Whatever may be the truth of the matter, it was soon noised about by the scandalmongers of Madrid that Villamediana had planned the whole affair, and had purposely set fire to the place that he might have an excuse for clasping the Queen in his arms. This was on the 8th April 1622; and when, in August of the same year, Villamediana was assassinated in his coach at nightfall in the Calle Mayor, within a few yards of his own house,[[211]] all fingers pointed to Philip himself as the instigator of the crime; and the current jingle ascribed to Lope de Vega, in which it says that ‘el impulso fué soberano’ echoed public opinion on the matter. No blame, however, in any case can be ascribed to Isabel, nor did Philip ever cease to hold her in affection and esteem.
She was a true daughter of her father, sage in counsel, bold in action, but with a gaiety of heart that often made her pleasures look frivolous and unbecoming. More Spanish than the Spaniards, she loved the bullfight and the theatre with an intensity that delighted her husband’s subjects, who were crazy for both pastimes, but in her boisterous vitality she would often countenance amusements contrived for her which we should now think coarse. Quarrels and fights between country women would be incited, or nocturnal tumults by torchlight in the gardens of Aranjuez or the Retiro, arranged for her to witness; snakes or other noxious reptiles would be secretly set loose on the floor of a crowded theatre to the confusion of the spectators, whilst the Queen almost laughed herself into a fit, at one of the windows overlooking the scene. The Court indeed during the first years of her married life was a merry one, notwithstanding its ostentatious devotion; and, although Olivares more than once urged the King to take a more active interest in the government and give less time to his amusements, the minister’s enemies, and he had many, averred that there was nothing he really liked better than to keep the young monarch immersed in pleasure, that he himself might rule supreme.[[212]]
Much as Isabel herself loved pleasure, she began to be anxious, as troubles at home and abroad accumulated, at the complete abandonment of public affairs to the minister, and she urged Philip most earnestly to give more time to his duties. She had good reason to be distrustful, for she saw how weak to resist his impulses Philip was. His love affairs were legion, and as in the case of most of his courtiers, gallantry became a habit with him. There was, however, one affair of Philip’s that gave his wife more disquietude than most of the others. Olivares, it was said, in pursuance of his system, had agents all over Spain to send to Madrid the most talented actors and attractive actresses that could be found; and in 1627 there appeared as a member of a very clever troupe at the ‘Corral de la Pacheca’[[213]] a girl of sixteen named Maria Calderon. She was no great beauty, but of extraordinary grace and fascination, with a voice so sweet, and speech so captivating, that she subdued all hearts. Philip saw her on the stage, and fell in love with her at once. She was summoned to the room overlooking the courtyard that served the King for a private box, in order that he might listen more closely to the cadence of her lovely voice, and the inflammable heart of Philip grew warmer still. From the Corral to the palace was but a step when the king willed it, and the ‘Calderona’ became Philip’s acknowledged mistress. Gifts and caresses were piled upon her by the love-lorn King; and the Calderona, proud of her position, turned a severe face to all other lovers, needing, as she said, no favour but royal favour.
On the 17th April 1629 she had a son by the King, to the great delight of Philip. The child Juan of Austria was the handsomest member of his house, and Philip’s affection for him from the first was intense; somewhat to Isabel’s chagrin when she herself bore him a son six months afterwards.[[214]] But from the worthy ‘Calderona’ she had no more rivalry to fear. As soon as the actress could go out she sought the King, and, throwing herself at his feet, craved permission, humbly and tearfully, to devote the rest of her life to religion in a convent, now that she had been honoured by bearing a son to the King. Philip loved her still and hesitated, but she firmly refused to cohabit with him again; and with sorrow he gave way, and the Calderona became a nun.[[215]]
Isabel’s children were many, five who died at, or soon after, their births having preceded the looked-for heir of Spain, Don Baltasar Carlos, that chubby, sturdy little Prince (born in October 1629) who prances his fat pony for ever upon the canvas of Velazquez. The fastuous taste of the King and Court was satisfied to the full in the baptism of Baltasar Carlos. The Countess of Olivares, who was as supreme in the palace as her husband was in the country, held the babe at the font, seated, as we are told by an eyewitness, upon ‘a seat of rock crystal, the most costly piece of furniture ever seen in Europe’; and presents were showered upon the midwife to the value of thirteen thousand ducats. As soon as the Queen was able to appear, her birthday (21st November) was celebrated on this occasion as it had never been before. Masquerades on horseback, torchlight parades, cane contests and bullfights succeeded each other, in all of which the King made a sumptuous appearance with his brother, Don Carlos; and the Queen, who had given an heir to the crown, was honoured to the full.
