University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER 14

Milan

My Dear Mother:

Your letter, blue skies, sunshine and the odor of flowers. What more can I ask?

We left Lucerne in a furious storm, which did not abate until we passed the part of which the guide book says, "it is crowded with visions of gorges, snowy peaks, inaccessible heights, etc." We passed through eighty tunnels, mother mine, aggregating over thirty miles, What do you think of that for a smoky time? The change in temperature come suddenly, and I found it disagreeable--so much so I could not enjoy the luncheon served en route. Such a conglomeration of odors in the little stations. Mr. B. says it is better not to have an acute sense of smell if you would enjoy fair Italia. Do you know, the only handsome men I have seen so far have been Americans. How can a girl from the United States prefer the little fellows you see over here? We have been warned not to indulge too freely in cold water and I am striving to be a moderate drinker of "Father Adam's ale," but I find it very hard. Wine is considered the proper beverage here. I have tried it, and do not consider it palatable. Wish I could have a whole pot--no, two pots--of uncolored Japan tea, served piping hot in real china cups. Two weeks in Italy and ever to remember that an indulgence in much cold water is likely to produce bowel trouble. Will you believe me when I state that several of this party have not tasted water since leaving the vessel at Antwerp? How can they exist without it?

This hotel, as usual, is very centrally located. Cook & Sons are thoughtful of their "little Cookies." After thirty minutes to remove the dust of travel, carriages appeared and a guide also, to show us the sights of Milan. I have always thought of this city in connection with a kind of hat. Wonder if I shall find it here? At three-thirty, so we were informed, Italians begin to awaken for the evening. If so, today they overslept. Not many were astir at four o'clock. At the great cathedral, the pride of Milan, I was rendered speechless, it so far surpassed my preconceived ideas of its magnitude. Its loftiest tower stands four hundred feet above mother earth. The entire edifice is of marble; 2,500 statues adorn it, and there are niches for many more. Fifty superb columns, each cut from a solid block of marble were pointed out by the guide. Altars, altars everywhere. We saw the body of St. Charles Borromeo lying in state and marvelously preserved. The jewels within the casket are worthy to ransom a king, one ruby being of fabulous value. Think of the years he has lain there for the veneration of the faithful and the flippant remarks of tourists. We were told many things of his charity and of the love the Milanese bear him, their patron saint. I used to think the nose embellishing his pictures was exaggerated. Nay, nay, mother mine, the saint possessed a regular Cyrano de Bergerac affair. I wonder if he is troubled in heaven by knowledge that his body is gazed upon by hundreds of scoffers. Would he not be happier if it was hidden away until the resurrection morn? In the sacristy were vestments so gorgeous and altar vessels so rare my eyes ached and my mouth formed the exclamation "Ah!" so frequently I have difficulty this evening to keep it closed. Above the high altar in the wall is a niche wherein is a nail from the true cross. Once a year the Archbishop comes in state and is drawn up there in a basket, opens the door, exposes the sacred relic to the faithful, gives with it a blessing, and returns it to its resting place until another twelve months roll by. Ed stopped with me at a small table near to an entrance to purchase a medal of St. Charles Borromeo, and when we turned our party had disappeared. The edifice is so vast we were fifteen minutes locating them. Does that sound incredible? We visited several churches of minor importance. In one we were shown the only altar whereon a priest offers the sacrifice of the Mass with his face toward the people. In this same church is a bronze serpent which we were gravely assured was the one elevated in the wilderness for the children of Israel. I regret to state that I giggled ecstatically, thus obtaining a reproachful glance from our Milanese instructor, and a murmured, "Why inquire too closely concerning a beautiful myth?" We had expected to see "The Last Supper," by Leonardo de Vinci, but were informed that it was being restored and would not be shown to the public for several days. "I am sorry," said Mr. B. in true English style.

The drive was glorious, beneath waving trees, blue sky, hot glimmering sunshine, and everywhere children. The Arch of Triumph is quite magnificent, a copy of the one in Paris.

The carriages provided by our good Cook & Son are so comfortable that a drive is never too long. This afternoon, our first in Italy, was far too short, and our impressions have been so agreeable that surely nothing can make us dislike the "land of flowers and sunshine."

It was quite dark when we returned to the hotel, and after dining sumptuously we sought the streets and the shops, where Ed gets his local color. He will have more anecdotes to relate when he returns than you can find time to hear. There is a vast glass covered shopping district in this city which would certainly prove a bonanza in Lucerne, if the weather is often as we found it. I am dead tired; the heat has wilted me, although I do not consider this so hot as our summers at home. The mosquitoes are blood-thirsty creatures and my pillow is of cotton, so I have a few grievances even in this Eden. Mr. B. offered consolation in this manner, "Ach! await Venice before you complain of mosquitoes, and no feather pillows in Italy."

The morning is to be spent as we please. Ed and I have planned to attend High Mass at the cathedral and enjoy the music. We have a corner room, with a full view of the long street. It is quite pleasant tonight, if the mosquitoes would cease calling "consin, consin."

Ed is sleeping as usual. He is so thoughtful of my comfort. Knowing how nervous I am he never leaves me alone in these vast hotels. I cannot bear to think of what life would be without his watchful care.

We walked miles after dinner, even entering a church and listening to a sermon, evidently very impassioned, as many were weeping audibly.

It is always hard to leave the throngs and the lights, afraid we might miss something.

Until we are enjoying the "Queen of the Adriatic," I shall bid you farewell, mother mine. I just wish I could fly to you this night, clasp you within my arms and hurry back to Italy with my precious burden. How good it is to realize dreams. I am glad I am alive, glad I am young. "God is in His heaven, all is right with the world."

Good night. I am afraid fair Luna will affect me, if I do not hurry to my little bed.

Lovingly ever,

C.