MADRID—PALACE—BANK—PICTURE-GALLERY.
WHEN Napoleon, as conqueror of Spain, entered the royal palace of Madrid
(it was in 1808, his brother Joseph, the new-made king of Spain, being
at his side), the great captain paused on the splendid marble staircase;
and, as the magnificence of the mansion burst upon him, he turned to his
brother, and said, in his epigrammatic way of putting his thoughts, “My
brother, you will be better lodged than I.”
It is far more splendid than the Tuileries, or any palace in France,
England, Germany, or Italy. It cost more than five millions of dollars a
hundred years ago; and that was a much greater sum of money than now. It
has been enlarged and embellished from year to year ever since. When we
drove up to the grand court, it was so formidably filled with cavalry
that we thought the predicted insurrection was imminent, and the army
had been summoned to the defence of the palace. Not at all. These
mounted soldiers are only the regular guard. In this inner court, or
square, the cavalry, in long line and fierce array, are ready for a
fight with the revolutionists, if they are brave enough, or mad enough,
to try their hands in a tussle with the troops of government, trained
and paid to defend the existing order of things. From the windows of the
armory this martial parade was imposing, though there were but a few
hundreds of mounted men. The officers were clad in polished steel back
and breast plates, which flash brightly in the sun. The uniform is
brilliant, and the riding splendid. Artillery companies, with cannon
mounted, drawn by horses, manœuvre in the square, crossing and
recrossing constantly, under the eye of the royal household. A long line
of lounging people look on also; and, as they go and come all day, an
impression is certainly insinuated by this military parade that the
government is always ready to take care of itself.
[Illustration: THE ROYAL PALACE, MADRID.]
The palace stands on the verge of a height that commands a wide and
exciting view of the plains of Castile. The thought of what those plains
have seen in the last two thousand years makes them of more than
romantic interest to one who takes in the past with the present. What
successive tides of conquest have there ebbed and flowed! To know that
Charles V. and Napoleon and Wellington have followed one another up
those shaded avenues to this summit, with their legions, is enough to
invest them with grandeur.
And here in this armory is the very sword that Gonzalo, of Cordova,
wore, and the sword with which Ferdinand, the saint and hero, smote the
Moors; and the sword of Charles V., and the complete suit of armor which
the great emperor often wore, and in which he was painted by Titian; and
the suit of armor worn by Boabdil, the last Moorish king who sat on the
throne in this Alhambra, and who left it behind, doubtless, when he
delivered his sword into the hands of Ferdinand and Isabella, at the
foot of the hill on which I am writing. We had thought revolvers a
modern invention, but here are elegant pistols, on the same principle,
used in the seventeenth century, and now as good as new. A crown, a
sword, a helmet, or something else, illustrates the life of all the
heroes of Spanish history; and the number of warlike memorials here
displayed is about three thousand. How men managed to fight while clad
from head to foot in these suits of steel armor is to me, a
non-combatant, one of the mysteries of the art of war. We read of
tournaments, and—more to be wondered at—of battle-fields, where all the
knights are clothed from head to foot in the identical garments that are
now before us, or in others made after the same pattern; and how, with
such a weight of steel and so constrained in the freedom of action, they
could manage to wield their swords and thrust their spears, I do not
understand. They were not men of more physical power than our soldiers.
Some of them were less than the present average size of men. But they
were mighty men with the sword. The Toledo blade was quite equal to that
of Damascus; and the helmet was often insufficient to save the brain,
when the sword, in a strong hand, came down, cleaving through steel and
skull.
