PADUA.
Doves of Venice--Re-cross the Lagunes--Padua--Wretchedness of
Interior--Misery of its Inhabitants--Splendour of its Churches--The
Shrine of St Antony--His Sermon to a Congregation of Fishes--A
Restaurant in Padua--Reach the Po at Day-break--Enter Peter's
Patrimony--Find the Apostles again become Fishermen and
Tax-Gatherers--Arrest--Liberty.
Contenting myself with a hasty perusal of the great work on painting
which the academy forms, and which it had taken so many ages and so many
various masters to produce, I returned again to the square of St Mark.
Doves in thousands were assembled on the spot, hovering on wing at the
windows of the houses, or covering the pavement below, at the risk, as
it seemed, of being trodden upon by the passengers. I inquired at my
companion what this meant. He told me that a rich old gentleman by last
will and testament had bequeathed a certain sum to be expended in
feeding these fowls, and that, duly as the great clock in the Gothic
tower struck two, a certain quantity of corn was every day thrown from a
window in the piazza. Every dove in the "Republic" is punctual to a
minute. There doves have come to acquire a sort of sacred character,
and it would be about as hazardous to kill a dove in Venice, as of old a
cat in Egypt. We wish some one would do as much for the beggars, which
are yet more numerous, and who know no more, when they get up in the
morning, where they are to be fed, than do the fowls of heaven. Trade
there is none; "to dig," they have no land, and, even if they had, they
are too indolent; they want, too, the dove's wing to fly away to some
happier country. Their seas have shut them in; their marble city is but
a splendid prison. The story of Venice is that of Tyre over again,--her
wealth, her glory, her luxuriousness, and now her doom. But we must
leave her. Bidding adieu, on the stairs of St Mark, to the partner of
the day's explorations, with a regret which those only can understand
who have had the good fortune to meet an intelligent and estimable
companion in a foreign land, I leaped into a gondola, and glided away,
leaving Venice sitting in silent melancholy beauty amid her tideless
seas.
Traversing again the long bridge over the Lagunes, and the flat country
beyond, covered with memorials of decay in the shape of dilapidated
villas, and crossing the full-volumed Brenta, rolling on within its
lofty embankments, I sighted the fine Tyrolean Alps on the right, and,
after a run of twenty-four miles, the gray towers of Padua, at about a
mile's distance from the railway, on the left.
Poor Padua! Who could enter it without weeping almost. Of all the
wretched and ruinous places I ever saw, this is the most wretched and
ruinous,--hopelessly, incurably ruinous. Padua does, indeed, look
imposing at a little distance. Its fine dome, its numerous towers, the
large vine-stocks which are rooted in its soil, the air of vast
fertility which is spread over the landscape, and the halo of former
glory which, cloud-like, rests above it, consort well with one's
preconceived ideas of this once illustrious seat of learning, which
even the youth of our own land were wont to frequent; but enter
it,--alas the dismal sight!--ruins, filth, ignorance, poverty, on every
hand. The streets are narrow and gloomy, from being lined with heavy and
dark arcades; the houses, which are large, and bear marks of former
opulence, are standing in many instances untenanted. Not a few stately
mansions have been converted into stables, or carriers' sheds, or are
simply naked walls, which the dogs of the city, or other creatures, make
their den. The inhabitants, pale, emaciated, and wrapt in huge cloaks,
wander through the streets like ghosts. Were Padua a heap of ruins,
without a single human being on or near its site, its desolation would
be less affecting. An unbearable melancholy sat down upon me the moment
I entered it, and the recollection oppresses me at the distance of three
years.
