an Italian book Minghetti had recommended to me, "Sketches of Life in
Milan and Venice under the Austrian Occupation." I have been reading it
a little to-night--what an awful life for Italians--a despotic, iron
rule, police and spies everywhere, women even making their way into the
great Italian houses and reporting everything to the police--the
children's games and little songs, the books and papers the family read,
the visits they received. The most arbitrary measures prevailed--no
young man allowed to leave the city--no papers nor books allowed that
were not authorized by the government--and when arrests were made, the
prisoners, men or women, treated most cruelly. The Austrians must have
felt the hatred and thirst for vengeance that was smouldering in all
these young hearts. It seems all the girls and young women, even of the
poorest classes, made themselves flags (tricolour) out of bits of
anything (paper when they couldn't get anything better) and gave them to
all the men, preparing for the "Cinque giorni" when many of them went
down under the Austrian bayonets, giving their lives cheerfully and
proudly for their country. Radetzsky must have been a monster of
cruelty. How they must hate the white uniform and the black and yellow
flag.
The city is quiet enough to-night. I suppose it is not an opera night.
It is only half-past ten and we are on one of the principal
thoroughfares, but nothing is passing in the street. The hotel, too, is
quiet, one doesn't hear a sound. I fancy most travellers go to the new
hotel--the Cavour. We are quite satisfied here, and are most
comfortable--the landlord very attentive. He and W. are becoming great
friends--they talk politics (Italian) every night while W. smokes.
Friday 7th.
I see I shall always write at night. After coffee and half an hour in
the reading-room (I always go and have a look at the papers while W.
smokes) we come upstairs. W. plunges at once into his notes, and I read
and write. It has been lovely to-day and we have had a nice afternoon.
W. came home to breakfast at 1, as he wanted to see the Brera and
"Cenacolo" once again; and it is of course too late when we start for
our afternoon drive at 4.30. We walked to the Brera--it isn't far--and
were there a long time. We made a long stop in the vestibule looking at
the Luini frescoes--all scenes in the Virgin's life--Madonnas, angels,
saints--quantities of figures, and colours and accessories of all
kinds--wonderful trees and buildings and clouds with angels and seraphim
rising out of them. They must have had marvellous imaginations, those
early Italian painters. They never saw anything to suggest such pictures
to them, and of course never read anything--there were no books to
read--merely written manuscripts difficult enough for scholars to
decipher. All the wonderful scenes--Nativity, Coronation, etc.--evoked
out of their own brains. I think I like the Annunciation the best of
all the scenes of the Virgin's life. There is a beautiful one in the
Pitti--I forget now by whom--the Virgin just risen from her chair with a
half-dazed, half-triumphant look, and the angel kneeling before her with
his lily. I like some of the German ones, too, but they are much more
elaborate--the Virgin often standing in a wide arch--a portico--more
figures in the background--and the Virgin herself quite a German
girl--not at all the lovely, spiritual head of the Italian masters.
We walked through all the rooms. The Venetian pictures (Paul Veronese
school) looked beautiful. W., too, was struck with the splendid
colouring. Some of the names quite unknown, and if one looked too
closely there were perhaps faults of drawing and exaggeration of colour,
but the effect was extraordinary. He admired the men's portraits
excessively, by Titian, Tintoretto, Moroni, etc. They are very
fine--sometimes a soldier with keen, hard eyes, clad in complete
armour--often a noble, some grand seigneur of his time, in black velvet
and fur with jewelled cap and chain, a fine patrician head and
thoughtful face. We didn't see the young guide who went about with me--I
was rather sorry--I wanted W. to hear his beautiful Italian.
We stayed so long looking at everything (Luini's pictures are most
interesting, too--he must have had an extraordinary capacity for work)
that we had just time to get a cab and drive over to Santa Maria delle
Grazie to see the "Cenacolo" as it shuts at 4. The Saviour's head, St.
John, and some of the other faces are beautiful--but it is so faded (and
on the other hand has been touched up a little) that I was disappointed.
