skeleton of the edifice. The courtyard is entirely surrounded by walls;
on the side opposite the doorway rises the façade of the church. From
the spacious platform rise six enormous Doric columns, each of which
supports a great pedestal and every pedestal a statue. There are six
colossal statues by Battista Monegro, representing Jehosaphat, Ezekiel,
David, Solomon, Joshua, and Manasseh. The courtyard is paved with stone
sprinkled with bits of mouldy turf; the walls look like rocks cut in
vertical lines; everything is rigid, massive, and heavy, and offers the
fantastic appearance of a building carved by Titans out of the solid
mountain, ready to defy the shocks of time and the thunderbolts of
heaven. There one begins to understand what the Escurial is.
One mounts the platform and enters the church.
The interior of the church is bare and gloomy; four enormous pilasters
of gray granite bear up the vaulted roof painted in fresco by Luca
Giordano; beside the great altar, carved and gilded in the Spanish
style, and between the columns of the two royal oratories, one sees two
groups of bronze statues, kneeling figures with clasped hands stretched
toward the altar--on the right, Charles V., the empress Isabella, and
several princesses; on the left, Philip II. with his wives. Over the
doorway of the church, thirty feet from the ground, at the end of the
great nave, rises the choir, with two rows of seats, in the Corinthian
style and simple in design. In a corner near a secret door is the seat
where Philip II. used to sit. Through that door he received letters and
important despatches without being seen by the priests chanting in the
choir. This church, which, compared with the whole edifice, seems very
small, is nevertheless one of the largest churches in Spain, and,
although it appears so devoid of ornament, contains a vast wealth of
marbles, gold, relics, and paintings, which a dim light in part
conceals, and from which the attention is diverted by the gloominess of
the building. Besides the thousand works of art which one sees in the
chapels, in the rooms which open out of the church, and on the
staircases which lead to the galleries, there is in a corridor behind
the choir a superb white marble crucifix, the work of Benvenuto Cellini,
which bears the inscription, _Benvenutus Zalinus, civis Florentinus,
facebat 1562_. In other parts one sees paintings by Navarrete and
Herrera. But all surprise is overwhelmed by a feeling of sadness. The
color of the stone, the dim light, the profound silence which encircles
you incessantly draw your thoughts to the vastness, the hidden recesses,
and the solitude of the edifice, and leave no place for the indulgence
of your admiration. The appearance of that church inspires an
inexpressible sense of restlessness. You would know by intuition, if you
had not learned it otherwise, that around those walls for a long
distance extend only granite, shadows, and silence; you feel that
measureless structure without seeing it; you feel that you are standing
in the midst of a forsaken city; you would hasten your steps to see it
at once, to free yourself from the incubus of that mystery, and to seek,
if anywhere they might be found, light, noise, and life.
From the church, through several bare, cold rooms, one passes into the
sacristy, a large, vaulted chamber, along one of whose walls runs an
unbroken row of wardrobes made of various fine woods. It contains also a
series of paintings by Ribera, Giordano, Zurbarán, Tintoretto, and other
Spanish and Italian painters; and at the end stands the famous altar of
the _Santa forma_, with the very celebrated painting of poor Claude
Coello, who died of a broken heart when Luca Giordano was summoned to
the Escurial. The effect of this painting is truly above all
expectation. It represents with life-size figures the procession which
once marched to place the _Santa forma_ in that very spot; it depicts
the sacristy and the altar, the prior kneeling on the steps, with the
casket and the sacred Host in his hands; around him are grouped the
deacons on one side, Charles II. on his knees, and beyond the monks,
priests, collegians, and the other worshippers. The figures are so
life-like and natural, the perspective so true, the coloring, shading,
and light so effective, that on first entering the sacristy one
mistakes the painting for a mirror which reflects a religious ceremony
being celebrated at that moment in the next room. Then the illusion
vanishes, but one is still deceived as to the background of the picture,
and it is actually necessary to approach close enough to touch it before
one believes that it is only a painted canvas and not another sacristy.
On the festival days the canvas is rolled up, and there appears in the
centre of a little chapel a small temple of gilded bronze, within which
one sees a magnificent casket, which contains the sacred Host, adorned
with ten thousand rubies, diamonds, amethysts, and garnets arranged in
the form of dazzling rays.
