THE ESCORIAL.--ITS PRECINCTS.--SPIRIT AND CHARACTER OF THE
EDIFICE.--MAUSOLEUM OF THE KINGS OF SPAIN.--MELANCHOLY
GUIDE.--SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGES.--ROYAL REMAINS.--CHARLES V.--PHILIP
II.--THE PLAZA MAYOR OF MADRID.--QUEEN ISABELLA AT THE OPERA.
The village in the vicinity of the great palace is called El Escorial
from the quantity of scoriæ of iron which is found strewn about the
neighbourhood, the _débris_ of extinct iron mines. The region, from
the midst of which rises the enormous mass of the second Philip's
convent-palace, is very forlorn and gloomy--a spot over which we may
say, figuratively, the sable wing of desolation hangs heavily. The
masses of broken masonry once formed the offices of the palace which
the French destroyed in war, and they now cover the sides of the barren
mountains with their ruins for leagues around. The population of the
rotting village, who are seething in squalor, consist almost entirely
of poor beggars, crawling through the miserable rock-strewn streets, in
rags which scarcely conceal their nakedness. Hungry-eyed dogs prowl,
like wolves, amongst the broken walls. The whole landscape is wild
and lifeless, and our glance wanders far away over lonely plains to
the sad horizon, with nothing to refresh the eye, fatigued by such an
expanse of grey stony regions, but forests of mournful pine, and the
lofty peaks of shattered mountains in the distance, the grey giant
pile of the convent itself looming in the midst like the stupendous
landmark of some inexorable fate set up to outwatch the cycle of ages.
The place is one of great solemnity, and one cannot approach it without
feeling oppressed by its gloom; nor was that painful impression at all
alleviated by the squalid and decaying appearance of the more humble
human habitations in its neighbourhood, the inmates of which were
equally dull, hopeless, and sad in their aspect.
The Escorial itself may be described as an enormous heap of granite
formed into a tripartite whole--a church, palace, and convent. To enter
into the spirit of the place the mind of the writer should be imbued
with those cold and gloomy hues which characterised that of Philip
II., its founder. The nature of the man, who was at once a despot
and a bigot--in a word, a monarch educated by ecclesiastics--affords
a key to the nature of the immense building which he reared. To be
able to describe, one should feel. And here, in this vast tomb-like
edifice, one does feel an indescribable awe, a sense of veneration
in the contemplation of the mighty effort of the human intellect and
imagination that must have been exerted in conceiving, planning, and
executing a work of such stupendous proportions. Superstition is no
doubt a great evil, but it has aided in developing that spirit to which
we owe some of the grandest edifices that the past has transmitted
to us--some of them, dreary follies, like this, even while we admit
them to be magnificent works of art. The Escorial, in fact, is the
mind of Philip in stone. It exemplifies no era in art, no national
peculiarities. It is the costly caprice of a man--half monarch, half
monk--of a proud and bigoted spirit, too superb to forego the haughty
functions of royalty, too pious not to desire to perpetuate the
fame of his religious devotion to all time and generations, although
devoid entirely of that quiet humility and simple piety which are the
characteristics of true devotion, and place a brighter diadem on the
head of kings than either crowns of gold or a vain display of sanctity.
The Escorial is said to owe its origin to a vow of gratitude made
by Philip to his patron saint, St. Lawrence, on the occasion of the
victory of St. Quentin, gained by him over the French, and to the
constantly expressed desire of his father, the Emperor Charles V.,
to have a burial-house of suitable Grandeur for himself and his
descendants. Approaching the building we were met by a melancholy
ecclesiastic, who looked as if a glass of port wine would do him a
world of good. This personage was to be our conductor through the
extensive pile of buildings. We passed beneath a lofty portal into
a long gloomy corridor, which seemed to dwindle away into endless
distance. As we looked around and above, at the ponderous blocks
composing this mountain of granite, the door closed behind us with a
dull, heavy sound, shutting us up amongst the wide labyrinthine maze
of innumerable passages and galleries, crossing and recrossing one
another in incomprehensible order.[13] We could not help feeling at the
moment as if we were bidding adieu to the world, to life, and to hope.
The passages through which we were led were often very draughty; but
the vast gloomy halls were magnificent. Grim statues were arranged
along the walls, and the ceilings were adorned with beautiful
paintings, now fading. The staircases we ascended were so broad and
colossal that they might have supported the tread of giants. We entered
also some dark damp passages, on either side of which were ranged long
rows of gloomy damp cells. As we followed our melancholy guide we asked
him many questions, which were answered in sad tones, accompanied by
sighs. Some enormous courts, open to the day, were covered with the
rank weeds growing between the stones with which they were paved, as
they did on the stupendous walls rising like Titan tombs around us.
We entered a huge vaulted gallery or saloon, with arched roof, and
walls all ablaze with the rich coloured fancies of old painter-poets,
supported by fluted columns of marble with gilded capitals, and
surrounded with splendid cabinets set with jewels. These latter contain
the far-famed illuminated missals and manuscripts of the Escorial.