This splendid Court, strutting and posturing in rich garments upon the brink of the slope which was leading to Spain’s overthrow, had the advantage of being immortalised upon canvas by the greatest master of portraiture that ever lived, and laid bare to the very soul by some of the keenest satirists who ever wielded pen. The battue parties, in which Philip and his wife delighted, for the killing of stags in an enclosure, are brought before us as if we were present by the great picture in which Velazquez has portrayed the scene.[[216]] In the park of Aranjuez, with the afternoon sun glinting through the trees, dark against a cloudless sky, the white canvas enclosure is erected. Into its gradually narrowing limits the frightened deer have been driven by mounted beaters, and at the only exit through the neck of the funnel are stationed the gentlemen, beneath a sort of platform of leafy boughs decked with red cloth, in which the ladies sit. The central figure of the twelve ladies, seated upon a crimson cushion, the better to see the sport, is the Queen, Isabel of Bourbon, dressed in a yellow robe, and wearing a white bow upon her head. Beneath the platform there await, mounted, the onrush of the deer, Philip and his two brothers, Carlos and Ferdinand, and, of course, Olivares. With their hunting knives, they slash at the deer as they fly past underneath the ladies’ bower, killing some, ham-stringing others, and leaving the rest that escape to be dealt with by the hounds awaiting them beyond. The ground beneath the bower is drenched with the warm blood of the butchered beasts, and the ladies smile approval at the sickly spectacle, whilst groups of courtiers, servants, and beaters, crowd the foreground and discuss the King’s prowess.
Another hunting scene, a little less repugnant to modern ideas, is the famous ‘Boar Hunt’ in the National Gallery in London. Here the canvas enclosure is in the hunting seat of the Pardo, and Philip, on his prancing mount, is just thrusting his forked javelin into the flank of a passing boar, whilst around him are his courtiers and companions in the sport, with Olivares nearest; and in the arena there are some clumsy blue carriages, with partially curtained windows innocent of glass except in front, in one of which sits Queen Isabel. The mules of her coach have, of course, been unharnessed and put out of harm’s way; but as the boars are agile and fierce, and had been known to leap into the coaches, the ladies themselves are armed with light javelins to repel them. Every detail of the life of this pleasure-loving Court has been fixed for us by the great painter: the ladies and gentlemen in the garb in which they lived, the dwarfs and buffoons who amused them, the palaces in which they intrigued; and, as a running accompaniment always, the sated weary face of the King from youth to age.
Fair and lymphatic, with dull blue eyes, and colourless sallow face, Philip had inherited the tradition that in all public appearances the King of Spain must never smile: and, mad votary of pleasure as he was, he never moved a muscle either in delight or annoyance whilst he was behind the footlights. Isabel was more spontaneous, and Spanish etiquette never crushed her. But as time went on and the clouds piled up for the coming tempest, her face grew heavier and her eyes more sad. Her portrait was painted many times by Velazquez, though only one specimen remains in the Museo del Prado, the equestrian figure, painted at about the time of Baltasar’s birth before misfortune had spoilt her life. Another likeness of her, now at Hampton Court, was painted ten years later (1638), shows the change wrought by trouble: but in all Velazquez’s representations of the Queen, we see the same characteristics: the large, expressive black eyes, the broad spacious forehead, and the strong full jaw; and, though the general aspect was more like her buxom mother than her clever father, Isabel’s countenance is alive with intelligence. In the later portraits the face grows weary, and the lower part is flaccid and heavy, but in all the painted portraits of Isabel by Velazquez, we have the woman herself before us; not a sensuous idealisation of her, like that painted by Rubens, and now at the Louvre.
ISABEL OF BOURBON.