ARTS & MANNERS

I’ve never been to the Balkan countries, so I can’t make a flat, apodictic statement that Madrid is the dullest capital in Europe. But I speak from firsthand experience when I say that it is the dullest in Western Europe. Granted, the Prado (which means “lawn” or “meadow” in Spanish) is one of the world’s greatest galleries. Granted, the Ritz (which means “grand luxe” in any language) is one of its greatest hotels. But when you have seen these two, conveniently across the street from one another, you have seen Madrid, as far as I’m concerned. I daresay there is an interesting palace or museum somewhere about, but before I ever manage to locate it, boredom always drives me out of town. This past summer, happily, it drove me 33 miles to the northwest, to a new (for me) attraction, a monument that ranks in drama and grandeur with La Ferrière, Henri Christophe’s towering, lowering citadel in Haiti, although there is a conspicuous difference between them: La Ferrière caps a mountain; this monument is inside one.

Guidebooks call it “the National Foundation of the Holy Cross of the Valley of the Fallen.” We tourists call it “Franco’s underground cathedral.” We tourists are two-thirds right. It is certainly El Caudillo’s; his was the conception—a monument to the million dead in the civil war of 1936-39; he raised the money for it; he chose the site; he even selected and himself cut down the ebony tree that went to make the cross on the high altar. And it is certainly underground; above the ceiling is living rock. But quite as certainly it is not a cathedral, either by church law or architecturally. Church law permits only one cathedral to a diocese, and Santa Cruz’ diocese already has one, in Madrid. Architecturally, it resembles the traditional cathedrals of Beauvais and Canterbury less than the movie cathedrals of Balaban & Katz. I don’t mean to be flippant, but when I first looked down the tremendous tunnel of the nave, I had a fleeting suspicion that I had blundered into the secret subterranean hangar where Dr. Fu Manchu stored his phantom Zeppelin. This was not a place for worship, I felt, but for wonder; it moved me not to prayer, but to a whistle of amazement. I am tempted to nail down my point with a statistical hammer, but that can wait while I try to convey what you may expect at Santa Cruz.

JB

About the Author

J. Bryan III

Featured Tags

I’ve never been to the Balkan countries, so I can’t make a flat, apodictic statement that Madrid is the dullest capital in Europe. But I speak from firsthand experience when I say that it is the dullest in Western Europe. Granted, the Prado (which means “lawn” or “meadow” in Spanish) is one of the world’s greatest galleries. Granted, the Ritz (which means “grand luxe” in any language) is one of its greatest hotels. But when you have seen these two, conveniently across the street from one another, you have seen Madrid, as far as I’m concerned. I daresay there is an interesting palace or museum somewhere about, but before I ever manage to locate it, boredom always drives me out of town. This past summer, happily, it drove me 33 miles to the northwest, to a new (for me) attraction, a monument that ranks in drama and grandeur with La Ferrière, Henri Christophe’s towering, lowering citadel in Haiti, although there is a conspicuous difference between them: La Ferrière caps a mountain; this monument is inside one.

Guidebooks call it “the National Foundation of the Holy Cross of the Valley of the Fallen.” We tourists call it “Franco’s underground cathedral.” We tourists are two-thirds right. It is certainly El Caudillo’s; his was the conception—a monument to the million dead in the civil war of 1936-39; he raised the money for it; he chose the site; he even selected and himself cut down the ebony tree that went to make the cross on the high altar. And it is certainly underground; above the ceiling is living rock. But quite as certainly it is not a cathedral, either by church law or architecturally. Church law permits only one cathedral to a diocese, and Santa Cruz’ diocese already has one, in Madrid. Architecturally, it resembles the traditional cathedrals of Beauvais and Canterbury less than the movie cathedrals of Balaban & Katz. I don’t mean to be flippant, but when I first looked down the tremendous tunnel of the nave, I had a fleeting suspicion that I had blundered into the secret subterranean hangar where Dr. Fu Manchu stored his phantom Zeppelin. This was not a place for worship, I felt, but for wonder; it moved me not to prayer, but to a whistle of amazement. I am tempted to nail down my point with a statistical hammer, but that can wait while I try to convey what you may expect at Santa Cruz.