It was a beautiful bright afternoon and we saw as well as possible, but
really "decay's effacing fingers" have been allowed too much sway. They
told us it was impossible to guard against the damp, and that eventually
the whole thing would be blotted out. However, it has stood the test
pretty well through all these years.
We went into the church, which was quite empty, except one figure in
black, absorbed and motionless, kneeling on the stone pavement. Poor
woman, I hope she got what she was praying for so earnestly. From there
we went to the church of St. Ambrogio, which is a fine old building--the
frescoes and inscriptions much faded. The iron crown used to be kept
there (they told us the Kings and Emperors came there to be crowned) but
it is now at Monza. I declined any more churches and regular
sight-seeing after that--so we went back to the hotel where the carriage
was to meet us, went for our cup of tea to Cova's, and then started for
a drive.
The country quite around the city is not particularly interesting--much
cultivated, but flat--vineyards, corn and rice fields all intersected
with numberless little canals. Though it was late, 6 o'clock, people
were still working in the fields and seemed to keep to their work much
more steadily than the peasants about Rome and Florence who were always
stopping to talk or look at whatever was passing. We met bands of them
trooping along the road--they were generally tall, broad-shouldered,
strong men--quite the northern type. We crossed some soldiers,
too--cavalry and infantry--quite a big detachment--all had their kits,
and baggage wagons following. They were evidently changing garrison. I
didn't think the troops looked very smart. The horses were small and
very thin, and the men (infantry particularly) dragged along and were
rather dirty. Just as they passed us the music struck up a sort of quick
march, and it was curious to see the instantaneous effect. The men
straightened themselves up, moved more quickly and lightly--it was
quite different.
I hoped we should get a view of the mountains, but the sunset, though
beautiful, was rather misty--however the coachman told us that meant
fine weather for to-morrow which will be nice as we are going up on the
top of the Cathedral. I was glad to have a little rest before dinner. I
plunged again into my book, which is madly interesting--but such
horrors--a long imprisonment like Silvio Pellico's was merciful compared
to some of the tortures and cruelties--and it seems the Emperor himself
was the hardest of all--never forgetting nor pardoning nor listening to
any petition or prayer for mercy--no wonder the people were
infuriated--mad with rage--women and children working at the barricades
during the "five days"; and the old ones, too infirm to take an active
part, at the windows pouring down boiling water and oil on the Austrian
soldiers. However, I suppose it is the history of all street fighting. I
remember the hideous tales they told us of the Paris Commune, when we
went back there after the war--how maddened the Versaillais were at the
shots, missiles and boiling water which came from all the windows upon
them. The reprisals were terrible when the regular troops finally got
the upper hand--and I suppose no one will ever know how many innocent
people were shot in the first flush of success.
I read out bits of my book to W. He said he didn't think the account
exaggerated--of course they had chosen all the worst cases. He was at
Versailles during the Commune, and saw the first batches of prisoners
brought in--such awful looking people--many young, very young men, with
wild reckless faces. They probably didn't know, half of them, what they
had been fighting for--a vague idea of patrie and liberty, and the
natural love of the Parisian gamin for a row and a barricade.
_To H. L. K._
MILAN, HOTEL DE VILLE,
May 9, 1880.
We have had an awful day, dear mother, pouring steady rain since early
morning--clouds grey and low shutting out the city entirely; really so
dark I could hardly see to dress--and the streets apparently deserted.
W. didn't mind, and was off as usual to his coins at 9 o'clock. He did
have a remords de conscience at leaving me all alone all day shut up in
a little hotel salon, and said if I would come and get him about 3 we
would try and see something.
I wrote two letters which will rather amuse the family as they say I
only write when I am boring myself in the country or having a series of
rainy days--Janet always calls them my rain letters. However, when I had
written two my energy in that line was exhausted, and I felt I couldn't
sit another moment in that dark salon, so I summoned Madame Hubert (I
don't generally care to have a maid for a companion but I didn't like to
walk about the streets of a foreign city alone) and we started off with
short skirts and umbrellas. The gerant nearly fell off his high stool in
the bureau when he saw me preparing to go out--wanted to send for a
carriage, a fiacre, anything--but I told him I really wanted to walk,
which filled him with amazement. Italians as a rule don't like walking
at all, and he thought I was quite mad to go out deliberately, and for
my pleasure, on such a day.
