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.