The Plaza Mayor in Madrid is a fine remnant of mediæval architecture, with its lofty ornamented façades, and its low dark arcades running round the square. These arcades, unfortunately, are now filled with musty slop shops, and stalls where the worst Birmingham jewellery is sold. In this immense plaza, in the year 1623, Charles I. of England—then Prince of Wales—witnessed a bull-fight in honour of his betrothal with the Infanta Maria, surrounded by all the grandees and beauty of Spain, and attended by "the profligate minister Buckingham," as good history books would call him. However, as we all know, the matrimonial engagement came to nothing, and Henrietta Maria of France was reserved for the professional attentions of the widow-maker Cromwell.
From all the country around, the square white mass of the royal palace of Madrid is seen dominating over the entire city, the immense building appearing, in comparison with the smaller houses around it, like a whale among minnows. From its terraces it commands a superb view of wide plains, stretching like a yellow sea to the Guadarrama mountains on the far horizon. It was built by Philip V., the ambitious imitator of the magnificence of the grand monarque, who aspired to possess a residence which should render Versailles insignificant. The building is, in some sort, a bad and most limited imitation of the Escorial, inasmuch as it covers a space of only four hundred and seventy-one feet square, and is no more than a hundred feet in height—a mere kernel for the shell of an Escorial. It possesses a chapel, courts, patios, no end of entrances, a perfect village of offices, and some dried-up leafless plots of ground, called by courtesy gardens. The situation is lofty, and consequently it is a veritable temple of the winds, as Her Majesty's soldiers have often experienced during the winter nights, when it was their duty to be on guard. A great patio, one hundred and forty feet square, surrounded by an open portico formed of thirty-six arches, and adorned with statues of various Roman Emperors,—and, we are bound to say, of some of the best of those magnates,—occupies the central part of the palace. Of course in this, as in most other overgrown domiciles of royalty, there is a grand staircase, spacious, costly, and magnificent, as described by enthusiastic sight-seers. It is constructed of black and white marble, and adorned with sculptured lions of the same beautiful stone. Upon one of these Napoleon is reported to have placed his hand, saying, "Je la tiens enfin cette Espagne si desirée." Having performed this little imitation of Cæsar's first action on landing upon the shores of Britain, he is also said to have observed to his brother Joseph—the puppet he had set up, "Mon frère, vous serez mieux logé que moi;" and then, in the character of invader, he began to contemplate with a fellow-feeling a portrait of Philip II., the husband of Bloody Mary of England, the builder of the Escorial and the projector of the Armada. Napoleon, in fact, is one of those inevitables who have left the impress of their name on almost all the cities of Europe. Thanks to history, legend, and tradition, there is nothing about the Cid at Madrid. The chapel royal, which is pseudo-classical in style, is adorned with Corinthian marble columns, and with frescoes. In our desire to see everything interesting, we visited even the coach-houses and harness-rooms, with the horse-trappings embroidered in the time of Charles V., &c., finishing with the splendid Armeria before mentioned.
We had the happiness of beholding Queen Isabella at the opera, through an atmosphere tolerably free from tobacco smoke. Her Majesty wore a wreath of diamonds, and a dress of white moiré silk, overlaid with tulle, &c.; and, although it is not very courtier-like to say so, we may add that the lady in question was remarkably stout, and of the middle age;—
"That on her cheek, and eke her nose,
In great abundance bloom'd the rose."
She might, in fact, be compared to the arbutus loaded with scarlet fruit, mentioned by the poet Ovid [15]—a description which ought to be very gratifying, for does not the proverb tell us that "a blush is the complexion of virtue?" The queen wore a profusion of beautiful blue-black hair, and the expression of her countenance indicated that it was possible for her, now and then, to entertain strong opinions of her own. She was, in fact, or rather is, what vulgar people would call "a lusty woman."
The opera-house is internally pretty, and very French in appearance. The presence of so many bright uniforms, profusely adorned with various orders of knighthood, contributed much to the brilliancy of the scene. Of the performance we have little or nothing to say. The same old operas which are in vogue on the fashionable stage of other European capitals are repeated here, and no new flight is attempted. Here also a curious operatic problem, which we had previously endeavoured to solve at London and Paris, suggested itself to us, wherefore, namely, a married man or father on the stage should invariably have a bass voice, a villain a baritone, and a lover or batelier a tenor? I am not aware that in ordinary life, when we enter the holy state of matrimony, our voices as a rule descend from tenor to bass, or that gentlemen who have to leave England on urgent business for a few years, come back with their tones perceptibly deepened. No doubt, however, such profound students of real life as operatic managers must have a good reason for all they do.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] Within the Escorial everything is on a colossal scale. There are 16 courts, 40 altars, 1,111 windows outside, and 1,562 inside. There are 12,000 doors, 86 staircases, and 15 sets of cloisters. There are galleries of 300 feet in length, painted in elaborate fresco, 89 fountains; and if one traversed the entire fabric in all its parts, one would have to walk ninety and odd miles. It is considered by the Spaniards as the eighth wonder of the world.