Charles Dickens a Stradella
… until nearly eleven o’clock at night, when the driver reported that he couldn’t think of going any farther, and we accordingly made a halt at a place called Stradella. The inn was a series of strange galleries surrounding a yard
where our coach, and a waggon or two, and a lot of fowls, and firewood, were all heapedup together, higgledy-piggledy; so that you didn’t know, and couldn’t have taken your oath, which was a fowl and which was a cart. We followed a sleepy man with a flaring torch, into a great, cold room, where there were two immensely broad beds, on what looked like two immensely broad deal diningtables; another deal table of similar dimensions in the middle of the bare floor; four windows; and two chairs. Somebody said it was my room; and I walked up and down it, for half an hour or so, staring at the Tuscan, the old priest, the young priest, and the Avvocáto (Red-Nose lived in the town, and had gone home), who sat upon their beds, and stared at me in return. The rather dreary whimsicality of this stage of the proceedings, is interrupted by an announcement from the Brave (he had been cooking) that supper is ready; and to the priest’s chamber (the next room and the counterpart of mine) we all adjourn. The first dish is a cabbage, boiled with a great quantity of rice in a tureen full of water, and flavoured with cheese. It is so hot, and we are so cold, that it appears almost jolly. The second dish is some little bits of pork, fried with pigs’ kidneys. The third, two red fowls. The fourth, two little red turkeys. The fifth, a huge stew of garlic and truffles, and I don’t know what else; and this concludes the entertainment. Before I can sit down in my own chamber, and think it of the dampest, the door opens, and the Brave comes moving in, in the middle of such a quantity of fuel that he looks like Birnam Wood taking a winter walk. He kindles this heap in a twinkling, and produces a jorum of hot brandy and water; for that bottle of his keeps company with the seasons, and now holds nothing but the purest eau de vie. When he has accomplished this feat, he retires for the night; and I hear him, for an hour afterwards, and indeed until I fall asleep, making jokes in some outhouse (apparently under the pillow), where he is smoking cigars with a party of confidential friends. He never was in the house in his life before; but he knows everybody everywhere, before he has been anywhere five minutes; and is certain to have attracted to himself, in the meantime, the enthusiastic devotion of the whole establishment. This is at twelve o’clock at night. At four o’clock next morning, he is up again, fresher than a full-blown rose; making blazing fires without the least authority from the landlord; producing mugs of scalding coffee when nobody else can get anything but cold water; and going out into the dark streets, and roaring for fresh milk, on the chance of somebody with a cow getting up to supply it. While the horses are ‘coming,’ I stumble out into the town too. It seems to be all one little Piazza, with a cold damp wind blowing in and out of the arches, alternately, in a sort of pattern. But it is profoundly dark, and raining heavily; and I shouldn’t know it to-morrow, if I were taken there to try. Which Heaven forbid. The horses arrive in about an hour. In the interval, the driver swears; sometimes Christian oaths, sometimes Pagan oaths. Sometimes, when it is a long, compound oath, he begins with Christianity and merges into Paganism. Various messengers are despatched; not so much after the horses, as after each other; for the first messenger never comes back, and all the rest imitate him. At length the horses appear, surrounded by all the messengers; some kicking them, and some dragging them, and all shouting abuse to them. Then, the old priest, the young priest, the Avvocáto, the Tuscan, and all of us, take our places; and sleepy voices proceeding from the doors of extraordinary hutches in divers parts of the yard, cry out ‘Addio corrière mio! Buon’ viággio, corrière!’ Salutations which the courier, with his face one monstrous grin, returns in like manner as we go jolting and wallowing away, through the mud.
Libera traduzione di alcune parti del testo inglese
… erano quasi le undici di sera, quando il conducente ci riferiva che era impensabile di proseguire oltre, e quindi ci fermammo per la notte in un luogo chiamato Stradella. La locanda aveva una serie di portici intorno a un cortile dove mettemmo la carrozza; c’erano altri carri e legna da ardere, stipati insieme uno vicino all’altro, in un modo che era impossibile capire se ciò che vedevi nel buio era un carro o legna da ardere. Seguimmo un uomo assonnato che alla luce di una torcia ci accompagnò in una stanza grande e fredda, in cui c’ erano due larghi letti che sembravano due enormi tavoli per mangiare. Un altro tavolo di uguali grandi dimensioni era posizionato in mezzo al pavimento nudo; c’erano anche quattro finestre e due sedie; mi dissero che quella era la mia stanza ...
... in attesa che arrivassero i cavalli cercai di dare una sguardo alla città, che mi sembrò tutta raccolta intorno a un’unica piccola piazza, mentre un vento freddo e umido soffiava dentro e fuori gli archi dei portici, e c’era un buio profondo e pioveva pesantemente ...
... intanto, dopo quasi un’ora, i cavalli erano pronti e io presi posto nella carrozza insieme agli altri viaggiatori e ripartimmo verso Piacenza, con le ruote che saltellavano e sobbalzavano sulla strada fangosa.