Italian Letters of a Diplomat's Wife: January-May, 1880; February-April, 1904

We waited until 4.30 hoping the rain would stop. It didn't, but the clouds lightened a little and we thought we would go and see the Duomo. I had forgotten how beautiful it is—those great wide aisles quite bare—no chairs, nothing to break the line until quite at the high altar, and the light from the old glass windows coming from so high over our heads it seemed straight from heaven. We sat some little time in one of the side chapels. It looked vast and mysterious—one had such an impression of space and height. Various guides came up and supposed we would not care to go up on the roof on such an afternoon. We told them we would come back the next day if it was fine. They looked so disappointed at having nothing that we finally went down into the crypt to see the tomb and body of San Carlo Borromeo. We had both seen it before but I didn't mind reviving my souvenirs. We had tapers of course as it was quite dark, but we saw quite well the coloured marbles and precious stones of the little chapel—also the body of the Saint, marvellously preserved. It looked very small—hardly the size of a grown man. The guide of course wanted to show us all sorts of relics, and the trésor of the Cathedral, but we preferred going up again to the church, and wandered about looking at the marble tombs and monuments—there are not many, and they are quite lost in the enormous building. Quite down at the bottom of the church, near the door under a baldaquin, is a font in porphyry, said to be the sarcophagus of some saint. The church looked immense as it grew darker and the light gradually faded, leaving deep shadows everywhere. When we turned back, just as we were going out, to have a last glimpse, the high altar seemed far away, and the tall candles looked like twinkling lights seen through a mist or veil.

We walked about a little under the arcades. W. wanted some cigars and I 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, Hôtel 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 gérant 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 Piémont." 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-à-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-à-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 Présidence du Maréchal 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, crêpe 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.