The Sunny South: An Autumn in Spain and Majorca

by John William Clayton

CHAPTER VIII.

THE ESCORIAL.—ITS PRECINCTS.—SPIRIT AND CHARACTER OF THE EDIFICE.—MAUSOLEUM OF THE KINGS OF SPAIN.—MELANCHOLY GUIDE.—SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGES.—ROYAL REMAINS.—CHARLES V.—PHILIP II.—THE PLAZA MAYOR OF MADRID.—QUEEN ISABELLA AT THE OPERA.

THE village in the vicinity of the great palace is called El Escorial from the quantity of scoriæ of iron which is found strewn about the neighbourhood, the débris of extinct iron mines. The region, from the midst of which rises the enormous mass of the second Philip's convent-palace, is very forlorn and gloomy—a spot over which we may say, figuratively, the sable wing of desolation hangs heavily. The masses of broken masonry once formed the offices of the palace which the French destroyed in war, and they now cover the sides of the barren mountains with their ruins for leagues around. The population of the rotting village, who are seething in squalor, consist almost entirely of poor beggars, crawling through the miserable rock-strewn streets, in rags which scarcely conceal their nakedness. Hungry-eyed dogs prowl, like wolves, amongst the broken walls. The whole landscape is wild and lifeless, and our glance wanders far away over lonely plains to the sad horizon, with nothing to refresh the eye, fatigued by such an expanse of grey stony regions, but forests of mournful pine, and the lofty peaks of shattered mountains in the distance, the grey giant pile of the convent itself looming in the midst like the stupendous landmark of some inexorable fate set up to outwatch the cycle of ages. The place is one of great solemnity, and one cannot approach it without feeling oppressed by its gloom; nor was that painful impression at all alleviated by the squalid and decaying appearance of the more humble human habitations in its neighbourhood, the inmates of which were equally dull, hopeless, and sad in their aspect.

The Escorial itself may be described as an enormous heap of granite formed into a tripartite whole—a church, palace, and convent. To enter into the spirit of the place the mind of the writer should be imbued with those cold and gloomy hues which characterised that of Philip II., its founder. The nature of the man, who was at once a despot and a bigot—in a word, a monarch educated by ecclesiastics—affords a key to the nature of the immense building which he reared. To be able to describe, one should feel. And here, in this vast tomb-like edifice, one does feel an indescribable awe, a sense of veneration in the contemplation of the mighty effort of the human intellect and imagination that must have been exerted in conceiving, planning, and executing a work of such stupendous proportions. Superstition is no doubt a great evil, but it has aided in developing that spirit to which we owe some of the grandest edifices that the past has transmitted to us—some of them, dreary follies, like this, even while we admit them to be magnificent works of art. The Escorial, in fact, is the mind of Philip in stone. It exemplifies no era in art, no national peculiarities. It is the costly caprice of a man—half monarch, half monk—of a proud and bigoted spirit, too superb to forego the haughty functions of royalty, too pious not to desire to perpetuate the fame of his religious devotion to all time and generations, although devoid entirely of that quiet humility and simple piety which are the characteristics of true devotion, and place a brighter diadem on the head of kings than either crowns of gold or a vain display of sanctity.

The Escorial is said to owe its origin to a vow of gratitude made by Philip to his patron saint, St. Lawrence, on the occasion of the victory of St. Quentin, gained by him over the French, and to the constantly expressed desire of his father, the Emperor Charles V., to have a burial-house of suitable Grandeur for himself and his descendants. Approaching the building we were met by a melancholy ecclesiastic, who looked as if a glass of port wine would do him a world of good. This personage was to be our conductor through the extensive pile of buildings. We passed beneath a lofty portal into a long gloomy corridor, which seemed to dwindle away into endless distance. As we looked around and above, at the ponderous blocks composing this mountain of granite, the door closed behind us with a dull, heavy sound, shutting us up amongst the wide labyrinthine maze of innumerable passages and galleries, crossing and recrossing one another in incomprehensible order. [13] We could not help feeling at the moment as if we were bidding adieu to the world, to life, and to hope.

The passages through which we were led were often very draughty; but the vast gloomy halls were magnificent. Grim statues were arranged along the walls, and the ceilings were adorned with beautiful paintings, now fading. The staircases we ascended were so broad and colossal that they might have supported the tread of giants. We entered also some dark damp passages, on either side of which were ranged long rows of gloomy damp cells. As we followed our melancholy guide we asked him many questions, which were answered in sad tones, accompanied by sighs. Some enormous courts, open to the day, were covered with the rank weeds growing between the stones with which they were paved, as they did on the stupendous walls rising like Titan tombs around us.

We entered a huge vaulted gallery or saloon, with arched roof, and walls all ablaze with the rich coloured fancies of old painter-poets, supported by fluted columns of marble with gilded capitals, and surrounded with splendid cabinets set with jewels. These latter contain the far-famed illuminated missals and manuscripts of the Escorial. Through corridor and passage, through cloister and portal, through long suites of apartments hung with tapestry, lace, and silk, and commanding from their windows wide-spread views of the desolate plains and rugged mountains, we followed our dejected guide, ever and anon meeting his earnest glance. Passing through a low stone doorway we came suddenly into a lofty, superb, and solemn temple, supported by great granite piers, massy and solid enough in appearance to sustain the fabric of a world. When one contemplated the height of the stately walls, he could not but regard with wonder the amount of labour that must have been expended in the erection of a building of such amazing dimensions.

One of the great ends which these noble temples serve is the production of that feeling of veneration with which one cannot but be inspired when he enters their precincts. Devotion is readily kindled at such altars; and those who covered the face of Europe with these Christian fanes, knew well how they might best gather into one flock all who desired to make open profession of their Christian faith.