I took up my abode in a quiet, almost humble lodging, living simply, and attended only by Vincenzo. I was tired of the ostentation I had been forced to practice in Naples in order to attain my ends--and it was a relief to me to be for a time as though I were a poor man. The house in which I found rooms that suited me was a ramblingly built, picturesque little place, situated on the outskirts of the town, and the woman who owned it, was, in her way, a character. She was a Roman, she told me, with pride flashing in her black eyes--I could guess that at once by her strongly marked features, her magnificently molded figure, and her free, firm tread--that step which is swift without being hasty, which is the manner born of Rome. She told me her history in a few words, with such eloquent gestures that she seemed to live through it again as she spoke: her husband had been a worker in a marble quarry--one of his fellows had let a huge piece of the rock fall on him, and he was crushed to death.
"And well do I know," she said, "that he killed my Toni purposely, for he would have loved me had he dared. But I am a common woman, see you--and it seems to me one cannot lie. And when my love's poor body was scarce covered in the earth, that miserable one--the murderer--came to me--he offered marriage. I accused him of his crime--he denied it--he said the rock slipped from his hands, he knew not how. I struck him on the mouth, and bade him leave my sight and take my curse with him! He is dead now--and surely if the saints have heard me, his soul is not in heaven!"
Thus she spoke with flashing eyes and purposeful energy, while with her strong brown arms she threw open the wide casement of the sitting-room I had taken, and bade me view her orchard. It was a fresh green strip of verdure and foliage--about eight acres of good land, planted entirely with apple-trees.
"Yes, truly!" she said, showing her white teeth in a pleased smile as I made the admiring remark she expected. "Avellino has long had a name for its apples--but, thanks to the Holy Mother, I think in the season there is no fruit in all the neighborhood finer than mine. The produce of it brings me almost enough to live upon--that and the house, when I can find signori willing to dwell with me. But few strangers come hither; sometimes an artist, sometimes a poet--such as these are soon tired of gayety, and are glad to rest. To common persons I would not open my door--not for pride, ah, no! but when one has a girl, one cannot be too careful."