VISIT TO THE ESCURIAL.
Aridity and Desolation of the Country--First View of the
Escurial--Sombre appearance of the building--The Church--The
blind Cicerone--The Pantheon Pictures--Anecdote of Spanish
Robbers.
In order to proceed to the Escurial, we hired one of those
fantastic vehicles, of which we have already had occasion to speak,
covered with grey cupids and other ornaments in the Pompadour
style, dragged by four mules, and enhanced by the presence of a
zagal in a tolerable masquerading suit. The Escurial is situated
about seven or eight leagues from Madrid, not far from Guadarrama,
at the foot of a chain of mountains. It is impossible to imagine
anything more arid and desolate than the country you have to pass
through in order to reach it. There is not a single tree, not a
single house; nothing but a succession of steep declivities and
dry ravines, which the presence of several bridges points out as
the beds of different torrents, and here and there a long vista of
blue mountains capped with snow or clouds. Such as it is, however,
the view is not without a certain kind of grandeur; the absence
of all vegetation gives an extraordinary degree of boldness and
severity to the outline of the ground. In proportion as you proceed
further from Madrid, the stones with which the way is thickly
strewed become larger, and evince, more and more, an ambitious
feeling of being taken for rocks. They are of a bluish grey, and
appear, as they are scattered over the scale-like soil, like so
many warts upon the wrinkled back of a centenarian crocodile; they
form a thousand strange shapes upon the outline of the hills, which
resemble the ruins of gigantic edifices.
Halfway on the road, at the summit of a pretty steep ascent, is a
poor isolated house, the only one you meet in the course of eight
leagues. Opposite it is a spring, from which a pure and icy stream
trickles down, drop by drop; you drink as many glasses of water
as the spring contains, let your mules rest a short time, and
then set off again on your journey. Soon afterwards you perceive,
standing out from the vapoury background of the mountains, and
rendered visible by a bright gleam of sunshine, that Leviathan of
architecture, the Escurial. At a distance, the effect is very fine;
you would almost fancy it to be an immense Oriental palace, the
stone cupola and the balls which terminate all the elevated points
contributing very much to keep up the illusion. Before reaching
it, you pass through a large wood of olive-trees, ornamented with
crosses, quaintly planted on large blocks of rocks, and producing
the most picturesque effect. On issuing from the wood you enter
the village and find yourself before the colossus, which loses a
great deal from being viewed closely, like all the other colossi
in the world. The first thing that struck me was the great number
of swallows and martins, wheeling about in immense swarms, and
uttering a sharp, strident cry. The poor little birds appeared
terrified by the death-like silence which reigned in this Thebaid,
and were endeavouring to impart a little animation and noise to it.
Every one is aware that the Escurial was built in consequence of a
vow made by Philip II. at the siege of Saint Quentin, when he was
obliged to cannonade a church dedicated to St. Lawrence. Philip
promised the Saint that he would make amends for the church of
which he deprived him, by one that should be more spacious and more
beautiful; and he kept his word more faithfully than the kings of
this earth generally do. The Escurial, which was commenced by Juan
Bautista and completed by Herrera, is assuredly, with the exception
of the Egyptian pyramids, the largest heap of granite that exists
upon the face of the globe; it is called, in Spain, the eighth
wonder of the world, making, as each country has its own eighth
wonder, at least the thirtieth eighth wonder now existing.
I am exceedingly embarrassed in giving an opinion on the
Escurial. So many grave and respectable persons, who, I am happy
to believe, never saw it, have spoken of it as a _chef-d'œuvre_
and a supreme effort of human genius, that I, who am but a poor,
miserable, wandering writer of _feuilletons_, am afraid that
I shall appear to have determined to be original, and seem to
take pleasure in contradicting the generally-received opinion.
Despite of this, however, I declare conscientiously, and from
the bottom of my heart, that I cannot help thinking the Escurial
the dullest and most wearisome edifice that a morose monk and a
suspicious tyrant could ever conceive for the mortification of
their fellow-creatures. I am very well aware that the Escurial was
erected for an austere and religious purpose, but gravity does
not consist in baldness, melancholy in atrophy, or meditation in
_ennui_; beauty of form can always be united to elevation of ideas.
