Got a letter from Brelaz; well written in composition and in letters, but badly spelled. Got my trunk, after some difficulty, passed. The diligence-keepers asked if they could direct me to rooms: showed two where a man was at that moment going. Got them for 40 lire il mese; a bedroom and sitting-room, second storey, Contrado San Spirito. Sent to the custom-house. Made the men wait—sent them away for two hours, again away for one. More stoppages, and, in centimes, 3 francs to pay. They would not at first let it (the trunk) go because it was the last day of the month.
[Did they share Polidori's blunder that the day was September 31?]
Went to dine at a restaurateur's: 1-1/2-franc dinner. Afterwards put my things into a little order, dressed, and went strolling towards Teatro della Scala. Entered, two hours before beginning, alone. Immense theatre: six rows of boxes, with, I think, thirty-six in a row. _La Testa di Bronzo_, a ballet, and a comic ballet: the ballet the most magnificent thing I ever saw—splendid indeed.
_October 2._—Got up at 8. Breakfasted on grapes, bread and butter, wine, and figs. Wrote to Lord Byron. Dressed. Went to Marchese Lapone—out of town; Monsignor Brema—not at home. Walked about looking at booksellers' shops. Entered the Duomo—invisible almost, so black and dark. They were putting up drapery for Friday, which is the Emperor's birthday (probably the same as for Napoleon). Returned home, arranged my papers. Took a walk on the Corso; then to the Teatro Rè. The same price for all the places. The piece _Il Sogno di Ariosto_ [Dream of Ariosto], where Fortune, Merit, Orgoglio, with Mrs. Disinganno,[23] were all personified. The dialogue abounded in truths, especially regarding women, which they applauded. The theatre is very small, like the Haymarket. Home to bed.
_October 3._—Up at 8. Went to a circulating library: read Denina, _Vicende_, all the part on Italy and preface. To the Teatro Scelto di Milano. Enquired about Andricini etc. for my father—not found.
["Andricini" is clearly written in the transcript before me. I am not aware that there is any such Italian author as Andricini, and apprehend that the name ought to be Andreini. This author wrote, early in the seventeenth century, a dramatic poem entitled _Adamo_, which was indisputably present to Milton's mind when he was writing _Paradise Lost_. Dr. Polidori's father, who translated Milton, was probably interested in this work of Andreini.]