PART II.[5]
What I am going to write now was not known to me until very lately—at least, the greater part of it was not. Before I left Florence, however, I had begun to feel pretty sure that Ida’s mysterious illness came of her grief for L——. One day I said to her, “Ida, tell me if I have guessed rightly: you have suffered more about L—— than you have been willing to tell.” And she answered, “If I have, I have never troubled any one else about it.”
A few days after I left her, L—— made his long promised visit to Florence. He seemed troubled at the change in Ida, and met her at first very kindly. He saw her, however, only once, and then left her, saying that he would come again the next day. The next day, however, instead of L—— himself, came a letter from him saying that he had been obliged to leave Florence in haste, and that he had not felt able to support the sorrow of taking leave of Ida. They never met again.
Ida was much grieved at his leaving her so abruptly. Giulia was more than grieved,—shewas suspicious of something worse than appeared. Now, there lived in Florence a cousin of L——’s, a married lady, with whom the two girls were hardly acquainted. To her Giulia went in her trouble, and told her all about Ida, and how strangely L—— had behaved towards her; and she asked her to tell her the truth, if she knew it, whether he really intended to marry her when he should leave the army. The lady appeared troubled, and answered her very sadly, “You must know that L—— is in a very difficult position; he has grave duties to perform.” “What duties?” asked Giulia, who could not imagine that any duty could be greater than his duty to her sister. And the lady answered, yet more sadly than before, that he was the father of two children. The horror of the innocent open-hearted Giulia is more easily imagined than described. Trembling, she asked of the children’s mother, and learned that she was another victim, even more unfortunate than Ida. L—— had married her by areligiousmarriage,[6]promising to marry her legally when he should leave the army. She was a Neapolitan, the very same widowed sister-in-lawto whom he had been in the habit of sending money. So all was explained.
Her first impulse was to tell everything to her sister; but Ida was very weak just then, and she almost feared that such a shock would be fatal to her. The same consideration prevented her telling either of her parents, as she feared that they would be unable to contain their indignation. Then she thought that perhaps Ida was going to die, and in that case perhaps it would be better that she should never know on what a worthless object she had set her heart. But she did what was most natural to such an open, straightforward girl as Giulia. She wrote to L—— himself, and let him know that she had discovered all. She also told him that Ida was growing always worse, and that she should not tell her anything about it while she was so ill; and she entreated him not to let her suspect anything until she should have recovered.
Now, I cannot imagine what was the captain’s motive for what he did—whether he did not believe Giulia’s promise of silence, or whether he was tired of Ida and wished to rid himself of her. However it may have been, he did what was sufficiently cruel: he wrote Ida a letter, and told her the whole. Ida never showed that letter to any one, soI only know what she told Giulia, who told me. He told her that he was not legally bound to his Neapolitan wife, and that he meant to separate from her and to marry Ida, but that it might be some little time before he could complete the necessary arrangements.
From the day that this letter arrived all hope was over for Ida, so far as this world was concerned. She broke a blood-vessel the same day, and was never the same again. She wrote immediately to L——, without reproach or resentment, and told him that there was only one thing for him to do: to marry the poor woman whom he had deceived, and to give a name to his children.
Meanwhile she told no one, not even her sister.In the utter unselfishness of her affection for L——, she seems almost to have forgotten her own trouble, and to have thought only of saving him from all appearance of blame.[7]And so, for a long time, those two young girls lived on together, each one bearing her own burden in silence. Ida’s hold on this world had never been very strong, and it had quite given way now. Her life was going fast away from her.
Meanwhile, L—— seems to have felt his old affection for her, such as it was, revive, at the idea of losing her altogether; and he continued to write her passionate and imploring letters. Her answers were very gentle and patient, written so as to spare his feelings as much as possible, but they were very decided. She could never belong to him now—he must not think of that any more—but she entreated him to make what reparation he could to the poor Neapolitan, and to giveherthe happiness, before they parted, of knowing that he had done right.
And poor Giulia was at her wits’ end, seeing her sister grow so rapidly worse, and not knowing the reason. She wrote to me at Venice, begging that I would use my influence to have her sister admitted to the Marine Hospital at Viareggio, that she might have a month’s sea bathing, which some thought would be good for her. As soon as Ida heard that I was interesting myself about this, she also wrote me a few lines—the last which I ever received from her. She thanked me most affectionately, but did not wish me to do anything more about it, or to spend any money: if it was the Lord’s will that she should recover, then sheshouldrecover. And then, for the last time, camethe old signature, in a very tremulous hand now—“La sua Ida, che li vuol tanto bene.”
However, I still worked to have her admitted, and shewasadmitted. Poor girl! I did not understand then, as I do now, the meaning of her letter. I thought that she wished only to save me trouble; but I know now that she wrote me because she felt that her malady was such a one as no doctors can cure. It was about that time that Giulia discovered, by some means, that her sister knew the secret which she had been keeping from her so carefully. I think they were both a little happier, or at least a little less miserable, when they were able to speak freely to each other of what was weighing so heavily on both their minds. About that time also L—— left the army, having obtained his dismission a little sooner than was expected. So Ida went to the Marine Hospital for a month, and won the hearts of the sisters of charity by her beauty, her patience, and her self-forgetfulness. She always waited on herself, being careful to give no one trouble; and when the doctor ordered her to use some particular herb which grew wild at Viareggio,she went out every morning to search for it, gathered, and prepared it herself. She was very kind and attentive also to the poor sick children, who,as usual, made up nearly all the inmates of the hospital.