In the midst of all this ruin and poverty, there rise I know not how
many duomos and churches, with fine cupolas and towers, as if they meant
to mock the misery upon which they look. They are the repositories of
vast wealth, in the shape of silver lamps, votive offerings, paintings,
and marbles. To appropriate a penny of that treasure in behalf of the
wretched beings who swarm unfed and untaught in their neighbourhood,
would bring down upon Padua the terrible ire of their great god St
Antony. He is there known as "Il Santo" (the saint), and has a gorgeous
temple erected in his honour, crowned with not less than eight cupolas,
and illuminated day and night by golden lamps and silver candlesticks,
which burn continually before his shrine. "There are narrow clefts in
the monument that stands over him," says Addison, "where good Catholics
rub their beads, and smell his bones, which they say have in them a
natural perfume, though very like apoplectic balsam; and, what would
make one suspect that they rub the marble with it, it is observed that
the scent is stronger in the morning than at night." Were the precious
metals and the costly marbles which are stored up in this church
transmuted into current coin, the whole province of Padua might be
supplied with ploughs and other needful implements of agriculture. But
it is better that nature alone should cultivate their fields, and that
the Paduans should eat only what she is pleased to provide for them,
than that, by robbing the shrine of St Antony, they should forfeit the
good esteem of so powerful a patron, "the thrice holy Antony of Padua;
the powerful curer of leprosy, tremendous driver away of devils,
restorer of limbs, stupendous discoverer of lost things, great and
wonderful defender from all dangers."
The miracles and great deeds of "the saint" are recorded on the tablets
and bas-reliefs of the church. His most memorable exploit was his
"preaching to an assembly of fishes," whom, "when the heretics would not
regard his preaching," says his biographer, "he called together, in the
name of God, to hear his holy Word." The congregation and the sermon
were both extraordinary; and, if any reader is curious to see what a
saint could have to say to a congregation of fishes, he will find the
oration quoted _ad longam_ in "Addison's Travels." The mule on which
this great man rode was nearly as remarkable as his master. With a
devotion worthy of the mule of St Antony, he left his hay, after a long
fast, to be present at mass. The modern Paduans, from what I saw of
them, fast quite as oft and as long as Antony's mule; whether they are
equally punctual at mass I do not know.
My stay in Padua extended only from four in the afternoon till nine at
night. The hours wore heavily, and I sought for a restaurant where I
might dine. I was fortunate enough at length to discover a vast hall, or
shed I should rather say, which was used as a restaurant. Some rich and
noble Paduan had called it his in other days; now it received as guests
the courier and the wayfarer. Its massive walls were quite naked, and
enclosed an apartment so spacious, that its extremities were lost in
darkness. Some dozen of small tables, all ready for dinner being served
upon them, occupied the floor; and some three or four persons were
seated at dinner. I took my seat at one of the tables, and was instantly
served with capillini soup, and the usual _et ceteras_. I made a good
repast, despite the haunted look of the chamber. On the conclusion of my
dinner I repaired to the market-place, and, till the hour of _diligence_
should arrive, I began pacing the pavement beneath the shadow of the
town-hall, which looks as if it had been built as a kind of anticipation
of the crystal palace, and the roof of which is said to be the largest
unsupported by pillars in the world. It covers--so the Paduans
believe--the bones of Livy, who is claimed as a native of Padua. It was
here Petrarch died, which has given occasion to Lazzarini to join
together the cradle of the historian and the tomb of the poet, in the
following lines addressed to Padua:--
Here was he born whose lasting page displays
Rome's brightest triumphs, and who painted best;
Fit style for heroes, nor to shun the test,
Though Grecian art should vie, and Attic lays.
And here thy tuneful swan, Arezzo lies,
Who gave his Laura deathless name; than whom
No bard with sweeter grace has poured the song.
O, happy seat! O, favoured by the skies!
What store and store is thine, to whom belong
So rich a cradle and so rich a tomb!
I bought a pennyworth of grapes from one of the poor stall-keepers, and,
in return for my coin, had my two extended palms literally heaped. I can
safely say that the vine of Padua has not declined; the fruit was
delicious; and, after making my way half through my purchase, I
collected a few hungry boys, and divided the fragments amongst them.
It was late and dark when, ensconced in the interior of the _diligence_,
we trundled out of the poor ruined town. The night was dreary and
somewhat cold; I courted sleep, but it came not. My companions were
mostly young Englishmen, but not of the intellectual stamp of the
companion from whom I had parted that morning on the quay of Venice.