Through corridor and passage, through cloister and portal, through long
suites of apartments hung with tapestry, lace, and silk, and commanding
from their windows wide-spread views of the desolate plains and rugged
mountains, we followed our dejected guide, ever and anon meeting his
earnest glance. Passing through a low stone doorway we came suddenly
into a lofty, superb, and solemn temple, supported by great granite
piers, massy and solid enough in appearance to sustain the fabric of a
world. When one contemplated the height of the stately walls, he could
not but regard with wonder the amount of labour that must have been
expended in the erection of a building of such amazing dimensions.
One of the great ends which these noble temples serve is the production
of that feeling of veneration with which one cannot but be inspired
when he enters their precincts. Devotion is readily kindled at such
altars; and those who covered the face of Europe with these Christian
fanes, knew well how they might best gather into one flock all who
desired to make open profession of their Christian faith.
We next ascended a broad flight of red-stained steps, and saw before
us the high altar, formed of a variety of precious marbles, and inlaid
with jasper. Above it rises the _retablo_, which is supported to the
height of ninety-three feet by noble columns of the four orders of
architecture, and composed of red granite, precious jaspers, and gilded
bronze; while beneath the broad marble platform on which we stand is
the Panteon--the burial-chamber of the kings of Spain.
High up to the right is the window of the cell in which Philip died,
and through which his last gaze fell upon the altar beneath, as he took
a farewell glance at the marvellous church which owed its origin to
him. We now approached a heavy door, guarded by the statues of Nature
and Hope, the former with the inscription, "Natura occidit," and the
latter, "Exaltat spes." As our monkish guide preceded us with his
melancholy mien, there was something in his glance which, as if to
prepare us for what we were to see next, seemed to say:--
"Keep silence, child of frivolity, for death is in those chambers.
Startle not with echoing sound the strangely solemn peace;
Death is here in spirit, watcher of the silent tomb."
The passage through which he led us was so dark and gloomy that we
could follow him only by the flaring light of the torch which he
carried.
We descended a long series of steps, which, as we could see by the
occasional glare of the torch falling upon them, were composed of rare
and precious marbles, as were also the walls of the passage itself. No
gleam of daylight ever finds its way to these subterranean chambers and
galleries, and it was only by the uncertain flame of the torch that we
could distinguish the objects around us.
As we approached an arched gallery, we were met by a cold damp breath
of air which fell icily on the brow, and told us that we were close
to the Royal Mausoleum. We felt awed by the thought that we were now
in the presence of all that earth contains of men who were once the
mightiest monarchs of the world. The mortal remains of the kings of
Spain repose in an octagonal vault, in niches rising one above another
to the roof, which terminates in a sort of cupola. There are, including
the queens, twenty-six bodies here inurned; and two empty urns await
the present (or rather recent) queen and her mother, to whom fate will
probably now deny the privilege of finding their last resting-place in
the tomb of their ancestors. Two years ago Queen Isabella had the lids
of all the sarcophagi removed. Profound interest was naturally felt in
approaching that of Charles V., and when the form and features of the
most powerful monarch of his time were found nearly intact, all who
were present gazed upon his remains with mingled feelings of curiosity
and awe. So little altered were the lineaments that, though nearly
three hundred years had passed, they could be easily identified by
those who had seen the portrait of the king by Titian. The face of his
son Philip II. had shrunk greatly; but all were reported to be in good
condition.
The urns are all of marble, beautifully sculptured; and the sanguine
glow of the flame played on the gilded ornaments with which they were
decorated. The kings are on the right of the altar, with its great
gaunt crucifix, and the queens on the left, all of royal descent,
in their day reigning monarchs, but now sharing the common fate of
humanity. In that niche, and within that shining casket, lies what
remains of him whom once the nations feared, _el César_ and "Master of
the World," the Emperor Charles V. Beneath, is Philip II., his son,
founder of the Escorial. Within this mournful chamber the spirit of
the past speaks to us, telling us how little different from that of
the poorest slave is the destiny of the mightiest potentate. For the
rest--"Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede," &c. Kings whose power has shaken
the earth must perish, although their great influence may still throb
through the globe. Subject to the common lot, their ashes are scattered
on the wind, and their bodies have mouldered back into clay.
"The glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade."[14]
The evening shades were falling as we emerged from the Escorial; the
wild pine forests covering the mountain sides, seemed like a deep pall
spread upon the land; and we looked lingeringly back on the great mass
of the prodigious edifice rearing all its domes and pinnacles against
the last melancholy glory of the sunset.
* * * * *
The Plaza Mayor in Madrid is a fine remnant of mediæval architecture,
with its lofty ornamented façades, and its low dark arcades running
round the square. These arcades, unfortunately, are now filled with
musty slop shops, and stalls where the worst Birmingham jewellery
is sold. In this immense plaza, in the year 1623, Charles I. of
England--then Prince of Wales--witnessed a bull-fight in honour of his
betrothal with the Infanta Maria, surrounded by all the grandees and
beauty of Spain, and attended by "the profligate minister Buckingham,"
as good history books would call him. However, as we all know, the
matrimonial engagement came to nothing, and Henrietta Maria of France
was reserved for the professional attentions of the widow-maker
Cromwell.