It wasn't very pleasant in the streets--everybody's umbrella ran into
me, and the pavements were wet and slippery. We finally took refuge
under the arcades, but there we got quite as much jostled, for everybody
who was out, was there; and the sudden gusts of wind and rain around the
corners and through the arches were anything but pleasant. I wasn't at
all happy, but I liked it better than sitting in the room at the hotel.
I was so draggled and my boots so covered with mud that I was rather
ashamed to cross the big hall of the hotel when I came in.
I found a letter from Gert saying she was so glad we had such delightful
weather for Milan. I wish she could look out of my window at this
moment. She wouldn't know if she were in Milan or Elizabethtown. The
clouds are very low on the roofs of the houses--the city has disappeared
in a mist, I can just see across the street. The pavements are
swimming--quite rushing torrents in the gutters, and I look down upon a
sea of umbrellas.
I started out again about 3--in a carriage this time--and went to get
W.--extract him from his coins if I could. There was no one, apparently,
in the Museum, but a smiling concierge took me to the antiquity and coin
rooms where I found W. very busy and happy; quite insensible to rain or
any outside considerations. He said the light wasn't very good. A musty
old savant with a long ragged beard and very bright black eyes was
keeping him company. _He_ was delighted to see me, for he knew that
meant stopping work for that afternoon. I talked to him a little while
W. was putting his papers in order, and it was evident he had never seen
any one with such a capacity for steady work. He encouraged us very much
to go and see something (anything that would take us out of the coin
room) but we really didn't know what to do with ourselves--a country
drive wasn't inviting and it was too dark and late for pictures--all the
galleries close at 4. The padrone had recommended the flower show to us
in the public gardens, so we thought we would try that. The flowers were
all under glass and tents, so we were dry overhead, but the ground was
wet and muddy--a general damp, chilly feeling everywhere. I am sure the
place is lovely on a bright summer day. There are fine trees, splendid
horse chestnuts, pretty paths and little bosquets. The poor flowers
looked faded and drooping, even under cover. The roses were
splendid--such enormous ones with quantities of leaves, very full. The
finest were "Reine Marguerite," "Marguerite de Savoie," "Princess de
Piemont." I asked one of the gardeners if the Queen was very fond of
flowers--the "Marguerite de Savoie" was a beautiful white rose. "Oh,
yes," he said, enthusiastically, "the Queen loves flowers and everything
that is beautiful." I thought it such a pretty answer. He showed us,
with great pride, a green rose. I can't say I admired it, but it is so
difficult and so expensive to produce that I don't think we shall see
many. We walked about and looked at all the flowers. Some of the
variegated leaves were very handsome. There was a pink broad leaf with a
dull green border and an impossible name I should have liked to take
away, but the man said it was an extremely delicate plant raised under
glass--wouldn't live long in a room (which was what I wanted it for). We
thought we would go back and have tea in a new place under the
arcades--in the Galleria. The tea was bad--had certainly never seen
China--as grown, I daresay, in the rice fields near the city, so we
declined that and ordered chocolate, which was very good, and panettoni.
W. was rather glad to have something to eat after his early breakfast.
It was pouring, but we were quite sheltered in the corner of the
veranda; so he smoked and we looked at the people passing and sitting
near us. They were certainly not a very distinguished collection--a
good many officers (in uniform), loungers who might be anything--small
functionaries, I should think--few women of any description, and no
pretty ones. The peasant woman coming out of the fields was much
better-looking than any we saw to-day.
W. had had visitors in the coin room this morning. The Director, who
came, he thinks, out of sheer curiosity to see how any one, for his
pleasure, could work five or six hours at a time. He brought with him a
Greek savant--a most intelligent young man who apparently knew W.'s
collection almost as well as he did--and all the famous collections of
Europe. They had a most interesting talk and discussion about certain
doubtful coins of which 3 Museums--London, Petersburg and Milan--claim
to have the only originals. We talked over our plans, but I think we
have still two or three more days here. We want to go to Monza. They say
the old town and church are most interesting, as well as the Royal
Villa.