The Escurial is arranged in the form of a gridiron, in honour
of Saint Lawrence. Four towers, or square pavilions, represent
the feet of this instrument of torture; four masses of building
connect the pavilions with each other, and form the framework,
while other cross rows represent the bars; the palace and the
church are situated in the handle. This strange notion, which must
have hampered the architect very much, is not easily perceived by
the eye, although it is very visible upon the printed plan. If
the visitor were not told of it, he most certainly would never
discover it. I do not blame this symbolical piece of puerility,
which suited the taste of the times; for I am convinced that when a
certain model is given to an architect, so far from shackling him,
it will, provided he has genius, prove of great use and assistance
to him, and cause him to have recourse to expedients of which he
would, otherwise, never have thought; but it strikes me that, in
this case, he might have arrived at a far different result. Those
persons who are fond of _good taste and sobriety_ in architecture,
must think the Escurial a specimen of perfection, for the only line
employed in it is the straight line, and the only order the Doric
order, which is the most melancholy and poorest of any.
[Illustration: THE ESCURIAL.]
One thing which immediately strikes you very disagreeably, is the
yellow clayish colour of the walls, which you would almost imagine
to be built of mud, did not the joints of the stones, marked by
lines of glaring white, prove that this was not the case. Nothing
can be more monotonous to behold than all these buildings, six or
seven stories high, without a moulding, a pilaster, or a column,
and with their small low windows, looking like the entrance to
a beehive. The place is the very ideal of an hospital, or of
barracks: its sole merit consists in its being built of granite, a
species of merit which is of no value, since at the distance of a
hundred paces the granite may be easily mistaken for the clay of
which stoves are made in France. On the top is a heavy dwarfish
cupola, which I can compare to nothing more aptly than the dome
of the Val de Grâce, and which boasts of no other ornaments than
a multitude of granite balls. All around, in order that nothing
may be wanting to the symmetry of the whole, are a number of
buildings in the same style, that is to say, with a quantity of
small windows, and without the least ornament. These buildings are
connected with each other by galleries in the form of bridges,
thrown over the streets that lead to the village, which, at
present, is nothing more than a heap of ruins. All the approaches
to the edifice are paved with granite flags, and its limits marked
by little walls three feet high, ornamented with the inevitable
balls at every angle and every opening. The _façade_, which does
not project in the least from the other portions of the building,
fails to break the aridity of the general lines, and is hardly
perceived, although it is of gigantic proportions.
The first place you enter is a vast courtyard, at the extremity of
which is the portal of a church, presenting no remarkable feature,
except some colossal statues of prophets, with gilt ornaments, and
figures painted rose-colour. This courtyard is flagged, damp, and
cold; the angles are overgrown with grass; you no sooner place
your foot in it than you are oppressed with _ennui_, just as if
you had a weight of lead upon your shoulders; you feel your heart
contract; you think that all is over--that every joy is henceforth
dead for you. At a distance of twenty paces from the door you smell
an indescribable icy and insipid odour of holy water and sepulchral
caverns, which is borne to you by a current of air loaded with
pleurisy and catarrh. Although, outside, there may be thirty
degrees of heat, the marrow freezes in your bones; you imagine that
the warmth of life will never again be able to cheer the blood in
your veins, which has become colder than a viper's blood. The air
of the living cannot force its way through the immense thickness of
the walls, which are as impenetrable as the tomb, and yet, in spite
of this claustral and Moscovitish cold, the first object I beheld,
on entering the church, was a Spanish woman kneeling on the ground,
beating her breast with one hand, and with the other fanning
herself with equal fervour. I recollect that her face had a kind
of sea-green tint, which makes me shiver even now, whenever I think
of it.
The cicerone who conducted us over the interior of the edifice was
blind, and it was really most marvellous to see with what precision
he stopped before the pictures, naming the subject of each one, and
the artist by whom it was painted, without the least hesitation
or mistake. He took us up to the dome, and led us through an
infinity of ascending and descending corridors, which rivalled in
complication the "Confessional of the Black Penitents," or of the
"Château of the Pyrenees," by Anne Radcliffe. The old fellow's
name is Cornelio; he was the merriest creature in the world, and
appeared quite to take a delight in his infirmity.