Two or three hundred horses stood in the stables; and the grooms are
only too happy, for a consideration to be paid at every door, to show
these pampered and famous steeds. Each one of them has a name, in large
letters, over his head, and on his blanket. Spain has some celebrated
breeds of horses, but, like every thing else in Spain, they are run out,
and the stock is only kept up by importation. It is so even with the
_Merino_ sheep, which belongs to Spain, but would have been extinct ere
this, if it had not been perpetuated and improved abroad. You may see
five hundred finer horses any pleasant afternoon in the Central Park, in
New York, than any one of these pet horses of royalty. But you will
never see, I hope, such a wealth and folly of equipage as the hundred
carriages, and more sets of harness, and plumes, and liveries, and
coachmen’s hats, and velvet saddles, and embroidered hammer-cloths,
which fill long apartments, and are shown together with the gilded
chairs of state in which the king or queen is borne by hand in
processions, and the chariot on which the royal personage is enthroned,
with a canopy overhead, trumpeters below, and herald angels above, for
the coronation parade. The carriages used by successive monarchs are
here preserved in long lines of antiquated grandeur, even to the one in
which Crazy Jane, the widow, carried about with her the corpse of her
handsome husband, Philip the First. Queer woman that she was, jealous to
insanity, she would not let her husband be buried while she lived; and
now she lies by his side, down here in Granada, in the cathedral, and
her marble effigy gives her an expression so gentle and loving, you
would not believe she was ever the victim of the fiercest and meanest
passion that makes hell of a woman’s heart.
I have been taking you with me through the palace and armory and royal
stables, to give you a type of Spain. The poorest of all the
governments, compared with its population and resources, it has these
contrasts of wealth and poverty that mark its want of judgment,
principle, and power. In the stables is invested a capital of more than
half a million of dollars! This prodigality is royal, but also absurd.
The people see it, and the world has gone by the age, when gilt
trappings and gorgeous pageants struck the multitudes dumb with the
reverence of royal glory.
The city of Madrid is well built, and has the appearance of a modern
French town. Indeed, it is more French than Spanish in its out-of-door
look, and the French language is very largely spoken in the shops and
private families of culture. The intercourse now so frequent and ready
with France by means of the railway and telegraph, and the abolition of
all passport regulations and annoyances, have given the Spanish capital
a start, and it will undoubtedly make rapid advancement.
But there is nothing rapid in Spain just yet. Opposite the hotel in
Madrid where I was staying, an old building had been torn down to make
room for another. Workmen were engaged in removing the debris to renew
the foundation. You would suppose that horses and carts, or wheelbarrows
and shovels, would be in use. Such modern improvements had not reached
the capital of Spain. One man with a broad hoe hauled the dirt into a
basket made of grass, holding half a bushel; another man took the basket
and carried it a rod to another man, who handed it to another a few feet
above him, and he emptied it on a pile of dirt up there, and sent the
basket back to be filled again. And so, day after day, a job that with
our tools and appliances would be done in a few hours, was here spun out
indefinitely. Yet the palaces and cathedrals and fortresses of the
southern climes have all been erected at this snail’s pace, numbers and
cheapness making up for enterprise and force. In Paris, in the street, a
small steam-engine was at work to mix mortar, and the ease with which
the process was put through revealed the secret of the wonderfully rapid
transformations going on in that ever increasingly beautiful city. Here
in Spain, to this day, where there are smooth, good roads for wheels,
they still put a couple of baskets across the back of a donkey, and fill
them with dirt or brick or stones, and so transport them, even when they
are putting up the largest buildings. The architecture of Spain is more
imposing than that of any other country in Europe. It is the climate
that makes men differ so much in their physical as well as mental
manifestations.