It was rather amusing in the reading-room after dinner. There were many
more people--women principally, and English. Some of them had been
buying things at the two famous bric-a-brac shops, and they were very
much afraid they had paid too much, and been imposed upon. They finally
appealed to me (we had exchanged papers and spoken a few words to each
other) but I told them I was no good, nothing of a connoisseur for
bric-a-brac, and particularly ignorant about lace. They showed it to me,
and it looked very handsome--old Venetian, the man had told them. They
had also some silver which they had bought at one of the little shops in
the Piazza dei Mercanti. I think I will go and see what I can find
there.
I found W. deep in his Paris courrier when I got upstairs. There was a
heap of letters and papers, also Daudet's book "Souvenirs de la
Presidence du Marechal de MacMahon" which l'Oncle Alphonse had sent us,
said everybody was reading it at the clubs. W. figures in it
considerably, not always in a very favourable light, as judged by
Monsieur Daudet; but facts speak for themselves, even when the criticism
is not quite fair. I suppose it is absolutely impossible for a Royalist
to judge a moderate Republican impartially. I think they understand the
out-and-out Radical better. The book is clever. I read out bits to W.
(which, by the way, he hates--loathes being read to). It was interesting
to read the life we had just been leading described by an outsider.
I think W. will give himself a holiday to-morrow if it is fine (at the
present moment, with the wind and rain beating against the windows, that
seems a remote possibility). He will come back to breakfast and we will
have our afternoon at Monza. I have finished my book of the Austrian
rule, and I am really glad--the horrors quite haunted me. It seems
incredible that in our days one Christian nation should have been
allowed to treat another one so barbarously. I should like to go back to
my childish days and read "Le mie Prigioni," but I found a life of
Cavour downstairs in the hotel library, so I think I shall take that.
May 10th.
It is lovely this morning (though when the weather changed I don't know,
as it seemed to me I heard a steady downpour every time I woke in the
night), however, at 9 o'clock it was an ideal summer day, warm, a bright
blue sky, no grey clouds or mist, one could hardly believe it was the
same city. The atmosphere is so clear that the snow mountains seem
almost at the bottom of the street. I went for a walk with Madame Hubert
through the old parts of the city--such curious, narrow, twisting
little streets. We went into the Duomo for a moment, it looked
enormous--cool and dark except where a bright ray of sunshine came
through the painted windows, but so subdued that it didn't seem real
sunlight seen through all the marvellous coloured glass. There were a
few people walking about in little groups, but they were lost in the
great space. One didn't hear a sound--the silence was striking--there
wasn't even the usual murmur of priest or chorister at the altar as
there was no mass going on.
We asked the way to the Piazza dei Mercanti on the other side of the
Duomo. It is a curious old square--a very bad pavement, grass growing in
places between the stones, and all sorts of queer, irregular buildings
all around it--churches, palaces, porticos, gateways--a remnant of old
Milan. At each end there were little low shops where many people were
congregated. I don't know if they were buying--I should think not as
they seemed all rather seedy, impecunious individuals judging by their
shabby, not to say worn-out garments--all Italians--I think we were the
only foreigners in the Piazza (yet it is one of the sights of Milan,
mentioned in the guide books). We went, too, and looked at some of the
things spread out for sale--many old engravings, carved wooden frames,
gold and silver ornaments, and some handsome cups and flagons very
elaborately worked--also some bits of old stuff, brocade, and a curious
faded red velvet worked in gold, but all in very bad condition. I
couldn't find a good piece large enough to make an ordinary cushion. In
one corner, squatting in the sun, were two big, dark men with scarlet
caps on their heads (they looked like Tunisians). They had muslins,
spangled with gold and silver, crepe de Chine, and nondescript
embroidered squares of white, soft silk with wonderful bright embroidery
and designs--moons, and ships and trees. We spoke to them in French, but
they didn't understand, and answered us in some unintelligible
jargon--half Italian, with a few English words thrown in.
