In leaving Madrid by the southern route, you traverse an uninhabited
country that recalls the poorest provinces of Aragon and old Castile,
just as happened on your arrival by the northern. These are vast,
yellowish, and dried-up plains; you would say that if you beat upon it,
the earth would resound like an empty box, or crumble away like the
crust of a burnt tart; occasionally you see miserable villages, of the
same colour as the land, which look as if they would ignite like a heap
of dry leaves, if any one were to bring a match to the roof of one of
the houses. After an hour’s travel, my shoulder sought the side of the
carriage, my elbow a leaning-place, and I fell into a profound sleep,
like a member of Leopardi’s _Ateneo d’ Ascoltazione_.
I looked around me: the vast deserted plain was transformed as if by
enchantment into an immense garden full of delightful groves, crossed
in every direction by great avenues, dotted with little country houses
and rustic cabins covered with vines; and, here and there were tossing
fountains, shady nooks, flowery meadows, vineyards, little footpaths,
and a greenness, a freshness, an odour of spring, a breath of joy and
delight that wafted your soul to paradise. We had arrived at Aranjuez.
I left the train, threaded my way down a beautiful avenue shaded by
two rows of gigantic trees, and in an instant found myself opposite the
royal palace.
[Illustration: ARANJUEZ, SPAIN.]
Castelar, the minister, wrote recently in his _memorandum_ that
the fall of the ancient Spanish monarchy was foreseen on the day that
a herd of populace with abuse on their lips and anger in their hearts,
invaded the palace of Aranjuez to disturb the tranquil majesty of its
sovereigns. I was precisely on that spot, where, on March 17, 1808,
occurred the events that formed the prologue to the national war
and the first word of the sentence, as it were, that condemned the
ancient monarchy to death. I immediately looked for the windows of the
apartment of the Prince of Peace; I pictured him, fleeing from hall
to hall, pale and dishevelled, hunting for a hiding-place, amidst the
echoing cries of the multitude that mounted the stairway; I saw poor
Charles IV. place the crown on the head of the Prince of the Asturias
with trembling hands; all the scenes of that terrible drama passed
before my eyes; and the deep silence of this place and the sight of
that shut and abandoned palace chilled me to the heart.
The palace is built like a castle; it is of brick with corners of white
marble, and covered with a slate roof. Every one knows that Philip
II. had it built by the celebrated architect Herrera, and that nearly
all his successors embellished it, and lived there during the summer
season. I entered: the interior is splendid; there is a resplendent
hall for the reception of ambassadors, a beautiful Chinese cabinet of
Charles III., a superb dressing-room of Isabella II., and a profusion
of precious ornaments. But all the riches of the palace are not worth
the view of the gardens. Expectations are not deceived. The gardens
of Aranjuez (Aranjuez is the name of the little town situate a short
distance from the palace) seem to have been laid out for the family
of Titan Kings, to whom the parks and gardens of our Kings would have
appeared like terrace parterres and sheep-folds. Avenues, extending
as far as the eye can reach and bordered by trees of an inordinate
height uniting their branches and leaning towards us as if bent by
two contrary winds, in every direction cross a forest the boundaries
of which one cannot see; and through this forest the wide and rapid
Tagus describes a majestic curve, forming here and there cascades
and basins; a luxuriant and flourishing vegetation abounds amid a
labyrinth of little avenues and cross-roads; everywhere is seen the
whiteness of statues, fountains, columns and high jets of water that
fall in sheets and rain and spray on all the flowers known to Europe
and America; and to the majestic sound of the cascade of the Tagus is
joined the song of innumerable nightingales that pour their trills into
the mysterious shade of the lonely paths. Beyond the gardens, rises
a little marble palace, modest in appearance, which contains all the
marvels of the most magnificent royal residence, and where one still
breathes the atmosphere of the life of the Kings of Spain. Here are
the little secret chambers the ceilings of which may be touched by the
hand, the billiard-room of Charles IV., cushions embroidered by the
hands of queens, musical clocks that amused the idle children, little
stairways, tiny windows that preserve a hundred little traditions
of the caprice of princes: and, finally, the richest toilet-room in
Europe, due to a whim of Charles IV., and which contains in itself
so much wealth that one could draw enough from it to build a palace,
without depriving it of the noble pre-eminence it boasts above all
rooms appropriated to the same use.
Beyond this palace, and around the woodlands, extend vineyards,
olive-trees, plantations of fruit-trees and smiling meadows. It is a
veritable oasis surrounded by a desert which Philip II. chose in a day
of good humour, as if to alleviate the black melancholy of the Escurial
with a gay picture. On returning from the little marble palace to the
great palace of the Escurial down these long avenues, beneath the shade
of these large trees, in this profound peace of the forest, I thought
of the splendid pageants of ladies and cavaliers that formerly followed
the steps of the gay young monarchs and capricious and unrestrained
queens to the sound of love-songs and hymns, celebrating the grandeur
and the glory of unvanquished Spain, and I repeated sadly with the poet
of Recanati:
“... All is peace and silence,
And one speaks no longer of them....”