Madame Bendicho.--Unsuccessful search on the Prado.--Kauffman, an
infidel in the German style.--Mass in the chapel of the
Virgin.--The Duchess of Alba’s villa.--Destruction by a young
French artist of the paintings of Rubens.--French ambassador’s
ball.--Heir-apparent of the house of Medina Celi.
Sunday, Jan. 13th.
Kauffman[28] accompanied me to the Prado this morning, where we met
Madame Bendicho and her faithful Expilly, (a famous tactician in war or
peace,) who told me that somebody I thought particularly interesting was
not far off. This intelligence imparted to me such animation, that
Kauffman was obliged to take long strides to equal my pace. I traversed
the whole Prado without meeting the object of my pursuit, and found
myself almost unconsciously in the court before the ugly front of the
church of Atocha. A tide of devotees carried us into the chapel of the
Virgin, which is hung round with trophies, and ex-voto’s, legs, arms,
and fingers, in wax and plaster.
Kauffman is three parts an infidel in the German style, but I advised
him to kneel with something like Castilian solemnity, and hear out a
mass which was none of the shortest, the priest being old, and much
given to the wiping and adjusting of spectacles, a pair of which,
uncommonly large and lustrous, I thought he would never have succeeded
in fitting to his nose.
We happened to kneel under the shade of some banners which the British
lion was simple enough to let slip out of his paws during the last war.
The colours of fort St. Philip dangled immediately above my head.
Amongst the crowd of Our Lady’s worshippers I espied one of the gayest
of my ball-room acquaintances, the young Duke of Arion, looking like a
strayed sheep, and smiting his breast most piteously.
A tiresome salve regina being ended, I measured back my steps to the
Prado, and at length discovered the person of all others I wished most
to see, strictly guarded by mamma. I accompanied them to their door,
and returned loiteringly and lingeringly home, where I found Infantado,
who had been waiting for me above half an hour. With him I rode out on
the Toledo road to see a pompous bridge, or rather viaduct; for the
river it spans, even in this season, is scarcely copious enough to turn
the model of a mill-wheel, much less the reality.
From this spot we went to a villa lately purchased by the Duchess of
Alba, and which, I was told, Rubens had once inhabited. True enough, we
found a conceited young French artist in the arabesque and cupid line,
busily employed in pouncing out the last memorials in this spot of that
great painter; reminiscences of favourite pictures he had thrown off in
fresco, upon what appeared a rich crimson damask ground. Yes, I
witnessed this vandalish operation, and saw large flakes of stucco
imprinted with the touches of Rubens fall upon the floor, and heard the
wretch who was perpetrating the irreparable act sing, “Veillons mes
sœurs, veillons encorrre,” with a strong Parisian accent, all the
while he was slashing away.
My sweet temper was so much ruffled by this spectacle, that I begged to
be excused any further excursion, and returned home to dress and
compose myself, while Infantado went back to his palace. I soon joined
him, having been invited to dine with his right virtuous and estimable
papa. Thank heaven the rage for Frenchified decoration has not yet
reached this plain but princely abode, which remains in noble Castilian
simplicity, with all its famed pictures untouched and uncontaminated.
As soon as the old duke had retired to his evening’s devotions, we
hurried to the French ambassador’s ball, where I met fewer saints than
sinners, and saw nothing particularly edifying, except the semi-royal
race of the Medina Celis dancing “high and disposedly.” Cogolhudo, the
heir-apparent of this great house, is a good-natured, busy personage,
but his illustrious consort, who has been recently appointed to the
important office of Camerara mayor, or mistress of the robes to the
image of Our Lady of La Soledad, is a great deal less kindly and
affable.[29]