La Via Delle Belle Donne

“The church of San Gaetano, on the left of the Via Tornabuoni, faces
the Palazzo Antinori, built by Giuliano di San Gallo. Opposite is
the Via delle Belle Donne, a name, says Leigh Hunt, which it is a
sort of tune to pronounce.”—HARE, _Cities of Central Italy_.

The name of this place is suggestive of a story of some kind, but it was a long time before I obtained the following relative to the Street of Pretty Women:

“In the Via delle Belle Donne there was a very large old house in which were many lodgers, male and female, who, according to their slender means, had two rooms for a family. Among these were many very pretty girls, some of them seamstresses, others corset-makers, some milliners, all employed in shops, who worked all day and then went out in the evening to carry their sewing to the _maggazini_. And it was from them that the street got its name, for it became so much the fashion to go and look at them that young men would say, ‘_Andiamo nella Via delle Belle Donne_,’—‘Let us go to the Street of the Pretty Women;’ so it has been so-called to this day.

“And when they sallied forth they were at once surrounded or joined by young men, who sought their company with views more or less honourable, as is usual. Among these there was a very handsome and wealthy signore named Adolfo, who was so much admired that he might have had his choice of all these belles, but he had fixed his mind on one, a beautiful blonde, who was, indeed, the fairest among them all. She had large black eyes, with quick glances, beautiful light hair in masses, and was always dressed simply, yet with natural elegance. She had long avoided making acquaintance among men, and she now shunned Adolfo; but at last he succeeded, after many difficulties, in becoming acquainted, and finally won her heart—the end of it all being the old story of a poor girl ruined by a gay and great signor, left a mother, and then abandoned.

“For four years she lived alone, by her work, with her child, who grew up to be a very beautiful boy. Then he, noting that other children had parents, asked her continually, ‘Mamma, where is my papa?’

“He gave her no rest, and at last she went to Adolfo and asked him what he would do for their child.

“He laughed at her, and said, ‘Nothing. That folly is all over. Begone!’

“Then, in a wild passion of rage at seeing her child so despised, she stabbed him to the heart, and escaped unseen and undiscovered.

“Then, when the boy asked her again:

“‘Cara madre, cara madre,
Dove e lo mio padre?’

“‘Mother dear, tell to me
Where may my father be?’

“She replied:

“‘Darling son, thy sire is dead,
Lying in an earthen bed;
Dead he ever will remain,
By my dagger he was slain.
Had he but been kind to thee,
Living still he yet would be;
Other sorrows I forgave,
With my dirk I dug his grave. {220}

This is but a commonplace story, yet it is such as finds more currency among the people, and particularly among girls, than many a better one. There is a strong touch of nature, and especially of Italian nature, in the concluding lines.