The interior of the church is mournful and naked. Immense
mouse-grey pilasters formed of granite, with a large micaceous
grain like coarse salt, ascend to the roof which is painted in
fresco, the blue, vapoury tones of which are ill suited to the
cold, poor colour of the architecture; the _retablo_, gilt and
sculptured in the Spanish fashion, with some very fine paintings,
somewhat corrects this aridity of decoration, which sacrifices
everything to some stupid notion or other of symmetry. The style
of the kneeling statues of gilt bronze on each side the _retablo_,
representing, I believe, Don Carlos and some princesses of the
royal family, is grand, and the effect is very fine. The chapter
which is opposite the high altar is an immense church in itself;
the stalls which surround it instead of being florid and decorated
with fantastic arabesques, like those at Burgos, partake of
the general rigidity, and have no other ornaments than simple
mouldings. We were shown the place where for fourteen years the
sombre Philip II., that king born to be a grand inquisitor, used
to seat himself; it is the stall that forms the angle, and a
doorway cut through the thickness of the panelling communicates
with the interior of the palace. Without pretending to possess
any very fervent amount of devotion, I can never enter a Gothic
cathedral without experiencing a mysterious and profound feeling,
an extraordinary sentiment of emotion; but in the church of the
Escurial I felt so crushed, so depressed, so completely under the
dominion of some inflexible and gloomy power, that I was for the
moment convinced of the inutility of prayer. The God of such a
temple will never allow himself to be moved by any entreaties.
After visiting the church we went down into the Pantheon. This
is the name given to the vault where the bodies of the kings of
Spain are preserved. It is octagonal in form, thirty-six feet in
diameter and thirty-eight feet in height, directly under the high
altar; so that when the priest is saying mass, his feet are on the
stone which forms the keystone of the vault. The staircase leading
into it is formed of granite and coloured marble, and closed by a
handsome bronze gate. The pantheon is lined throughout with jasper,
porphyry, and other stones no less precious. In the walls there are
niches with antique-formed _cippi_, destined to contain the bodies
of those kings and queens who have left issue. A penetrating and
death-like coldness reigns throughout the vault, and the polished
marble glitters and sparkles in the flickering torchlight; it
seems as if the walls were dripping with water, and the visitor
might almost imagine himself to be in some submarine grotto.
The monstrous edifice weighs you down with all its weight; it
surrounds, it embraces, it suffocates you; you feel as if you were
clasped by the tentacles of an immense granite polypus. The dead
bodies contained in the sepulchral urns seem more dead than any
others, and it is with difficulty that you can induce yourself to
believe that they can ever possibly be resuscitated. In the vault,
as in the church, the impression is one of sinister despair; in all
this dreary place there is not one hole through which you can see
the sky.
A few good pictures still remain in the Sacristy (the best have
been transferred to the Royal Museum at Madrid). Among them are
three or four specimens on wood of the German school, possessing
a very uncommon degree of merit. The ceiling of the grand
staircase is painted in fresco by Luca Jordano, and represents,
allegorically, Philip II.'s vow and the foundation of the convent.
The acres of wall in Spain painted by this same Luca Jordano, are
something truly prodigious, and we moderns who lose our breath at
the slightest exertion, find it a difficult task to conceive the
possibility of such labours. Pellegrini, Luca, Gangiaso, Carducho,
Romulo, Cincinnato, and many others have painted in the Escurial
cloisters, vaults, and ceilings. That of the library is the work
of Carducho and Pellegrini, and is a good sample of light, clear
fresco colouring; the composition is very rich and the twining
arabesques in the best possible taste. The library of the Escurial
is remarkable for one peculiarity, and that is, that the books are
placed on the shelves with their backs to the wall and their edges
to the spectator; I do not know the reason of this odd arrangement.
The library is particularly rich in Arabic manuscripts, and
must contain many inestimable and totally unknown treasures. At
present that the conquest of Algiers has rendered Arabic quite a
fashionable and ordinary language, it is to be hoped that this
rich mine will be thoroughly worked by our young orientalists.
The other books appeared to be mostly works of theology and
scholastic philosophy. We were shown some manuscripts on vellum,
with illuminated margins ornamented with miniatures; but, as it
was Sunday, and the librarian was absent, we could not hope for
anything else, and we were consequently obliged to depart without
having seen a single _incunable_ edition; which, by the way, was a
much greater disappointment to my companion than to myself, who,
unfortunately, am not an enthusiast in the matter of bibliography,
or anything else.