Some of the old palaces are fine, one in particular which seems to be a
sort of bourse now. The portico was crowded with men, all talking at the
top of their voices. We had glimpses through the crowd of a fine
collection of broken columns, statues, tablets and bas-reliefs inside,
but we didn't attempt to get in; though a friendly workman in the
street, seeing us stopping and looking, evident strangers, told us we
ought to go in and see "le bellezze" (the beautiful things). There is an
equestrian statue on one side of the palace--I couldn't quite make out
the name, but the inscription says that among other great deeds he
"burnt many heretics." I don't suppose they gave him his statue
exclusively on that account, but the fact was carefully mentioned. We
wandered about rather aimlessly, leaving the Piazza, and finally found
ourselves in a wide, handsome street--large palaces on one side and the
canal running through the middle. The canal is really very
picturesque--the water fairly clear, reflecting the curious, high,
carved balconies and loggias (some of them covered with creepers and
bright coloured flowers) that hang over the canal. They seemed all large
houses, with the back giving on the canal; some of the low doors opening
straight out on the water were quite a reminder of Venice; and when
there was a terrace with white marble balustrade and benches one could
quite imagine some of Paul Veronese's beautiful, fair-haired women with
their pearls and gorgeous red and gold garments disporting themselves
there in the summer evenings. The palaces on the other side of the
street are fine, stately mansions--large doors open, showing great
square courts, sometimes two or three stretching far back--sometimes a
fountain and grass plot in the middle--sometimes arcades running all
around the court, with balconies and small pointed windows--coats-of-arms
up over the big doors, but no signs of life--no magnificent porters such
as one sees in Rome in all the great houses. They all looked in perfectly
good condition and well cared for. I wonder who lives in them.
We came out at the Place Cavour and had a look at the statue, which is
good--in bronze--an energetic standing figure with a fine head, very
like--one would have recognised it anywhere from all the pictures one
has always seen of Cavour. There is no group--he standing alone on a
granite pedestal--a woman (Fame) kneeling, and writing his name on a
scroll. I liked it very much--it is so simple, and we have seen so many
allegorical groups and gods and goddesses lately that it was rather a
relief to see anything quite plain and intelligible.
I wasn't sorry to get back to the hotel and rest a little before
starting again this afternoon. I liked walking through the little old
crooked streets--they were not empty, there were people in all of them,
but decidedly of the poorer classes. They are a naturally polite,
sympathetic race--always smiling if you ask anything and always moving
to one side to let you pass--unlike the stolid German who calmly and
massively takes the middle of the pavement and never dreams of moving to
one side, or considering anybody else. I have just been jostled by two
stout specimens of the touring Vaterland--they are anything but good
types. If they didn't understand the language in which Madame Hubert
expressed her opinion I think the tone said something to them, for one
man muttered a sort of excuse.
If I can keep my eyes open long enough I will finish this letter
to-night. We have had a lovely afternoon--didn't get back until 8.30 and
have only just come upstairs from dinner. We started a little after
three, in a light victoria and a capital pair of small strong
post-horses who went at a good, steady, quick trot. The drive is a short
hour and a half--not very interesting country--flat rice fields and the
same numerous little canals one sees all over Lombardy. Monza is quite a
large town--looks very old and Italian. The Cathedral was begun in the
sixth century, but rebuilt in the fourteenth. There are all sorts of
curious frescoes and relics. We saw, of course, the iron crown which all
Austrian Emperors are supposed to wear at their coronation. The last two
to wear it were Napoleon and Ferdinand I. It is really a large gold
circle with a smaller iron one inside, and studded with precious
stones--very heavy. It was shown to us with much pomp, lighted tapers,
and a priest in his vestments. He told us the iron band inside was made
out of a nail that had been taken from the Saviour's cross. He handled
it very reverently, and would hardly let me lift it to see how heavy it
was. He showed us many curious things, among others a fan of Queen
Theodolinda's, made in the 6th century. It was small, made in leather,
and really not too faded, though one had to look closely and with the
eyes of faith to see the roses the old priest pointed out.