Madrid: an historical description and handbook of the Spanish capital

by Albert Frederick Calvert

Twenty-six marble urns placed in niches round the chamber contain all that was mortal of the monarchs of Spain and their consorts from Charles V. to Alfonso XII., Philip V. and Ferdinand VI. excepted. There are tombs, too, awaiting the living. Ascending the steps we pass the sealed door of the Pudridero, where the bodies are kept five years before being placed in the Pantheon, and may visit the burial chambers reserved to the Infantes and Infantas. Several of the vaults are still empty. They are in purer, colder style than the heavier Pantheon of the kings. As one ascends to the living world from these awful chambers, the question suggests itself, what is the object of it all? The Pyramids of Nile ought to have convinced man once for all of the hopelessness of any effort to preserve his body unprofaned and solemnly housed through all the years. No matter how great the dynasty, how strong the tomb, the day must come when the jealously and reverently guarded ashes will form the prey of some ghoulish invader. With Rameses exposed to the gaze of wondering Cockneys, with Alexander’s tomb an object of curiosity to tourists in the museum at Stamboul, with the tombs of the kings of Judah explored on allfours by Cook’s trippers, how can one hope for an eternal immunity from profanation for the Invalides, for Westminster, for the Escorial? Kings ought to have learnt the lesson that in the pages of history alone can they look for an earthly immortality.

The convent occupies the southern part of the building. It was inhabited, as I have said, by the religious known as the Hermits of St Jerome or Hieronymites, an Order established or recognised by Pope Gregory XI. in 1373. If it still exists it counts very few members and has played an insignificant part in ecclesiastical history compared with the spiritual descendants of Benedict, Dominic, Francis, Bruno, and Ignatius. For some reason or other Charles V. held the Hermits in particular esteem, and it was this predilection that determined his son to offer them the new monastery in 1561. The Order is likely to be best remembered by the ecclesiologist for the peculiar plan of its churches—cruciform, with diagonal lines extending from the ends of the cross-piece to the head of the upright limb.

The granite cloisters in the Doric style are, or rather were, decorated with frescoes after designs of Tibaldi, now shockingly “restored.” In the centre of the Patio de los Evangelistas is a little octagonal temple, covering a fountain. It is one of Herrera’s best works, in which granite and marble have been combined with admirable skill. The white statues of the Evangelists at the corners were sculptured by Monegro; the appropriate inscriptions are in Latin, Greek, Hebrew and Syriac.

The three Chapter Rooms of the monastery form a picture gallery of high interest. Titian is represented by a Last Supper—sadly restored; Tintoretto, by “Christ washing His Disciples’ feet,” “Christ at the house of the Pharisee,” and “Queen Esther”—all bought from the Collection of our Charles I. by the Spanish Ambassador—and by an “Ecce Homo,” “Entombment,” “Adoration of the Shepherds,” and “Annunciation”; Velazquez, by “The sons of Jacob”—perhaps the best work in the collection; El Mudo, by the “Martyrdom of St James”; El Greco, by the “Dream of Philip II. (Glory, Purgatory, and Hell)”; Ribera, by several canvasses. There is a good “Martyrdom of St. Lawrence” by Titian in the old chapel, and a few good pictures, especially by El Mudo, in the upper cloisters, reached by a grand staircase. One of the halls is called the Aula de Moral, being reserved for conferences on points of morality.

The Library is decidedly of more interest than the Convent. The books, oddly enough, are arranged with the faces, instead of the backs, outwards. The cases of ebony and cedar were designed by Herrera and harmonise well with the marble pavement and tables. There are several portraits of sovereigns here, and in cases are arranged some of the rarer books, such as the prayer-books of Charles V., Isabel the Catholic, Philip III., etc., a Virgil of the fifteenth century, and an eleventh century Codex, with the four Gospels written in letters of gold. This priceless work was begun by order of Conrad II., Emperor of the Romans. Eighteen pounds’ weight of gold is said to have been employed in the illumination.

The beginning of the collection was Philip’s own library, of 4000 volumes, to which was added in 1614 the valuable library of the Sultan of Morocco. It has of course been increased by other collections from time to time. The Arabic MSS., though not as numerous as might be expected, are extremely valuable. Gayangos, that patient Spanish Orientalist, I am informed, never had the opportunity of inspecting them.

The palace occupies the northern side of the huge edifice. It forms the least meritorious part of Herrera’s design, and was not improved by the alterations effected by order of Charles IV. The halls are dull, dreary, and altogether in the style of the eighteenth century—a sufficient condemnation. Those were days when every monarch wanted a Versailles: we see the same effort at imitation at Caserta, at the Superga, at Wilhelmshöhe and Philippsruhe. There is, of course, a Hall of Battles, celebrating with the exception of the pictures of the fight at St Quentin, Lepanto, and Higueruela, victories over the Dutch and Flemings. National self-glorification may be carried too far, but in England we are too forgetful of our glorious past. We do not dream of adorning our palaces with pictures of Crecy, Poitiers, Agincourt, Blenheim, Trafalgar, and Waterloo. You may search England in vain for monuments to William the Conqueror, the founder of the monarchy, to Edward, our great justiciar, to the Black Prince, to de Montfort or to Langton, to whom we owe our constitutional liberties. One unacquainted with our history might suppose we sprang into existence a bare century ago. In a generally conservative country like ours, this complete detachment from the past appears strangely contradictory.

This vast, empty palace contains little of interest except the two rooms inhabited by Philip. Within them all is austerity and simplicity—as befitted a king who was a monk at heart. The walls are whitewashed, the flooring of brick. The footstools remind us of the gout from which the sad king suffered—certainly not from over-indulgence in the good things of life. In this room he worked from four in the morning till midnight, his labours interrupted only by his fervent devotions. The adjoining chamber is the oratorio, of which I have already spoken, where he could assist at the celebration of Mass. Here, at the end of a two months’ illness, patiently borne, he died, grasping the very crucifix with which his father had been consoled during his last moments. His death, at any rate, was happier and more dignified than that of his victorious rival, Elizabeth, writhing out her life at Richmond in an ecstasy of remorse and chagrin.

Adjacent to the Escorial are several blocks of buildings, such as the Campaña, containing the domestic offices, and the Casa del Principe, the Petit Trianon of the palace, surrounded by gardens. In these may be seen the cross marking the spot where the baker’s boy was burnt at the stake in Philip’s reign. A queer site for a palace dedicated to the “menus plaisirs”!

The Escorial has been the scene of some important historical events, notably of the arrest and imprisonment of the Infante Ferdinand, on the charge of high treason against his father in 1807. He was afterwards Ferdinand VII. The prince was confined in the Prior’s cell and managed to communicate with his friends by the aid of a fishing line. Charles IV. had no option but to pardon his son, whose intrigues resulted indirectly in the spoliation of the palace which had been his prison, by the French a year or two later.