The monument of Lætitia Murat Pepoli, Napoleon’s niece, is here, and a matchless statue of King Murat in full uniform, sword in hand, one advanced foot upon a piece of ordnance. Torn banners, a crown and other trophies of victorious generalship, bestrew the ground. The pose of head, the military carriage, the contained strength of the countenance betoken the master of men and of himself.
A monument representing Christ, attended by angels floating in the air, is a surprisingly lovely bit of “artistic trickery.”
Clotilda Tambroni is buried here, and in the cloisters are the busts of men distinguished in science and in letters, Mezzofanti and Galvani among them. When our erudite Sig. Giovanni seeks Etrurians and Egyptians in the world of shades, the Bolognese will set up his marble presentment beside his peers.
Among the “crowded outs” of Bologna was not the Accademia delle Belle Arti. We almost pitied—under the mollifying and refining influences of our stay within its courts,—the Average British Spinster who had taken the early train for Venice and the “wealth of art there.” Baedeker and his followers designate as the “gem of the collection” Raphael’s picture of S. Cæcilia’s trance while angels discourse heavenly music above her head. One demurs at the decision in beholding, in the same gallery, Guido Reni’s “Crucifixion,” his “Victorious Samson” and “Slaughter of the Innocents;” Domenichino’s “Martyrs,” with supplicating saints and angels in the upper part; the best works of the Caracci and Francesca Francia; Peruginos—for those who like them; more pleasing pictures from Guercino, the Sirani, and a host of artists of less note.
We were to leave the uninteresting city at half-past twelve, the third day after our arrival. The carriages stood at the door of the hotel, piled with luggage, and the party, with one exception, were in their places half an hour before the moment of the train’s departure for Milan. Landlord, waiters, and facchini were paid, vehicles engaged and trunks brought down before Caput’s disappearance. Fifteen minutes of tolerably patient waiting ended in inquiries among ourselves as to who had seen him last and where. He had stepped around into the next street, at eleven o’clock, we were assured by the proprietor. He would be back very soon. Five restless minutes more, and the urbane host ventured to ask if Monsieur had the “habitude” of losing trains. It was the custom of some travelers. And what matter? It was an easy affair to unload and dismiss the carriages and return to our apartments. There were still unvisited attractions in Bologna. His smiles grew broader, our anxiety more active as two, three, four minutes slipped by. The fifth was upon us when a hot and hurrying figure dashed up the street; sprang into the foremost carriage, and we drove off at a gallop to the station. There, we had a breathless rush, as might have been expected,—a scramble for tickets and seats. It was impossible to secure a compartment for our party. The lunch-basket was in one carriage; the fruit-basket in another. Nobody had her own satchel or books. The Invaluable and Boy were separated by four compartments from always-foreboding Mamma. We were fifty miles from the hills of Bologna, and our eyes already sated with the watery flats, rice-fields and broom-stick poplars of Lombardy before we found one another, our respective belongings,—and our tempers.
The cause of the delay and consequent turmoil maintained his equanimity, as was meet. For, had he not had another hour in the University? Did he not offer me, as a peace-gift, photographs of the portraits of the quintette of Lady-professors of Bologna, including the perilously-fair Novella? Was he not brimming and bubbling over with priceless information imparted by the benevolent librarian, and burning benevolently to make us partakers of his knowledge? And, securely buttoned in the breast-pocket of his traveling-coat, did he not possess the Grammar of Egyptian Hieroglyphics, written in flowing Italian by Sig. Giovanni Szedilo?
CHAPTER XXV.
“Non é Possibile!”
