VII. THE GREAT GRIDIRON OF ST. LAWRENCE

It seems a duty every Protestant owes his heresy to go and see

how dismally the arch-enemy of heresy housed his true faith in the

palace-tomb-and-church of the Escorial. If the more light-minded tourist

shirks this act of piety, he makes a mistake which he will repent

afterward in vain. The Escorial is, for its plainness, one of the two

or three things worthiest seeing among the two or three hundred things

worth seeing in Spain. Yet we feigned meaning to miss it after we

returned to Madrid from Toledo, saying that everybody went to the

Escorial and that it would be a proud distinction not to go. All the

time we knew we should go, and we were not surprised when we were chosen

by one of our few bright days for the excursion, though we were taken

inordinately early, and might well have been started a little later.

I

Nothing was out of the common on the way to the station, and our sense

of the ordinary was not relieved when we found ourselves in a car of the

American open-saloon pattern, well filled with other Americans bent upon

the same errand as ourselves; though I am bound to say that the backs of

the transverse seats rose well toward the roof of the car with a certain

originality.

When we cleared the city streets and houses, we began running out

into the country through suburbs vulgarly gay with small, bright brick

villas, so expressive of commuting that the eye required the vision of

young husbands and fathers going in at the gates with gardening tools

on their shoulders and under their arms. To be sure, the time of day

and the time of year were against this; it was now morning and autumn,

though there was a vernal brilliancy in the air; and the grass,

flattered by the recent rains, was green where we had last seen it

gray. Along a pretty stream, which, for all I know may have been the

Manzanares, it was so little, files of Lombardy poplars followed

away very agreeably golden in foliage; and scattered about were

deciduous-looking evergreens which we questioned for live-oaks. We were

going northward over the track which had brought us southward to Madrid

two weeks before, and by and by the pleasant levels broke into rough

hills and hollows, strewn with granite boulders which, as our train

mounted, changed into the savage rock masses of New Castile, and as we

drew near the village of Escorial gave the scene the look of that very

desolate country. But it could not be so gloomy in the kind sunlight

as it was when lashed by the savage storm which we had seen it cowering

under before; and at the station we lost all feeling of friendlessness

in the welcome of the thronging guides and hotel touters.

Our ideal was a carriage which we could keep throughout the day and use

for our return to the train in the afternoon; and this was so exactly

the ideal of a driver to whom we committed ourselves that we were

somewhat surprised to have his vehicle develop into a motor-omnibus, and

himself into a conductor.

When we arrived at the palace some miles off, up a winding way, he

underwent another change, and became our guide to the Escorial. In the

event he proved a very intelligent guide, as guides go, and I really

cannot now see how we could have got on without him. He adapted the

Spanish names of things to our English understanding by shortening

them; a _patio_ became a _pat’,_ and an old master an old mast’; and an

endearing quality was imparted to the grim memory of Philip II. by the

diminutive of Philly. We accepted this, but even to have Charles V.

brought nearer our hearts as Charley Fif, we could not bear to have our

guide exposed to the mockery of less considerate travelers. I instructed

him that the emperor’s name was Charles, and that only boys and very

familiar friends of that name were called Charley among us. He thanked

me, and at once spoke again of Charley Fif; which I afterward found was

the universally accepted style of the great emperor among the guides

of Spain. In vain I tried to persuade them out of it at Cordova, at

Seville, at Granada, and wherever else they had to speak of an emperor

whose memory really seems to pervade the whole land.

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