From the sacristy we went to the Pantheon. A guide led the way with a
lighted torch: we descended a long granite staircase and came to a
subterranean door, where not a single ray of light penetrated. Over this
door one reads the following inscription in gilded letters of bronze:
“God great and omnipotent!
“A place consecrated by the piety of the Austrian dynasty to the mortal
remains of the Catholic kings, who are looking for that day of their
desire, under the great altar sacred to the Redeemer of the human race.
Charles V., the most illustrious of the Cæsars, desired this for the
last resting-place of himself and his lineage; Philip II., the most
prudent of kings, planned it; Philip III., a monarch of sincere piety,
made a beginning of the work; Philip IV., great in his clemency,
constancy, and devotion, enlarged, adorned, and brought it to completion
in the year of our Lord 1654.”
The guide entered: I followed him and found myself surrounded by
sepulchres, or rather in a sepulchre, as dark and cold as a grotto in a
mountain-side. It is a little octagonal chamber built entirely of
marble, with a small altar on the side opposite the door, and in the
remaining space from floor to ceiling, one above the other, tombs
adorned with bronze ornaments and bas-reliefs; the ceiling is under the
great altar in the church. To the right of the altar are the tombs of
Charles V., Philip II., Philip III., Philip IV., Louis I., the three Don
Carlos, and Ferdinand VII.; on the left, the empresses and queens. The
guide placed his torch near the tomb of Maria Louisa of Savoy, the
spouse of Charles III., and said to me with an air of mystery, “Read.”
The marble is ruled in different directions; with a little study I was
able to distinguish five letters; they form the name _Luisa_, written by
the queen herself with the point of her scissors.
Suddenly the guide extinguished his torch and we were left in the dark;
the blood froze in my veins. “Light it!” I cried. The guide laughed a
long, ghostly laugh, which seemed to me like a death-rattle, and
replied, “Look!” I looked: a faint ray of light, entering through a
chink near the ceiling, stole along the wall almost to the pavement,
shedding light
[Illustration: _Tomb of Charles V, Escurial_]
enough merely to make visible some tombs of the queens: it seemed like a
beam of moonlight, and the bas-reliefs and the bronzes on the tombs
gleamed in that uncanny glimmer as though they were dripping with water.
At that moment I perceived, for the first time, the odor of that
sepulchral air, and a tremor of fear seized me: in imagination I entered
those tombs and saw all those stiffened corpses; I sought an escape
through the vaulted roof, and found myself alone in the church. I fled
from the church and lost myself in the labyrinth of the convent;
presently I came to myself in the midst of the tombs, and felt that I
was truly in the heart of that monstrous edifice, in its deepest part. I
seemed to be a prisoner entombed in that mountain of granite, which was
everywhere closing in upon me and pressing me on all sides, and would
finally crush me, and I thought, with indescribable sadness, of the sky,
the country, and the free air as of another world, “Sir,” said the guide
solemnly before going out, extending his hand toward the tomb of Charles
V., “the emperor is there, just as he was when they placed him there,
with his eyes still open, so that he seems alive and speaking: it is a
miracle of God performed for purposes of his own. He who lives will
see.” And speaking these last words, he made the sign of the cross, as
though he was afraid the emperor might hear, and led the way to the
stairs.
After the church and the sacristy one goes to visit the
picture-gallery, which contains a great number of paintings by artists
of every nation, although not the best examples, for they were taken to
the Madrid gallery, but, at any rate, paintings of sufficient merit to
warrant a visit of a few hours.
From the picture-gallery one proceeds to the library by the great
staircase, over which rises a high vaulted ceiling wholly covered with
frescoes by Luca Giordano. The library consists of a hall of great size
adorned with large allegorical pictures: it contains more than fifty
thousand precious volumes, four thousand of which were presented by
Philip II. There is also another room, containing a very rich collection
of manuscripts.