In one of the corridors is placed a white marble Christ the size
of life, attributed to Benvenuto Cellini, and some very singular
fantastic paintings in the style of the Temptations of Callot
and Teniers, only much older. In other respects it is impossible
to conceive anything more monotonous than these narrow, low, and
interminable corridors of grey granite, which circulate all through
the edifice like the veins in the human body; you must really
be blind to find your way about them; you go up stairs and down
stairs, you make a thousand twistings and turnings, and if you only
walked about three or four hours you would wear out the soles of
your shoes, for the granite is as rough as a file, and as harsh
as so much sand-paper. From the dome you perceive that the balls
which, when viewed from below, did not appear larger than horses'
bells, are of an enormous size, and might serve as monster globes.
An immense panorama unfolds itself at your feet, and you perceive
at one glance the hilly country which separates you from Madrid;
on the other side you behold the mountains of Guadarrama. From
this position, too, you see the whole plan of the building; your
eye plunges into the courtyards and cloisters, with their rows of
superposed arcades, and their fountain or central pavilion; the
roofs appear like so many simple ridges, just as they would in an
engraving that gave a bird's-eye view of the place.
When we ascended to the dome, a stork with three little ones was
perched in a large straw nest, that resembled a turban turned
upside down, placed on the top of one of the chimneys. This
interesting family presented the strangest appearance in the world;
the mother was standing on one leg in the middle of the nest,
with her neck stuck between her shoulders, and her beak reposing
majestically upon her breast, like a philosopher in meditation; the
little birds were stretching out their long beaks and their long
necks to ask for food. I hoped to witness one of those sentimental
scenes of natural history, where we see the large white pelican
wounding her own breast to nourish her offspring; but the stork
appeared to be very little moved by these demonstrations of hunger,
and did not move more than the stork engraved on wood which adorns
the frontispiece of the books coloured by Cramoisi. This melancholy
group increased still more the profound solitude of the place,
and imparted a kind of Egyptian character to this Pharaoh-like
assemblage of buildings. After descending from the dome, we visited
the garden, where there is more architecture than vegetation. It
consists of a succession of large terraces and parterres of clipped
boxwood, representing a series of designs similar to the patterns
of old damask silk, with a few fountains, and pieces of greenish
water; it is a wearisome, solemn garden, as formal as a _Golilla_,
and altogether worthy of the morose-looking edifice to which it is
attached.
There are said to be one thousand one hundred and ten windows in
the exterior of the Escurial alone, a fact which greatly astonishes
the cockney visitor. I did not count them, as I preferred believing
the report to entering upon an undertaking of such magnitude; but
the fact is not improbable, for I never saw so many windows in one
place; the number of the doors is equally fabulous.
I took leave of this desert of granite, this monastic necropolis,
with an extraordinary feeling of satisfaction and delight; it
seemed as if I were restored to life, and that I could once more
feel young, and enjoy the wonderful creation of God, which I had
lost all hope of doing, while under these funereal vaults. The warm
bright air enveloped me as with some soft cloth of fine wool, and
warmed my body, that was frozen by the cadaverous atmosphere; I was
freed from the architectural nightmare, which I thought would never
end. I would advise those people who are absurd enough to pretend
that they are suffering from _ennui_ to go and pass three or four
days in the Escurial; they will there learn what _ennui_ really
means, and, for the rest of their lives, will always find a fund of
amusement in the thought that they might be in the Escurial, and
that they are not.
When we returned to Madrid, all our acquaintances were astonished
and delighted at beholding us once more alive. Very few persons
return from the Escurial; they either die of consumption in two
or three days, or blow out their brains,--that is, if they are
Englishmen. Luckily, we both enjoy a very good constitution; and
as Napoleon said of the cannon-ball which was to carry him off,
the building that is to kill us is not yet built. Another thing
which did not cause less surprise was the fact of our bringing
our watches back with us; for in Spain there are always, on the
high-road, persons extremely desirous of knowing what o'clock it
is; and as there are neither clocks nor even sundials at hand, they
are under the painful necessity of consulting travellers' watches.