From all the country around, the square white mass of the royal palace
of Madrid is seen dominating over the entire city, the immense building
appearing, in comparison with the smaller houses around it, like a
whale among minnows. From its terraces it commands a superb view of
wide plains, stretching like a yellow sea to the Guadarrama mountains
on the far horizon. It was built by Philip V., the ambitious imitator
of the magnificence of the _grand monarque_, who aspired to possess a
residence which should render Versailles insignificant. The building
is, in some sort, a bad and most limited imitation of the Escorial,
inasmuch as it covers a space of only four hundred and seventy-one feet
square, and is no more than a hundred feet in height--a mere kernel
for the shell of an Escorial. It possesses a chapel, courts, _patios_,
no end of entrances, a perfect village of offices, and some dried-up
leafless plots of ground, called by courtesy gardens. The situation is
lofty, and consequently it is a veritable temple of the winds, as Her
Majesty's soldiers have often experienced during the winter nights,
when it was their duty to be on guard. A great _patio_, one hundred and
forty feet square, surrounded by an open portico formed of thirty-six
arches, and adorned with statues of various Roman Emperors,--and, we
are bound to say, of some of the best of those magnates,--occupies
the central part of the palace. Of course in this, as in most other
overgrown domiciles of royalty, there is a grand staircase, spacious,
costly, and magnificent, as described by enthusiastic sight-seers. It
is constructed of black and white marble, and adorned with sculptured
lions of the same beautiful stone. Upon one of these Napoleon is
reported to have placed his hand, saying, "Je la tiens enfin cette
Espagne si desirée." Having performed this little imitation of Cæsar's
first action on landing upon the shores of Britain, he is also said
to have observed to his brother Joseph--the puppet he had set up, "Mon
frère, vous serez mieux logé que moi;" and then, in the character of
invader, he began to contemplate with a fellow-feeling a portrait of
Philip II., the husband of Bloody Mary of England, the builder of the
Escorial and the projector of the Armada. Napoleon, in fact, is one of
those inevitables who have left the impress of their name on almost
all the cities of Europe. Thanks to history, legend, and tradition,
there is nothing about the Cid at Madrid. The chapel royal, which is
pseudo-classical in style, is adorned with Corinthian marble columns,
and with frescoes. In our desire to see everything interesting,
we visited even the coach-houses and harness-rooms, with the
horse-trappings embroidered in the time of Charles V., &c., finishing
with the splendid Armeria before mentioned.
We had the happiness of beholding Queen Isabella at the opera, through
an atmosphere tolerably free from tobacco smoke. Her Majesty wore a
wreath of diamonds, and a dress of white _moiré_ silk, overlaid with
_tulle_, &c.; and, although it is not very courtier-like to say so, we
may add that the lady in question was remarkably stout, and of the
middle age;--
"That on her cheek, and eke her nose,
In great abundance bloom'd the rose."
She might, in fact, be compared to the arbutus loaded with scarlet
fruit, mentioned by the poet Ovid[15]--a description which ought to
be very gratifying, for does not the proverb tell us that "a blush is
the complexion of virtue?" The queen wore a profusion of beautiful
blue-black hair, and the expression of her countenance indicated that
it was possible for her, now and then, to entertain strong opinions of
her own. She was, in fact, or rather is, what vulgar people would call
"a lusty woman."
The opera-house is internally pretty, and very French in appearance.
The presence of so many bright uniforms, profusely adorned with various
orders of knighthood, contributed much to the brilliancy of the scene.
Of the performance we have little or nothing to say. The same old
operas which are in vogue on the fashionable stage of other European
capitals are repeated here, and no new flight is attempted. Here also
a curious operatic problem, which we had previously endeavoured to
solve at London and Paris, suggested itself to us, wherefore, namely, a
married man or father on the stage should invariably have a bass voice,
a villain a baritone, and a lover or _batelier_ a tenor? I am not aware
that in ordinary life, when we enter the holy state of matrimony, our
voices as a rule descend from tenor to bass, or that gentlemen who
have to leave England on _urgent business_ for a few years, come back
with their tones perceptibly deepened. No doubt, however, such profound
students of real life as operatic managers must have a good reason for
all they do.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] Within the Escorial everything is on a colossal scale. There are
16 courts, 40 altars, 1,111 windows outside, and 1,562 inside. There
are 12,000 doors, 86 staircases, and 15 sets of cloisters. There are
galleries of 300 feet in length, painted in elaborate fresco, 89
fountains; and if one traversed the entire fabric in all its parts,
one would have to walk ninety and odd miles. It is considered by the
Spaniards as the eighth wonder of the world.
[14] Shirley.
[15] "Pomo onerata rubenti arbutus."
[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]
[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]