, all helped to increase her
prestige; while her wheeled chair, her sharp tone and voice, her
eccentric questions (put with an air of the most overbearing and
unbridled imperiousness), her whole figure--upright, rugged, and
commanding as it was--completed the general awe in which she was
held. As she inspected her new abode she ordered her chair to be
stopped at intervals in order that, with finger extended towards
some article of furniture, she might ply the respectfully
smiling, yet secretly apprehensive, landlord with unexpected
questions. She addressed them to him in French, although her
pronunciation of the language was so bad that sometimes I had to
translate them. For the most part, the landlord's answers were
unsatisfactory, and failed to please her; nor were the questions
themselves of a practical nature, but related, generally, to God
knows what.

For instance, on one occasion she halted before a picture which,
a poor copy of a well-known original, had a mythological subject.

"Of whom is this a portrait?" she inquired.

The landlord explained that it was probably that of a countess.

"But how know you that?" the old lady retorted.