The Via dei Bardi is one of the most ancient streets of Florence.
Long, dark, and narrow, it reaches from the extremity of the Ponte
Rubaconte to the right of the Ponte Vecchio. Its old houses look
decayed and squalid now; but in former days they were magnificent and
orderly, full of all the state of those times, being the residences of
many of the Florentine nobility. How many struggles of faction, how
many scenes of civil war, have these old houses witnessed! for in the
period of their splendour, Florence was torn by intestine feuds; from
generation to generation, Guelfs and Ghibelines, Bianchi and Neri,
handed down their bitter quarrels, private and personal animosity
mingling with public or party spirit, and ending in many a dark and
violent deed. These combatants are all sleeping now: the patriot, the
banished citizen, the timid, the cruel--all, all are gone, and have
left us only tales to read, or lessons to learn, if we can but use
them. But we are not skilled to teach a lesson; we would rather tell a
legend of those times, recalled to mind, especially at present,
because it has been chosen as the subject of a fine picture recently
finished by a Florentine artist, Benedetto Servolino.
In the Via dei Bardi stood, probably still stands, the house inhabited
by the chief of the great and noble family from whom it takes its
name--we write of the period of the fiercest struggles between the
Guelfs and Ghibelines; and the Bardi were powerful partisans of the
latter party. In that house dwelt a young girl of uncommon beauty, and
yet more uncommon character. An old writer thus describes her: 'To
look on her was enchantment; her eyes called you to love her; her
smile was like heaven; if you heard her speak, you were conquered. Her
whole person was a miracle of beauty, and her deportment had a certain
maidenly pride, springing from a pure heart and conscious integrity.'
From the troubled scenes she had witnessed, her mind had acquired
composure and courage unusual with her sex, and it was of that high
stamp that is prone to admire with enthusiasm all generous and
self-devoting deeds. Such a being, however apt to inspire love, was
not likely to be easily won; accordingly, the crowd of lovers who at
first surrounded Dianora gradually dropped off, for they gained no
favour. All were received with the same bright and beautiful smile,
and a gay, charming grace, which flattered no man's vanity; so they
carried their homage to other shrines where it might be more prized,
though by an inferior idol. And what felt Dianora when her votaries
left her? We are not told; but not long after, you might see, if you
walked along the street of the Bardi towards evening, a beautiful
woman sitting near a balcony: a frame of embroidery is before her; but
her eyes are oftener turned to the street than to the lilies she is
working. It is Dianora. But surely it is not idle curiosity that bends
her noble brow so often this way, and beams in her bright, speaking
eyes, and sweet, kind smile. On whom is it turned, and why does her
cheek flush so quickly? A youth of graceful and manly appearance is
passing her window; his name is Hyppolito: he has long cherished the
image of Dianora as Dante did that of his Beatrice. In loving her, he
loved more ardently everything that is good and noble in the world; he
shunned folly and idleness, and strove to make himself worthy of
what he believed Dianora to be. At length, one of Cupid's
emissaries--whether nurse or friend the chronicle does not tell--aided
Hyppolito in meeting Dianora. One meeting succeeded another, till she
gave him her heart, as such a true, young heart is given, with entire
confidence, and a strength of feeling peculiar to herself. But what
could they hope? Hyppolito's family were of the opposite party, and
they knew it was vain to expect from them even a patient bearing; nor
were the Bardi behind in proper feelings of hatred. What was to be
done? There was but one Dianora--but one Hyppolito in the world; so
have many wise young people thought of each other both before and
since the days of the Ghibelines; but these two might be excused for
thinking so, for many who saw them were of the same opinion. To
part--what was the world to them if they were parted? Their station,
their years, their tastes--so removed from noisy and frivolous
pleasures--their virtuous characters, seemed to point out that they
were born for each other. What divided them? One only point--the
adverse political feelings of their families. Shall they sacrifice
themselves to these? No. Thus reasoned Hyppolito; but we think the
chronicles exaggerate the virtues of Dianora's character; for how many
a girl unchronicled by fame has, before the still tribunal of her own
sense of duty to God and her parents, sacrificed her dearest hopes
rather than offend them; and this, with all her heroism, Dianora did
not, but gave up all these dear early claims for her new love.