They appeared to be travelling about mainly to look at pictures and
smoke cigars. As to learning anything, they ridiculed the idea of such a
thing in a country where there "was no society." It did not seem to have
occurred to them that it might be worth while learning how it had come
to pass that, in a country where one stumbles at every step on the
stupendous memorials of a past civilization and knowledge, there is now
no society. At length, after many hours' riding, we drew up before a
tall white house, which the gray coat and bayonet of the Croat, and the
demand for passports, told me was a police office. It was the last
dogana on the Austrian territory. We were next requested to leave the
_diligence_ for a little. The day had not yet broke, but I could see
that we were on the brink of a deep and broad river, which we were
preparing to cross, but how, I could not discover, for I could see no
bridge, but only something like a raft moored by the margin of the
stream. On this frail craft we embarked, horses, _diligence_,
passengers, and all; and, launching out upon the impetuous current, we
reached, after a short navigation, the opposite shore. The river we had
crossed was the Po, and the craft which had carried us over was a _pont
colant_, or flying bridge. This was the frontier of the Papal States;
and now, for the first time, I found myself treading the sacred soil of
Peter's patrimony.
Peter, in the days of his flesh, was a fisherman; but some of his
brother apostles were tax-gatherers; and here was the receipt of custom
again set up. Both "toll" and "fishing-net," I had understood, were
forsaken when their Master called them; but on my arrival I found the
apostles all busy at their old trades: some fishing for men at Rome; and
others, at the frontiers, levying tribute, both of "the children" and of
"strangers;" for on looking up, I could see by the dim light a low
building, like an American log-house, standing at a little distance from
the river's brink, with a huge sign-board stuck up over the door,
emblazoned with the keys and the tiara. This told me that I was in the
presence of the Apostolic Police-Office,--an ecclesiastical institution
which, I doubt not, has its authority somewhere in the New Testament,
though I cannot say that I have ever met with the passage in my readings
in that book; but that, doubtless, is because I want the Church's
spectacles.
When one gets his name inserted in an Italian way-bill, he delivers up
his passport to the _conducteur_, who makes it his business to have it
viseed at the several stations which are planted thick along all the
Italian routes,--the owner, of course, reckoning for the charges at the
end of the journey. In accordance with this custom, our _conducteur_
entered the shed-like building I have mentioned, to lay his way-bill and
his passports before the officials within. In the interim, we took our
places in the vehicle. The _conducteur_ was in no hurry to return, but I
dreaded no evil. I had had a wakeful night; and now, throwing myself
into my nook in the _diligence_, the stillness favoured sleep, and I was
half unconscious, when I found some one pulling at my shoulder, and
calling on me to leave the carriage. "What is the matter?" I inquired.
"Your passport is not _en regle_," was the reply. "My passport not
right!" I answered in astonishment; "it has been viseed at every
police-office betwixt and London; and especially at those of Austria,
under whose suzerainty the territory of Ferrara is, and no one may
prevent me entering the Papal States." The man coolly replied, "You
cannot go an inch farther with us;" and proceeded to take down my
luggage, and deposit it on the bank. I stept out, and bade the man
conduct me to the people inside. Passing under the papal arms, we
threaded a long narrow passage,--turned to the left,--traversed another
long passage,--turned to the left again, and stood in a little chamber
dimly lighted by a solitary lamp. The apartment was divided by a bench,
behind which sat two persons,--the one a little withered old man, with
small piercing eyes, and the other very considerably younger and taller,
and with a face on which anxiety or mistrust had written fewer sinister
lines. They quickly told me that my passport was not right, and that I
could not enter the Papal States. I asked them to hand me the little
volume; and, turning over its pages, I traced with them my progress from
London to the Po, and showed that, on the testimony of every
passport-office and legation, I was a good man and true up to the
further banks of their river; and that if I was other now, I must have
become so in crossing, or since touching their soil. They gave me to
understand, in reply, that all these testimonies went for nothing,
seeing I wanted the _imprimatur_ of the papal consul in Venice. I
assured them that omission was owing to misinformation I had received in
Venice; that the Valet de Place (an authority in all such matters) at
the Albergo dell' Europa had assured me that the two visees I had got in
Venice were quite enough; and that the pontifical visee could be
obtained in Ferrara or Bologna; and entreated them to permit me to go on
to Ferrara, where I would lay my passport before the authorities, and
have the error rectified. I shall never forget the emphasis with which
the younger of the two officials replied, "Non possum." I had often
declined "possum" to my old schoolmaster in former days, little dreaming
that I was to hear the vocable pronounced with such terrible meaning in
a little cell, at day-break, on the banks of the Po. The postilion
cracked his whip,--I saw the _diligence_ move off,--and the sound of its
retreating wheels seemed like a farewell to friends and home. A sad,
desolate feeling weighed upon me as I turned to the faces of the
police-officers and gendarmes in whose power I was left. We all went
back together into the little apartment of the passport office, where I
opened a conversation with them, in order to discover what was to be
done with me,--whether I was to be sent back to Venice, or home to
England, or simply thrown into the Po. I made rapid progress in my
Italian studies that day; and had it been my hap to be arrested a dozen
days on end by the papal authorities, I should by that time have been a
fluent Italian speaker. The result of much questioning and explanation
was, that if I liked to forward a petition to the authorities in
Ferrara, accompanied by my passport, I should be permitted to wait where
I was till an answer could be returned. It was my only alternative; and,
hiring a special messenger, I sent him off with my passport, and a
petition craving permission to enter "the States," addressed to the
Pontifical Legation at Ferrara. Meanwhile, I had a gendarme to take care
of me.