From the library one goes to the convent. Here the imagination of man is
lost. If any of my readers has read the _Estudiante de Salamanca_ of
Espronceda, he will remember how that indefatigable youth, in pursuing a
mysterious lady whom he met at night at the foot of the chapel stairs,
followed her from street to street, from square to square, from alley to
alley, turning and twisting and going in circles, until he reached a
point where he saw no longer the houses of Salamanca, but found himself
in an unknown city, and how, as he continued to turn corners, cross
squares, and hurry through the streets, the city seemed to enlarge as he
advanced, and the streets to stretch away, and the alleys to make a
thicker network, and how he went on and ever on without rest, not
knowing whether he was asleep or awake, drunken or mad; and fear began
to penetrate his iron heart and the strangest fancies crowded upon his
bewildered mind. So is it with the stranger in the convent of the
Escurial.
You pass through a long subterranean corridor, so narrow that you can
touch the walls with your elbows, so low that your head almost strikes
the ceiling, and damp as a submarine grotto, until you reach the end,
turn around, and find yourself in another corridor. You go forward, come
to doors and look through them: other corridors stretch away as far as
the eye can reach. At the end of one you may see a ray of light, at the
end of another an open door which allows you to peep into a suite of
rooms. Now and then you hear the echo of a passing footstep; you stop
and the sound dies away; then it comes again, but you cannot tell
whether it is over your head, to the right or left, behind or in front.
You step up to a door and turn back terrified. At the end of the
interminable corridor along which your glance has run you have seen a
man standing motionless as a spectre, looking at you. You hurry on and
come out into a narrow courtyard surrounded by very high walls,
grass-grown, hollow-sounding, and lighted by a wan light which seems to
descend from an unknown sun--places like the courts of the witches of
which they told us in our childhood.
You leave the courtyard, mount a flight of stairs, enter an upper
gallery, and look around: it is another court, silent and deserted. You
turn down another corridor, climb another staircase, and find yourself
in a third court; then, again, corridors and stairs and suites of empty
rooms and narrow courtyards; and everywhere granite, grass, a sickly
light, and a sepulchral silence. For a little while you think you can
retrace your steps; then the mind becomes confused, and you remember
nothing; it seems as though you had walked ten miles--that you have been
a month in this labyrinth and can never escape.
You approach a courtyard and say, “I have seen this already.” No, you
are mistaken; it is another. You believe that you are in a certain part
of the edifice when you are in the opposite part. You ask the guide
where the cloister is, and he replies, “This is it,” and you walk on for
half an hour. You seem to be dreaming: you see a succession of long
walls flitting past, frescoed, hung with paintings, crosses, and
inscriptions; you see and forget and ask yourself, “Where am I?”
You see the light of another world; you have never seen just such a
light: is it the reflection from the stone, or does it come from the
moon? No, it is daylight, but sadder than darkness--unreal, gloomy, and
fantastic. And as you go on from corridor to corridor, from court to
court, you look ahead with misgivings, expecting to see suddenly, as
you turn a corner, a row of skeleton monks with hoods over their eyes
and crosses in their hands; you think of Philip II., and seem to hear
his heavy footsteps slowly retreating through the dark passages; you
remember all that you have read about him, of his terrors and the
Inquisition, and everything becomes clear to your mind’s eye with a
sudden light; for the first time you understand it all: the Escurial is
Philip II. You see it at every step, you feel it at every breath; he is
still there, alive and terrible, with the image of his dreadful God.
Then you would rebel and raise your thoughts to the God of your heart
and your aspirations, and conquer the mysterious terror which the place
inspires, but you cannot: the Escurial surrounds, holds, and crushes
you; the chill of its walls penetrates to your marrow; the gloom of its
sepulchral labyrinthine passages invades your soul; if you were with a
friend, you would say, “Let us go out;” if perchance you were with a
loved one, you would clasp her to your heart in trepidation; if you were
alone, you would flee. Finally, you climb a staircase, enter a room,
approach a window, and with a cry of gratitude hail the mountains, the
sun, liberty, and the great and beneficent God who loves and pardons.
What a long breath you draw at that window!
From it you see the gardens, which fill but a small space and are very
simple; but who can tell how elegant and beautiful they are, and in
what perfect harmony with the building? You see twelve graceful
fountains, each surrounded by four plots of myrtle, which represent
royal shields, designed with exquisite taste and trimmed with such
nicety that as one looks down at them from the windows they look like
fabrics of plush and velvet, and form a very grateful contrast to the
white sand of the paths. There are no trees, flowers, nor arbors: in all
the garden one sees only the fountains, the plots of myrtle, and the two
colors, green and white; and so charming is that dignified simplicity
that one cannot bear to leave it, and when one has looked away the
memory returns there and rests with a sweet subdued sense of pensive
sadness.