To see the mode of doing business in Spain, take the simple story of one
day’s work of mine in getting some money in Madrid. Holding a “letter of
credit” which is promptly honored in any part of the world, and is just
as good for the gold in Cairo or Calcutta as it is in London, I went in
search of a Spanish banker to draw a hundred pounds sterling, say five
hundred dollars. Anastazio led the way, and soon brought us to the house
where the man of money held his court. Being shown up stairs, through
two or three passages and an ante-chamber, we were at length ushered
into _the_ presence. Señor Romero, the banker, was a man of fifty,
dressed, or rather undressed, in a loose morning gown or wrapper, a red
cap on his head, slippers on his feet, and a pipe in his mouth. A clerk
was sitting near to do his bidding. I presented my letter. It was
carefully read, first by the clerk, then by the principal. A long
consultation followed, carried on in a low tone, and in Spanish, quite
unintelligible to me, if it had been audible. It was finally determined
to let me have the money, and after an amount of palaver sufficient for
the negotiation of a government loan from the Rothschilds, and taking
the necessary receipt and draft from me, I was presented with a check on
the Bank of Spain. When I had fancied the delays were over, they had
only just begun. The bank was in a distant part of the city, and thither
we hastened, taking a cab, to save all the time we could. The bank is a
large and imposing edifice of white stone. In the vestibule was a guard
of soldiers. A porter stopped us as we were about to enter the inner
door. We must await our turn as some one else was inside! One at a time
was the rule. Benches were there, and we sat down, admiring silently the
_moderation_ of banking business in Spain. At length our turn came. We
entered a room certainly a hundred feet long. Tables extended the whole
length. Behind them sat clerks very busy doing nothing. We were told to
pass on, and on, to the lower end of the room, where we entered another,
the back parlor, or private room of the officers. They were closeted out
of sight, smoking, of course, and giving their wisdom to the business in
hand. I presented the check at a hole out of which a hand was put to
take it. I saw nothing more. We sat down and waited. Waiting is a
Spanish institution. Everybody waits. Nobody gets any thing without it.
We waited, and waited, and waited, and at last the little hole opened
again, the mysterious hand was thrust out with the——money, you suppose;
not a bit, but with the check approved. We must present it at the table
or counter for payment. Returning to the long room, we presented the
check, and were directed to the proper bureau. And here, of course, we
got the money. Not yet. Bills of the Bank of Spain were given us, and
when I required the gold, I was told that gold was paid only at the
bureau of the bank in another street. Thither we now pursued our weary
way. It was a rear entrance of the same bank building. A long line of
gold hunters was ahead of us. We stood in the cue, and at last were
inside. In the ante-room we had to wait so long that we took to the
bench again. At last, admission being granted, we were told that only
_one_ could be admitted with a single draft. We sent Antanazio in, and
returned to the door. Here we were told that no _exit_, only _entrance_,
was allowed at the rear! Explaining the case, we got out, and returning
to the front, patiently as possible, we looked for the appearance of
Antanazio loaded with gold. At last, for the longest delay has an end,
the man emerged with the money in his hands. It had cost me from two to
three hours in the middle of the day to draw this money, which in New
York, London, Paris, or any city out of Spain, would have cost five
minutes or less. And I have been so particular in the detail, because it
lets you into the mode of doing business in the capital city, and the
greatest bank of this country.
Until the French and English companies pushed railways into Spain,
travel and mails were on the slow-coach system. When the royal person
made a journey, it was like the march of an army, such was the retinue
required for comfort and display. And as the railways are now completed
only along a few great routes, the mails are largely carried in the
diligences and coaches expressly made for the purpose. It is said, and
there is no reason to disbelieve it, that down to the year 1840, when a
Spaniard proposed to himself the danger and toil of a journey, it was
his invariable custom to summon his lawyer and make his will; his
physician, to learn if his health were adequate to the undertaking; and
finally his priest, to confess his sins and get timely absolution. It is
not regarded now so formidable an excursion to go across the kingdom,
but the native travel is so little that the railroads are very
unprofitable. If it were not for _freight_ they would not be supported
at all. They have, however, greatly increased the correspondence of the
country, and the rate of postage has been reduced, so that it is about
as low as in other European countries. But the government keeps a sharp
look-out upon the letters that come and go. In times when conspiracies
are snuffed in every breeze, it would be quite unsafe for any one to
entrust a secret in a letter going by mail. A government spy would be
sure to have his hand on it and his eye in it, before it reached its
address. The letters in the post-office at Madrid are held four hours
after the arrival of the mail, before they are ready for delivery. The
mail from the north, the London and Paris mail, comes in at ten o’clock
A.M. We must _wait_ until two o’clock P.M. for our letters. Then a list
of all letters not directed to some particular street and number, or to
some post-office box, is posted up in the hall of the office,—an
alphabetical list. You look over the list, and if you find a letter for
yourself, you ask for it at the proper window. If you are a stranger,
your passport is demanded. But you had been told before coming to Spain
that no passports are required, and now you must have one merely to get
your letters. In default of a passport, you must in some way establish
your identity. This is not always easy in a foreign country, but then
nothing is easy in Spain. I got no letter from the post-office addressed
to me while I was in Spain! The noted rebel, General Prim, was a
dreadful bugbear to the authorities, and all letters addressed to me
were suspected by the local postmasters to be intended for the General.
