.
. . You Ask The Guide Where The Cloister Is And He Replies, 'This Is
It,' And You Walk On For Half An Hour.
You see the light of another
world:
You have never seen just such a light; is it the reflection from
the stone, or does it come from the moon? No, it is daylight, but sadder
than darkness. As you go on from corridor to corridor, from court to
court, you look ahead with misgivings, expecting to see suddenly, as you
turn a corner, a row of skeleton monks with hoods over their eyes and
crosses in their hands; you think of Philip II. . . . You remember all
that you have read about him, of his terrors and the Inquisition; and
everything becomes clear to your mind's eye with a sudden light; for the
first time you understand it all; the Escorial is Philip II. ... He is
still there alive and terrible, with the image of his dreadful God. . .
. Even now, after so long a time, on rainy days, when I am feeling sad,
I think of the Escorial, and then look at the walls of my room and
congratulate myself. ... I see again the courtyards of the Escorial.
... I dream of wandering through the corridors alone in the dark,
followed by the ghost of an old friar, crying and pounding at all the
doors without finding a way of escape."
I am of another race both from the Frenchman and the Italian, and I
cannot pretend to their experiences, their inferences, and their
conclusions; but I am not going to leave the Escorial to the reader
without trying to make him feel that I too was terribly impressed by it.
To be sure, I had some light moments in it, because when gloom goes too
far it becomes ridiculous; and I did think the convent gardens as I saw
them from the chapter-house window were beautiful, and the hills around
majestic and serious, with no intention of falling upon my prostrate
spirit.
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