In a room near that from which I looked at the garden the guide made me
look at a collection of relics, which I examined in silence, without
allowing him to suspect my secret feeling of doubt. There is a piece of
the Holy Cross, presented by the Pope to Isabella II.; a bit of wood
stained with the blood of Saint Lawrence, which is still visible; Saint
Theresa’s inkhorn, and other objects, among them a little portable altar
which belonged to Charles V., a crown of thorns, a pair of tweezers used
for torture, found I know not where. Thence I was led to the dome of the
church, from which one enjoys a splendid view. On one side the view
extends over all the mountainous country which lies between the
Escurial and Madrid; on the other one sees the snowy mountains of
Guadarrama; below one comprehends at a glance the whole of the
measureless edifice, the long lead-colored roofs, the towers, the
courtyards, the cloisters, the porticoes, and the galleries; one may
pass in thought through the thousand windings of the corridors and
stairways, and say, “An hour ago I was below there--here--up there--down
there--over yonder,” marvelling that one has made so great a journey,
and delighted to have escaped from that labyrinth, those tombs and
shadows, and to be able to return to the city and see one’s friends
again.
An illustrious traveller has said that after passing a day in the
Escurial one ought to be happy throughout the rest of one’s life, with
the single thought that one might still be within those walls; and it is
almost true: even now, after so long a time, on rainy days, when I am
feeling sad, I think of the Escurial, and then look at the walls of my
room and congratulate myself; in sleepless nights I see again the
courtyards of the Escurial; when I am sick and my sleep is broken and
uneasy, I dream of wandering through those corridors alone in the dark,
followed by the ghost of an old friar, crying and pounding at all the
doors without finding a way of escape, until I rush headlong into the
Pantheon, and the door clashes on my heels, and I remain entombed among
the sepulchres. With what pleasure did I see again the thousand lights
of the _Puerta del Sol_, the crowded cafés, and the great noisy street
of Alcalá! On re-entering the house I made such a racket that the
servant, a good simple Galician girl, ran breathless to her mistress and
said, “I think the Italian has gone mad!”
* * * * *
I was more amused by the deputies of the Cortes than by either the cocks
or the bulls. I was successful in obtaining a little corner in the
reporters’ gallery, and went there every day, staying until the very end
with infinite pleasure. The Spanish Parliament has a more youthful
appearance than ours--not because the deputies are younger, but because
they are nattier and better dressed. One does not see those dishevelled
heads of hair, those unkempt beards, and colorless surtouts which are to
be seen on the benches of our Chamber: one sees smooth and shiny beards
and hair, embroidered shirts, long black coats, light trousers, tan
gloves, silver-headed canes, and button-hole bouquets. The Spanish
Parliament follows the fashion-plate. And as is the dress, so is the
speech, lively, gay, flowery, and brilliant. We are continually
lamenting that our deputies are more careful of form than is becoming to
political orators, but the Spanish deputies observe this even more
studiously, and, it must be admitted, with even greater grace. Not only
do they speak with marvellous facility, so that one very rarely hears
one of them pause in the middle of a period to find a word, but,
moreover, every one tries to speak correctly and to add to his speech a
certain poetical lustre, a little classical polish, and a slight impress
of the grand oratorical style. The gravest ministers, the most timid
deputies, the sternest financiers, even when they use arguments utterly
foreign to rhetorical treatment, embellish their speeches with verses
from the anthology, with happy anecdotes, and famous quotations, and
apostrophes to culture, liberty, and patriotism; and they talk as
rapidly as though they were reciting something committed to memory, with
an intonation always measured and euphonious, and a variety of pose and
gesture of which one never tires for an instant. And the journals, in
criticising the speeches, praise the elevation of their style, praise
the purity of their language, _los rasgos sublimes_ (the sublime
flashes), which appear admirable if they are writing of their friends,
be it understood, or, on the other hand, they say in disparagement that
the style is slipshod, the language corrupt, the form--that precious
form!--in a word unpolished, base, and unworthy of the splendid
traditions of Spanish oratory.