Talking of robbers, I may as well seize this opportunity of
narrating an adventure in which we nearly sustained two of the
principal parts. The diligence from Madrid to Seville, by which we
should have gone, but from the fact of there being no more room,
was stopped in the province of La Mancha by a band of insurgents,
or of robbers, which is exactly the same thing. The robbers had
divided the spoil, and were on the point of conducting their
prisoners into the mountains, in order to obtain a ransom from
their families, (would you not suppose that all this happened in
Africa?) when another and more numerous band came up, thrashed
the first, and _robbed_ them of their prisoners, whom they then
definitively marched off into the mountains.
As they were going along the road, one of the travellers drew a
cigar-case out of his pocket, which his captors had forgotten to
search, takes a cigar, strikes a light, and lights it. "Would you
like a cigar?" he says to the chief bandit, with true Castilian
politeness; "they are real Havannahs." "_Con mucho gusto_,"
replies the bandit, flattered by this mark of attention, and, the
next instant, the traveller and the brigand are standing opposite
each other, cigar against cigar, puffing and blowing away, in
order to light their cigars more quickly. They then commenced a
conversation, and, from one thing to another, the robber, like all
commercial men, began complaining of business: times were hard,
things were in a bad state; many honest people had entered the
profession and spoilt it; the robbers were obliged to wait their
turn to pillage the miserable diligences, and, very frequently,
three or four bands were obliged to fight with one another for the
spoil of the same _galera_, or the same convoy of mules. Besides
this, the travellers, who were sure of being robbed, only took with
them what was absolutely necessary, and wore their worst clothes.
"Just tell me," said he, with a melancholy dejected air, pointing
to his cloak, which was threadbare, and patched all over, and which
would have been worthy of enveloping Probity in person, "is it not
shameful that we should be under the necessity of stealing a rag
like this? Is not my jacket one of the most virtuous description?
Could the most honest man in the world be dressed more shabbily
than I am? It is true that we keep our prisoners as hostages, but
relations, now-a-days, are so hard-hearted, that they cannot be
induced to loosen their purse-strings, so that, at the expiration
of two or three months, we are put to the extra expense of a charge
of powder and shot to blow out our prisoners' brains, which is
always a very disagreeable thing, when you have got accustomed to
their society. In order to do all this, too, we are obliged to
sleep on the ground, eat acorns, which are not always palatable,
drink melted snow, make tremendous journeys on the most abominable
roads, and risk our lives at every moment." So spoke the worthy
bandit, more disgusted with his profession than a Parisian
journalist, when it is his turn to write a _feuilleton_. "But,"
said the traveller, "if your profession does not please you, and
brings you in so little, why do you not follow some other?" "I have
often thought of doing so," replied the robber, "and so have my
comrades as well; but what can we do? We are tracked, pursued, and
should be shot down like dogs, if we were to go near a village. No,
we must continue the same kind of life." The traveller, who was
a man of some influence, remained a moment buried in thought; at
last he remarked, "Then you would willingly give up your present
calling, if you were allowed to benefit by the _indulto_ (if you
were amnestied?)" "Most certainly," answered all the band. "Do
you think it is so very amusing to be robbers? We are obliged to
work like negroes, and undergo all sorts of hardships." "Very
well," replied the traveller; "I will engage to procure you your
pardon, on condition that you set us free." "Agreed," replied the
captain. "Return to Madrid; there is a horse, some money for your
expenses on the road, and a safeconduct, which will ensure our
comrades allowing you to pass without molestation. Come back soon;
we will be at such and such a place, with your companions, whom we
will entertain as well as we can." The gentleman went to Madrid,
obtained a promise that the brigands should be allowed to take
the benefit of the _indulto_, and then set out again to seek his
companions in misfortune. He found them seated tranquilly with the
brigands, eating a Mancha ham boiled in sugar, and taking frequent
draughts from a goatskin filled with Val-de-Peñas, which their
captors had stolen expressly for them--a most delicate mark of
attention, certainly! They were singing and amusing themselves very
much, and were more inclined to become robbers, like the others,
than to return to Madrid. The captain, however, read them a severe
moral lecture, which brought them to their senses, and the whole
company set out arm in arm for the city, where both travellers
and brigands were enthusiastically received, for it was something
truly uncommon and curious for robbers to be taken prisoners by the
travellers in a diligence.