They were therefore sent to the government, or otherwise disposed of. No
efforts to recover them were successful. Much good may they do the
people who had to read them. Some of them had hard work, I know.
Telegraphs are spreading over Spain, as they are over the world,
civilized or not. Spain is one of the last countries where they could
become popular; but the business of any kingdom that has relations with
the outside world must be armed with the telegraph, or it cannot hold
its own. In traversing wild and secluded parts of the Peninsula, I have
been surprised by finding the telegraph poles set up, and the wire
stretching on, over hill and dale. Spain is slow, and the telegraph is
not demanded here by the energy and enterprise of the people as it is
elsewhere. Despatches of more than a hundred words are not sent. To or
from any part of the Peninsula ten words may be sent for about
twenty-five cents, twenty words for fifty cents, thirty words for
seventy-five cents; but the count includes each word written by the
sender, date, address, signature, and if a word is underscored it counts
two. Great precautions are taken to insure accuracy in transmission, and
a small extra charge is made for delivery.
Before coming to Spain I had been told that the picture-gallery in
Madrid is the richest in the world. It seemed to me an idle tale, the
boast of boasting Spaniards, repeated until perhaps somebody believed,
as I certainly did not. But having seen it, day after day, for a week, I
cheerfully cast a vote in its favor. It is superior to any other in
Europe; and, of course, in the world. It is not complete in the series
of art studies. There are gaps of time which the student may desire to
see filled. But there are few who visit these great European galleries
as learners. The world comes to see them for the momentary pleasure to
be found in the contemplation of the pictures. And they will be
astonished to find that so many and so splendid pictures have been
gathered and preserved in the Spanish capital.
The gallery is open to the public only on _Sundays_, but the director
allows it to be shown every day to strangers, who are expected to give a
fee to the attendants. On rainy days it is always shut; an obvious
reason is, that visitors will soil the floors with their shoes, but a
better reason is that the gallery is so badly lighted that in gloomy
weather some of the pictures are quite invisible.
Who would suppose that sixty pictures by Reubens are to be seen in one
gallery in Spain! and fifty-three by Teniers; and ten grand pictures by
Raphael; and forty-six by Murillo; and sixty-four by Velasquez, some of
them very large and magnificent; and twenty-two by Van Dyck; and
_forty-three of Titian_, who spent three years in Madrid, by invitation
of Charles V.; ten of Claude Lorraine; and twenty-five by Paul Veronese;
and twenty-three by Snyder; and more than thirty by Tintoretto!!! There
are more than two thousand here. Among so many, of course, some are good
for nothing, as in every large collection. But one gallery in the world
has masterpieces only,—that is in the Vatican. And _there_ you have less
than a hundred pictures, all told. But they are all great. Here, as in
Florence and Dresden, good, bad, and indifferent have been hung
together; and perhaps the contrast makes the good appear better, and the
bad worse.
Murillo, the greatest of Spanish painters, is here in his glory. We have
associated his name with his “Immaculate Conceptions” more than with any
other of his works. One copy was brought to America a few years ago, and
is now in the gallery of W. H. Aspinwall, Esq. A duplicate is in the
Louvre, at Paris. And still another is in Madrid. These are three
originals, undoubtedly, and they have been copied in every style of
human art, especially in Paris, until they are as common as heads of the
Saviour, all the world over. Yet this is not the _Murillo_,—not his
“Conception.” It is a grand conception by the artist, but it is not the
great picture of that subject on which, more than any other, his fame is
founded. This is in another attitude, with another expression; the
Virgin is looking downward, and not gazing, in an ecstasy, heavenward.
