While
I sat there working, he watching me--even the peasants have a feeling for
paint over there--we heard a tap on the window. It was the padrona. I saw
that she wanted to speak to me, and I went in. She was an old, crippled
woman, holding to life by sheer will, sitting all day by the fire in one
room. She spoke French, so we could talk. To my surprise she was very much
interested in me--asked questions about my work, my family, and so on. I
couldn't understand why. But when I left she began crying and told me that
I reminded her of her grandson who had been killed in Tripoli, and that
there was no one of the family name left, but that she had to leave the
property either to a cousin whom she detested, or to the Church. And she
said just what you have: that this wasn't the _same thing_. She had
nothing to live for, she said, now the heir was dead, except keep the
place out of others' hands. There she was, a prisoner in that beautiful
villa, enjoying nothing, where an artist would have been in paradise. I
see her yet, bent over the fire in a black lace shawl, crying.
On my way back to town I happened to think of my last visit with you, and
my state of mind returned, my feeling of dependence and the gloomy
Thanksgiving dinner.
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