It has been pouring all day—straight down. I think it has stopped a little since dinner. We didn't stay long in the reading-room as W. is fairly launched in his coins now and puts his notes in order in the evening. I prowled this morning with Madame Hubert. Before breakfast we went to the Brera. It was almost empty but we found a nice guide, a youngish man, speaking such beautiful Italian that it was a pleasure to hear him, and well up on all the pictures. There are beautiful things, certainly. I was so glad to see some old friends. I was always so fond of the "Amanti Veneziani" of Paris Bordone. The "sposo" looks so young and straight and proud, and the girl's attitude is charming, her brown-gold head drooping on her lover's shoulder as she holds out her hand for the ring he is putting on her finger. Even the inferior pictures of the Paul Veronese school are fine—there is such an intensity of colour. The whole room seemed filled with light and warmth. I think I like the backgrounds and accessories almost as much as the figures. The draperies are so wonderfully done, one can almost touch the gorgeous stuffs, heavy with gold and silver embroidery; and there are one or two high-backed, carved arm-chairs which are a marvel. The beautiful fair women with strings of pearls in their golden hair, and white satin dresses, sitting up straight and slight in the dark wooden chairs, are fascinating; and there are quantities, for Paul Veronese and all his pupils have always so many people in their pictures.
We saw of course the "Sposalizia" in a small room quite by itself. The Virgin is a beautifully slight ethereal figure with the marvellous pure face that all Raphael's Madonnas have; but the St. Joseph looks younger than in most other pictures. Our guide was most enthusiastic over the picture. It was a treat to hear him say—"morbidezza" and "dolcissimo." We were there about an hour and a half, and that was quite long enough. One's eyes get tired. We saw splendid portraits of princes and warriors as we passed through the rooms—Moretto, Leonardo da Vinci and others.
It was still raining when we came out so we thought we wouldn't attempt any more sight-seeing, and walked up to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele where we were under cover. The Cathedral looked splendid—all the white pinnacles and statues standing out from the dark grey sky. We looked in at all the shop windows, but didn't see anything particularly striking or local except the black lace veils which so many women (not the upper classes) wear here. Madame Hubert being young and pretty was most anxious to adopt that fashion—thought it would be more suitable for Madame as all the suivantes here wore the veil—she would be less remarked going about with Madame—but Madame decidedly preferred the plain little black bonnet of the Parisian femme de chambre. It seems there is a swell Italian woman in the hotel—a Princess—whose maid always wears a veil when she accompanies her mistress in her walks abroad.
I was decidedly damp when I got back to the hotel. I breakfasted alone at my little table, and in fact was almost alone in the dining-room—there were only two other tables occupied. The head waiter was very sympathetic about the weather—they always had sun in Milan, just a mauvaise chance to-day. I had the reading-room also to myself, and found plenty of papers in all languages. I have rather a weakness for the "Kölnische Zeitung" (Gazette de Cologne). It is very anti-French, or I might really say anti-everything, as it is always pitching into somebody, but there is a good deal of general information in it.
W. came in about 3.30, having worked steadily since 9. It was getting too dark to see much more and his attendant beamed when he saw him putting up his papers and preparing to leave. He says the man is bored to death—wants to talk at first and explain things to him, but he soon realizes that W. is bent on serious work, so he desists and reads a paper and walks about the room and fidgets generally.
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.