The artist, in this picture, imagines the Virgin Mary at the moment she
becomes conscious of the fact that by the overshadowing of the Holy
Ghost she is to be the mother of the Son of God! The accessories of the
painting are of no account, but into the countenance of the Virgin he
would throw the expression such as a spotless maiden might be supposed
to have when first alive to such a wondrous, awful, yet transporting and
delightful thought, “I,—I,—of all the daughters of Israel, am the highly
favored among women. Of me is to be the Messiah! I am the mother of the
promised Saviour!”
Not far from this is a picture of the Vision of St. Bernard, exhibiting
marvellous skill. The head is one of those prodigies of the painter’s
art, that is to haunt the memory in after years. Like the “Communion of
St. Jerome,” in the Vatican, to see it is to have it photographed in the
mysterious chamber of the brain. Raphael painted one of his most
remarkable pictures, “The Christ sinking under His Cross,” for a convent
in Sicily. It is said by some to be a greater work than the
“Transfiguration,” which is held to be the finest picture existing. To
me, this in Madrid is the most impressive, the most nearly perfect. It
is taken at the moment when Simon, the Cyrenian, attempts to lift the
crushing cross, while the patient sufferer, with a face radiant with
love and holy resignation, says to the weeping women near, “Daughters of
Jerusalem, weep not for me but weep for yourselves and for your
children.”
Titian’s equestrian portrait of Charles V. is sublime,—like a majestic
mountain, or a mighty rock in a desert. The solemn grandeur of the
picture is indescribable. The man and his times, a whole volume of
biography and history, on one grand tableau, seen and remembered.
Perhaps it would be as well to forget the women that Titian seems to
have been fond of painting. Two of them here are not less perfect, many
think they are more perfect, than the Venus of the Tribune. In other
times the zealous priesthood condemned these nudities to the flames,
with heretics, as corrupters of the people; but some have been saved.
The picture that I desired more than any other to carry away and cherish
as a life-long treasure, is one by Correggio. After his resurrection the
Saviour appeared to Mary, and she supposed it was the gardener; but
Jesus, turning, said to her, “MARY,”—and the truth burst upon her, it
was her Lord! That moment of transport is the time the artist has seized
for the representation of the kneeling and rejoicing Mary and Jesus. The
love and tenderness in his look, the joy and reverence in hers! What
beauty, too: how the yellow hair falls in living lustre on her fair
shoulders, and her eyes speak the full expression of her yearning soul.
“Jesus said unto her, ‘MARY.’”
In another hall I found a picture of great merit, unmentioned by the
guide-book, and by a painter unknown to me even by name before. It is a
Virgin and Child, with four venerable saints kneeling before them. The
artist is Bias del Prado. Few pictures in any gallery deserve more
admiration than this. The heads of the old men are done with great
power, and the thoughtful feeling in the face of the Virgin shows that
the artist had both the genius to conceive, and the skill to create, an
idea on the canvas, quite equal to the best of many others who have won
a world-wide fame. And scattered through these long apartments, in
narrow halls and basement rooms, in bad lights, and some almost in the
dark, are many gems of rare value, “blushing unseen,” and worth a better
place, and deserving wider renown. It would be tedious to read even a
brief mention of the celebrated pictures of the famous old masters here,
and that form so large a part of the attractions of Europe.
There are very few minor galleries in Madrid. Probably there has been a
lack both of private wealth and taste to make collections. In one of
these we found Murillo’s “Queen Isabel of Hungary healing the Lepers,” a
picture that would be admired as one of his greatest and best, if it
were not so true to life as to make one almost sick to look at it. But
this is the height of the highest art. Birds have been deceived by
painted fruit. Bees have sought honey in flowers on the walls. And
perhaps this cheating of the senses, even to disgust, is the perfection
of human skill. But the imitation of the _material_ is easy. If portrait
painting were merely the reproduction of the form and features, it is
the lowest department of the art. But to conceive the expression that
belongs to the character of a saint, a prophet, a hero, a sibyl, a
Madonna, and thus to create an ideal that will demonstrate its reality
and truthfulness to an unbelieving or indifferent world, challenging
admiration and asserting its own immortality, this is the attribute of
genius only, and such is not the birth of every day or age.