Though fond of passing the greater part of my day alone, yet I
occasionally repair in the evenings to the little domestic circle of
Dona Antonia. This is generally held in an old Moorish chamber,
which serves the good dame for parlor, kitchen and hall of audience,
and which must have boasted of some splendor in the time of the Moors,
if we may judge from the traces yet remaining; but a rude fireplace
has been made in modern times in one corner, the smoke from which
has discolored the walls, and almost obliterated the ancient
arabesques. A window, with a balcony overhanging the valley of the
Darro, lets in the cool evening breeze; and here I take my frugal
supper of fruit and milk, and mingle with the conversation of the
family. There is a natural talent or mother wit, as it is called,
about the Spaniards, which renders them intellectual and agreeable
companions, whatever may be their condition in life, or however
imperfect may have been their education: add to this, they are never
vulgar; nature has endowed them with an inherent dignity of spirit.
The good Tia Antonia is a woman of strong and intelligent, though
uncultivated mind; and the bright-eyed Dolores, though she has read
but three or four books in the whole course of her life, has an
engaging mixture of naivete and good sense, and often surprises me
by the pungency of her artless sallies. Sometimes the nephew
entertains us by reading some old comedy of Calderon or Lope de
Vega, to which he is evidently prompted by a desire to improve, as
well as amuse his cousin Dolores; though, to his great
mortification, the little damsel generally falls asleep before the
first act is completed.
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