A moment of madness, and other stories (vol. 3 of 3)Marryat, Florence
General
A moment of madness, and other stories (vol. 3 of 3)
Marryat, Florence
English fiction -- 19th century; Short stories, English
I confess that I was rather disappointed to find how hurriedly we passed
through Madrid and Seville, and I longed to be permitted to linger for
a little space within their walls; but ours was not entirely a party of
pleasure, and a diversion was soon created in my thoughts by our arrival
at Utrera, which, from a distance, presented a most Oriental appearance.
The houses, many of which are built in the Moorish fashion and dazzlingly
white, stand out clearly defined against the deep blue southern sky;
the tall tower of Santiago, with little perhaps but its unusual height
to recommend it to a stranger’s notice, has, nevertheless, an imposing
appearance; and even a palm tree, which, solitary and alone, rears its
stately head in the centre of the town, puts in its claim for adding in
no small degree to the effect of the whole picture. Notwithstanding,
with all the combined advantages of white houses, tall towers, solitary
palm trees and romantic situations, I would advise no one who is not a
traveller at heart or intent upon his worldly profit to fix his residence
in this primitive little Andalusian town.
We first took up our quarters at the posada, with the intention of
remaining there during our stay, but were soon obliged to abandon the
idea, for, though the best inn in Utrera, it was most uncomfortable, and
noisy beyond description.
We began to look about us, therefore, and were soon installed in a small
but beautifully clean and cool-looking house in a street leading out of
the plaza, and found no reason to be discontented with our abode. It
boasted of a pleasant patio (or inner courtyard) and a wide verandah
or gallery, into which our rooms opened. As the days grew warmer (and
very warm indeed they grew after a while) this patio was our greatest
comfort; for, following the example of our neighbours, we had it covered
with an awning, and spent the greater part of the day, seated with our
books or work, beside its mimic fountain. But if we gained in material
comfort by exchanging the noisy and dirty posada for apartments of our
own, we had also drawn down upon ourselves the burden of housekeeping,
which we found in Spain to be no sinecure. Some friends who had resided
a few months in the town, and acquired a fair knowledge of the language,
manners, and customs of the natives of Utrera, volunteered to send us a
maid, warranted honest and a tolerable proficient in the art of cookery.
But she proved a care-full blessing. To give her her due, she possessed
one good quality, and we found by experience that it was about the only
one she or her sisterhood could boast of: she was very fond of water. The
floors of our new house were formed of stone, partially covered by strips
of matting which were easily removed; and we soon lived in a perpetual
swamp. Antonia was always both ready and willing to ‘clean up,’ and never
seemed happier than when dashing water in all directions, or brushing
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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