Not without relief will the visitor leave these interminable halls and corridors over which broods the presence of death, and seek the little Silla del Rey, or King’s Chair, a mile and a half from the pile. It is a natural seat, formed of granite rocks, where Philip used to watch the progress of the building operations. It is worth visiting as affording one of the pretty views to be obtained in the midst of a generally uninviting district.
After a visit to the Escorial, the Palace of La Granja will seem what it was intended to be—the house of life and gaiety. At any other time it would seem a rather dull and depressing imitation of Versailles. It is called the Grange or Farm and appropriately enough is in the midst of charming scenery. Trees afford a shade not too often to be found in barren, scorched Castile. And in the background the snowy Guadarrama lift their heads above the pine forests. On the whole one does not blame Philip V. for his choice of a royal domain, or wonder why the present King’s father and mother spent much of their time here, soon after their marriage. Yet at this height of 4000 feet above the sea, it must be an Arctic spot at all seasons except summer. La Granja—or San Ildefonso, to give it its official name—is the residence of the Court in summer. If the Escorial expresses in stone the character of its founder, the same cannot be said of this palace, for the fifth Philip was of almost as gloomy a temper as the first. He spent very little time at the pleasaunce he had decreed, for he died a few months after its completion in 1746. Here in 1724 he abdicated the throne in favour of his son, Don Luis, on whose death eight months later he was constrained to resume the royal authority.
The palace itself is not a very interesting structure. The principal façade dates from 1737, and is buttressed by columns and pilasters, supporting an entablature and balustrade. Over the middle rises an attic story, also surmounted with a balustrade, supported by four Caryatides representing the seasons, between them being the coat-of-arms of Spain and the Bourbons. This front was designed by Juvarra, and is the most tasteful portion of the building, to which additions have been made at different epochs with little regard to harmony or good taste. The interior, however, reflects the taste of the present august occupants. Much of the heavy rubbish accumulated in preceding centuries has been relegated to the lumber room, and the vast halls and corridors have been refurnished throughout. Rich tapestries cover the walls, and the palace still contains upwards of 300 pictures, though the finest works of art have gone to fill the galleries of Madrid. The chapel is only worth visiting for the tombs of Philip V. and his Italian Queen.
But if the Palace of San Ildefonso hardly rewards the visitor for his journey from Madrid, the park is a thing of beauty and a joy at least during a long day. Here flourish the elm, the lime, the pine, and the chestnut, forming delicious woods. In the ornamental gardens exists the very finest system of fountains the world has seen. Philip V. far surpassed the achievements of the Roi Soleil in this direction. The first visit is naturally to the lake, a beautiful expanse of water on the bank of which is situated the important piscicultural establishment, founded in 1867 by the King-Consort Francisco.
The gardens are filled with statues of mythological characters, grouped with great skill among the foliage. Those most admired are the Lucretia, Daphne, Phœbus, and America. Especially beautiful is the group of Diana and her nymphs surprised by Actæon, in the centre of a magnificent fountain. Contemplating the play of the waters Philip V. is said to have exclaimed “This has amused me three minutes and cost me three millions.” A still finer and taller column of water issues from the Trumpet of Fame, breaking in a shower of crystalline drops 130 feet above the water level; while miniature rainbows interlace and form an aureole round the head of the figure. In the centre of another lake, Latona is seen, embracing her children, while her enemies, transformed into frogs, vomit forth jets of water in impotent rage, which cross and recross, forming arches in bewildering variety.
There is nothing equal to this to be seen elsewhere. The achievements of the immortal Mr Brock with fire have been eclipsed by Renato Firmin with the conflicting element. Spain can boast the finest display of hydrotechnics in the world.
Before we leave this favourite home of His Catholic Majesty it is worth while to recall a few of the events of which it has been the theatre. On the 17th September 1832, Ferdinand VII. lay here dying. All those round him—his family, his ministers, even the garrison—were devoted to the interests of Don Carlos, and even his confessor ceased not to importune the dying king to revoke the Pragmatic Sanction and to decree the exclusion of his own infant daughter from the throne. Queen Cristina, in the face of such pressure, remained inactive and despairing. With his hand guided, it is said, by the Bishop of Leon, Ferdinand at last traced his feeble signature to the decree which disinherited his child. The triumph of the Carlist faction seemed complete. Suddenly at the doors of the palace appeared the Queen’s sister, Doña Luisa Carlota, a woman of such spirit that no one there—minister or officer or prelate—dared bar her way to the King’s bedside. The court presently resounded with her shrill denunciations of the Queen’s want of courage, of the King’s weakness. She summoned to her presence the trembling minister, Calomarde, and when he offered his hand, struck him on the face. “White hands do not wound” stammered the statesman and fled from the presence of the royal mænad. Before such a tempest of righteous indignation, intriguers and schemers retired. Force at the last can always break through the meshes of treachery. Many of those who witnessed the memorable scene must have thought of the furious bull at Madrid which bore down before it the most dexterous of banderilleros, the bravest of espadas, and breaking over the barriers, dispersed a whole population. Before nightfall the decree was revoked and the succession of the Infanta Isabella confirmed anew by royal decree. Bravo Luisa Carlota!
Four years later, Cristina, now regent, had to face alone and unprotected, a mob headed by the palace guard, which broke into her room, loudly demanding the re-establishment of the Constitution of 1812. The Queen, unmoved and tactful, asked the deputation if they knew what the constitution was. According to the Honourable John Hay (see his “Castilian Days”) they replied, “No, but we hear it is a good thing, and will make salt cheaper.” The story like most good ones, is certainly untrue, and may be classed with the legend that in 1893 when there was an agitation in Belgium for an extended franchise, some peasant women presented themselves at the Town Hall with buckets to carry away their share of the “Suffrage!”
The only other royal residence which can form the goal of an excursion from Madrid is El Pardo, a shooting-box on a large scale, six miles from the capital. The hunting seat built here by Enrique III. was replaced by a palace in 1543. The building is very simple, and contains but a single court. The walls in the interior are hung with tapestries after the designs of Goya (made in Madrid) and Teniers (made at Les Gobelins). Students of Spanish art should visit this palace for a sight of the best of the very few remaining works of Gaspar Becerra—the Legend of Perseus and Andromeda. The chapel contains a copy of Ribalta’s altar-piece in Magdalen Chapel, Oxford. Over the staircase is a fine equestrian portrait of Don John of Austria, attributed to Ribera. These works of art having been inspected, there is little to detain you at El Pardo. The shooting in the adjacent covers is excellent, but few of my readers will have the time or opportunity to prove this for themselves.