To while away the time, I sallied out, and sauntered along the banks of
the river. It was now full day: and the cheerful light, and the noble
face of the Po,--here a superb stream, equal almost to the Rhine at
Cologne,--rolling on to the Adriatic, chased away my pensiveness. The
river here flows between lofty embankments,--the adjoining lands being
below its level, and reminding one of Holland; and were any
extraordinary inundation to happen among the Alps, and force the
embankments of the Po, the territory around Ferrara, if not also that
city itself, would infallibly be drowned. A few lighters and small
craft, lifting their sails to the morning sun, were floating down the
current; and here and there on the banks was a white villa,--the remains
of that noble setting of palaces which adorned the Po when the House of
D'Este vied in wealth and splendour with the larger courts of Europe.
Prisoners must have breakfast; and I found a poor cafe in the little
village, where I got a cup of coffee and an egg,--the latter unboiled,
by the way; and discussed my meal in presence of the gendarme, who sat
opposite me.
Toward noon the messenger returned, and to my joy brought back the papal
permission to enter "the States." Light and short as my constraint had
been, it was sufficient to make me feel what a magic influence is in
liberty. I could again go whither I would; and the poor village of Ponte
Lagoscuro, and even the faces of the two officials, assumed a kindlier
aspect. Bidding these last, whose Italian urbanity had won upon me,
adieu, I started on foot for Ferrara, which lay on the plain some five
miles in advance. The road thither was a magnificent one; but I learned
afterwards that I had Napoleon to thank for it; but alas, what a picture
the country presented! The water was allowed to stagnate along the path,
and a thick, green scurf had gathered upon it. The rich black soil was
covered with weeds, and the few houses I saw were mere hovels. The sun
shone brilliantly, however, and strove to gild this scene of neglect and
wretchedness. The day was the 28th of October, and the heat was that of
a choice summer day in Scotland, with a much balmier air. I hurried on
along the deserted road, and soon, on emerging from a wood, sighted the
town of Ferrara, which stretched along the plain in a low line of
roofs, with a few towers breaking the uniformity. Presenting my "pass"
to the sentinel at the barrier, I entered the city in which Calvin had
found an asylum and Tasso a prison.
Poor fallen Ferrara! Commerce, learning, the arts, religion, had by
turns shed a glory upon it. Now all is over; and where the "Queen of the
Po" had been, there sits on the darkened plain a poor city, mouldering
into dust, with the silence of a sepulchre around it. I entered the
suburbs, but sound of human voice there was none; not a single human
being could I see. It might be ages since these streets were trodden,
for aught that appeared. The doors were closed, and the windows were
stanchioned with iron. In many cases there was neither door nor window;
but the house stood open to receive the wind or rain, the fowls of
heaven, or the dogs of the city, if any such there were. I passed on,
and drew nigh the centre of the town; and now there began to be visible
some signs of vitality. Struck at the extremities, life had retreated to
the heart. A square castellated building of red brick, surrounded on all
sides by a deep moat, filled with the water of the Po, and guarded by
Austrian soldiers, upreared its towers before me. This was the Papal
Legation. I entered it, and found my passport waiting me; and the tiara
and the keys, emblazoned on its pages, told me that I was free of the
Papal States.