Delays were needless, for time could do nothing to smooth their path;
so it was determined that Hyppolito should bring a ladder to Dianora's
window, and, aided by their friend, they should find their way to a
priest prepared to give them his blessing. The night appointed
came--still and beautiful as heart could wish; the stars sparkling in
the deep blue sky, bright as they may now be seen in that fair clime.
Hyppolito has reached the house; he has fixed the ladder of ropes;
there is no moon to betray him; in a minute, his light step will have
reached the balcony. But there is a noise in the street, and lights
approaching; the night-guard is passing; they have seen the ladder,
for the street is narrow. Hyppolito is down, and tries to escape--in
vain. They seize and drag him to prison. What was he doing there? What
can he reply? That he meant to enter the house, to carry something
from it, or commit some bad deed, cannot be denied. He will not betray
Dianora; it would only be to separate them for ever, and leave her
with a stained name. He yields to his fate; the proofs are
irresistible, and, by the severe law of Florence at that period,
Hyppolito must die. All Florence is in amazement. So estimable a
youth, to all outward appearance, to be in reality addicted to the
basest crimes! Who could have believed it? But he confesses; there is
no room for doubt. Pardon is implored by his afflicted friends; but no
pardon can be granted for so flagrant a crime.
Hyppolito had one consolation--his father never doubted him; if he
had, one glance of his son's clear though sad eye, and candid, open
brow, would have reassured him. He saw there was a mystery, but he was
sure it involved no guilt on Hyppolito's part. Hyppolito also believed
that his good name would one day be cleared, and that his noble
Dianora would in due time remove the stain that clouded it. He
consented to die, rather than live separated from her. Yet poor
Hyppolito was sorry to leave the world so young; and sadly, though
calmly, he arranged his small possessions, for the benefit of those he
loved, and of the poor, to whom he had always been a friend.
He slept quietly the night preceding the time fixed for his execution,
and was early ready to take his place in the sad procession. Did no
thought cross Hyppolito's clear mind, that he was throwing away, in
weak passion, a life given to him by God for noble ends? We know not;
but there he was--calm, firm, and serious. His only request was, that
the procession might pass through the street of the Bardi, which some
thought was a sign of penitence, an act of humiliation. The sad train
moves on. An old man sitting at a door rises, strains his eyes to
catch a last glimpse of Hyppolito, and then covers them in anguish,
and sinks down again. This is an old man he had saved from misery and
death. Two youths, hand in hand, are gazing with sad faces, and tears
run down their cheeks. They are orphans: he had clothed and fed them.
Hyppolito sees them, and even in that moment remembers it is he who
deprives them of a protector: but it is too late to think now; for he
is approaching the scene of his fault and the place of his punishment,
and other feelings swell in his heart. His brows are contracted; his
eyes bent on the house of the Bardi, as if they would pierce the
stones of its walls; and now they are cast down, as though he would
raise them no more on earth. But he starts, for he hears a loud
shriek, a rushing, and an opening of the crowd: they seem to be awed
by something that approaches. It is a woman, whoso violent gestures
defy opposition; she looks like a maniac just escaped from her
keepers; she has reached Hyppolito; his fettered arms move as if they
would receive her, but in vain. She turns to the crowd, and some among
them recognise the modest and beautiful daughter of Bardi. She calls
out: 'He is innocent of every crime but having loved me. To save me
from shame, he has borne all this disgrace. And he is going to death;
but you cannot kill him now. I tell you he is guiltless; and if he
dies, I die with him.'
The people stand amazed. At last there is a shout: 'It must be true!
he is innocent!' The execution is stopped till the truth is
ascertained, and Dianora's statement is fully confirmed. And who shall
paint the return from death to life of poor Hyppolito? and to such a
life! for blazoned as the story of her love had been, Dianora's
parents, considering also her firm character, subjected even the
spirit of party to the voice of affection and reason; and Hyppolito's
family, softened by sorrow, gladly embraced their Ghibeline daughter.
Whether in after-life Hyppolito and Dianora were distinguished by the
qualities they had shewn in youth, and whether the promise of
affection was realised by time and intimate acquaintance, no chronicle
remains to tell. This short glimpse of both is all that is snatched
from oblivion--this alone stands out in bright relief, to shew us they
once were; the rest is lost in the darkness of time.
The moment chosen by the artist is when Dianora rushes from her house
into the midst of the crowd, and reaches Hyppolito, surrounded by
priests and soldiers. It is easy to see to what a varied expression of
passion and action this point of the story gives rise.