We had intended to stay only one day at Ferrara, but just at that
time the storms predicted on the Adriatic and Mediterranean coasts, by
Mathieu de la Drome, had been raging all over Italy, and the railway
communications were broken in every direction. The magnificent work
through and under the Apennines, between Bologna and Florence, had
been washed away by the mountain torrents in a dozen places, and the
roads over the plains of the Romagna had been sapped by the flood, and
rendered useless, where not actually laid under water.
On the day of our intended departure we left the hotel, with other
travellers, gayly incredulous of the landlord's fear that no train
would start for Bologna. At the station we found a crowd of people
waiting and hoping, but there was a sickly cast of doubt in some
faces, and the labeled employés of the railway wore looks of ominous
importance. Of course the crowd did not lose its temper. It sought
information of the officials running to and fro with telegrams, in
a spirit of national sweetness, and consoled itself with saying, as
Italy has said under all circumstances of difficulty for centuries:
_Ci vuol pazienza_! At last a blank silence fell upon it, as the
_Capo-Stazione_ advanced toward a well-dressed man in the crowd, and
spoke to him quietly. The well-dressed man lifted his forefinger and
waved it back and forth before his face:--
_The Well-dressed Man_.--Dunque, non si parte più? (No departures,
then?)
The _Capo-Stazione_ (waving _his_ forefinger in like manner.)--Non si
parte più. (Like a mournful echo.)
We knew quite as well from this pantomime of negation as from the
dialogue our sad fate, and submitted to it. Some adventurous spirit
demanded whether any trains would go on the morrow. The Capo-Stazione,
with an air of one who would not presume to fathom the designs of
Providence, responded: "Who knows? To-day, certainly not. To-morrow,
perhaps. But"--and vanished.
It may give an idea of the Italian way of doing things to say that, as
we understood, this break in the line was only a few miles in extent,
that trains could have approached both to and from Bologna, and that
a little enterprise on the part of the company could have passed
travellers from one side to the other with very small trouble or
delay. But the railway company was as much daunted by the inundation
as a peasant going to market, and for two months after the accident
no trains carried passengers from one city to the other. No doubt,
however, the line was under process of very solid repair meanwhile.
For the present the only means of getting to Bologna was by carriage
on the old highway, and accordingly we took passage thither in the
omnibus of the Stella d'Oro.
There was little to interest us in the country over which we rode. It
is perfectly flat, and I suppose the reader knows what quantities
of hemp and flax are raised there. The land seems poorer than in
Lombardy, and the farm-houses and peasants' cottages are small and
mean, though the peasants themselves, when we met them, looked well
fed, and were certainly well clad. The landscape lay soaking in a
dreary drizzle the whole way, and the town of Cento when we reached
it, seemed miserably conscious of being too wet and dirty to go
in-doors, and was loitering about in the rain. Our arrival gave the
poor little place a sensation, for I think such a thing as an omnibus
had not been seen there since the railway of Bologna and Ferrara was
built. We went into the principal caffè to lunch,--a caffè much too
large for Cento, with immense red-leather cushioned sofas, and a cold,
forlorn air of half-starved gentility, a clean, high-roofed caffè and
a breezy,--and thither the youthful nobility and gentry of the place
followed us, and ordered a cup of coffee, that they might sit down and
give us the pleasure of their distinguished company. They put on their
very finest manners, and took their most captivating attitudes for the
ladies' sake; and the gentlemen of our party fancied that it was for
them these young men began to discuss the Roman question. How
loud they were, and how earnest! And how often they consulted
the newspapers of the caffè! (Older newspapers I never saw off a
canal-boat.) I may tire some time of the artless vanity of the young
Italians, so innocent, so amiable, so transparent, but I think I never
shall.
The great painter Guercino was born at Cento, and they have a noble
and beautiful statue of him in the piazza, which the town caused to be
erected from contributions by all the citizens. Formerly his house
was kept for a show to the public; it was full of the pictures of the
painter and many mementos of him; but recently the paintings have been
taken to the gallery, and the house is now closed. The gallery is,
consequently, one of the richest second-rate galleries in Italy, and
one may spend much longer time in it than we gave, with great profit.
There are some most interesting heads of Christ, painted, as Guercino
always painted the Saviour, with a great degree of humanity in the
face. It is an excellent countenance, and full of sweet dignity, but
quite different from the conventional face of Christ.