The monks were very cross to say the least, but that was nothing compared to how they felt sixteen years later when the remains of Carlos were taken to El Escorial. Their removal meant that the monks had lost status. Felipe tried to make amends by giving the monastery the title of the Royal Monastery of Yuste and presenting them with a copy of Titian’s painting of La Gloria to hang over the altar, but there is no doubting they were deeply hurt by what they considered a humiliation.
And why did Felipe make such a decision? Do you recall his letter after the Spanish victory at the battle of Saint‑Quentin? In it he promised to build a church and dedicate it to San Lorenzo, since it was on his day that the battle was won. I can tell you that he built something rather more than a church. He built a huge monastery and palace providing what he considered a worthy tomb for his father. Over the years it became the family vault.
The small mountain town of El Escorial is within a reasonable distance of Madrid, close enough that Felipe could watch the monastery’s progress through his telescope from the royal palace.
It seemed an ideal site having fresh, clean and fast‑flowing streams, and a plentiful supply of all the necessary building materials. I should point out that it is a rather bleak and windswept place and that it owes its name to the ‘scoria’, the slag from the smelting process at the long worked out iron mines.
Having said that, I do recommend a visit to the Royal Monastery of San Lorenzo at El Escorial.
Did you know that San Lorenzo was a third century martyr? Oh yes, he was a Spanish deacon in Rome, who, having refused to hand over the treasures of the church to Valerian when Pope Sixtus was taken prisoner was then himself taken prisoner, placed on a gridiron and burnt to death. It is said that the monastery/palace is based on the shape of a gridiron.
Legend has it that San Lorenzo said that as soon as he had turned golden brown then he was thoroughly cooked!
But as usual I digress; there seems to be no cure for it.
Getting back to Yuste; the monastery here continued under royal patronage, the palace unused but well guarded, and life went on uninterrupted with only the rarest of visits from anyone. I suppose one might say it slipped into obscurity.
And then it happened! In August 1809.
You know of the Peninsular Wars, of Napoleon’s invasion of Spain? I will confine myself to but a small part of that whole despicable period, only that part which involved Yuste.
Some French dragoons fleeing the battlefield at Talavera, about twenty or so miles from here, broke into the monastery and palace. They brutalised the monks, committed sacrileges and profaned the church. It is all too appalling to contemplate.
They remained here, unwanted guests wining and dining, their numbers gradually increasing until finally their commander arrived. Then they left, except for a few who were far too drunk to move. Some locals were not long in seizing the opportunity. They set about the soldiers who were too far gone in their drunken stupor to retaliate. Not one Frenchman survived.
Shortly thereafter a small detachment of French cavalry arrived to round up their lazy, malingering compatriots and of course discovered their bodies.
What did they do? They ransacked everything: church, cloisters, monks’ cells, palace; having done that they set fire to it all. For eight days the fires raged.
Over the years nature completed the devastation. Where charred beams and roofs had collapsed weeds and shrubs flourished. Ivy strangled the broken pillars whose capitals lay scattered like fallen warriors, a growing blanket of wild flowers intent upon concealing the tragedy. The waters that Torriano had channelled to feed the fountains raced freely and randomly on their ways undermining any structures in their path. The ornamental patio gardens with their trimmed box hedges became forests. Flora and fauna held a free rein.
By 1941 you would not have recognised the heaps of overgrown rubble as what I had described, those many years ago, as a ‘veritable jewel nestling in an emerald sea of evergreen oaks and chestnuts’, that idyllic gem of monastery and palace of 1557.
But cheer up, for as you can see, all was not lost! For a start the palace had not been completely destroyed, although it grieves me to tell you the purposes to which it was put. Some of the rooms on the first floor were used for drying tobacco leaves and storing grain and the Grand Salon served as a kitchen and living area. Although I always thought the rooms on the ground floor were far from commodious, it still offends one’s sensitivity to know that they had become pigsties and cattle pens.
However, following years of unshakeable devotion, a sense of national pride and duty, dedicated workers brought forth this Phoenix from the ashes.
The monks then came back to the monastery.
And so it is with the greatest of joy I repeat, welcome to Yuste.
The interior has also been restored to its former glory in every detail. The archives of Simancas and the Jerónimos along with the bills of sale for items sold at the time of Carlos’s death all helped to ensure the return of the furniture, the tapestries, the paintings. The jewel is indeed shining once more in all its glory and splendour.:p>
Shall we go inside and take a look around?
After you; our friends may no longer be there going about their duties, but with a little imagination …
A Matter of Pride Page 34