I am afraid that the letters which I wrote her at this time must have given her much pain; for I thought that she would recover, and marry L——, who was now, as I supposed, free; and I used to write to her about it, meaning to encourage her. She never answered my letters, but she sent one of them to Giulia, and wrote to her—“The Signora Francesca deceives herself always; it is better so.”
L——, finding that his professions of love would not soften Ida, next tried to work on her compassion. He wrote to her that there was great delay about paying his pension, and that his children were starving!
She sent him twenty francs for his children in a letter: she did not have the money with her, and she was obliged to write to her sister Giulia to lend it to her, saying that she could not bear the thought that L——’s children should suffer. After she went back to Florence she wished to pay this money, but Giulia would never take it from her; which I suppose was one reason why she left Giulia what she did at the time of her death, rather more than four months afterwards.
Having gone back to Florence much worsethan she had left it, she finally obtained the much-wished-for promise from L——, who agreed to marry his wife legally, and to make what reparation he could to his unfortunate children. Up to this time Ida had not been willing to follow the urgent advice of Giulia, and break off all communication with L——. As I did not know these facts until after her death, of course it is not possible for me to say what her reasons were; but I imagine, from what I know of Ida’s character and of all her conduct in this matter, that it was her wish that this love which had cost her her life should not be altogether wasted, and that it was a comfort to her, in resigning all her own hopes of happiness, to think that she might save L—— from sin, and his family from misery.
Giulia had wished her to let me know all these particulars, saying, “The Signora Francesca would tell us what we ought to do.” To which Ida replied, “I know what I ought to do, and I will do it[8]; the Signora loves me, and would be unhappy if she knew of my troubles.” But now she agreed to her sister’s wish, and wrote a kind letter taking leave of L——, and asking him not to answer it, nor to write to her again. Shetold him, that he must not think that she had any hard feeling against him because she made this request, but she thought that it would be more for the happiness of both of them, that they should cease all communication with each other.
The effort of writing this letter was so great, that at first it nearly killed her, and she became suddenly so much worse, that Giulia wished it had never been written. However, after a few days, that singular peacefulness began to come over her, which afterwards remained until she died; and she told Giulia that she felt more tranquil than for a great while before, and that if L—— should write her another letter she would not even look at it, but would give it to her sister to read and answer, that she might keep all these past troubles out of her mind.
I have done now with all the worldly part of my Ida’s story: what remains will be only the account of her most wonderful and glorious passage into the other world, and of the singular and almost visible help which it pleased the Lord to give her in her long illness. So, before going any farther, I will just tell what little more I know about L——. He never wrote to her again, but he continued to send occasionally to the house for news of her, almost until the timeof her death. I have never been able to discover whether he ever kept his promise and married his wife legally, but I hope that he did so.[9]She appears from what I have heard of her, to have been by no means a very amiable character; but then there are few tempers so sweet as not to be soured by such trouble as hers.
So October came, and once again I found myself in Florence; where almost my first visit was to Ida’s room. My first thought on seeing her was that she looked better than when I had left her. She sat in an easy chair by the open window,—that window that looked away over the roofs into the open country; and she had her sewing as usual, for she always worked until she became so feeble as to make it actually impossible. I remember her, and everything about her, as if the scene were still before me. She was dressed in a sort of gray loose gown put on over her white night-dress, which gave her something of a monastic look, and her chair was covered with a chintz of a flowered pattern; her work-basket stood in a chair at her knee, and by her side was a little old table, with a few books on it, much worn. She was very white certainly, but it was a clear luminouswhite that was extremely beautiful, and her lips still retained their bloom, which indeed they never lost. Her soft hair was partly dishevelled, for she had just been lying down; but it was such hair as never could look rough, and as it fell loosely about her face and neck, it so concealed their wasting that she appeared almost like one in health. Her eyes were larger and brighter than ever—all full of light, it seemed to me—and her face had lost that worn, patient look, which it had borne so long, and appeared all illuminated with happiness.
But if the first sight of her gave me hope, as soon as she began to speak the hope was gone. Her voice had grown very feeble, and nearly every sentence ended in a cough, so violent that it seemed as if it would carry her away in a minute. She was quite overcome with joy and thankfulness at seeing me again, and it was difficult to keep her from talking more than was prudent. “Oh, Signora Francesca, how I have wanted you to come!” she kept saying, and her little feverish half-transparent hands closed very tightly about mine, and her beautiful eyes looked into my face as if they could never see enough of me. Meanwhile Giulia sat watching us with a flushed, anxious face, and blue eyes that kept filling with tears.No doubt about which of the sisters suffered the most,now!
As for me, I tried not to look troubled, and to remember all that I could about Venice, and what I had seen on my journey, to tell Ida; and I sang her some of the old tunes that she had been so fond of, and read her a little in the Testament, and she was very happy, and we made it as much like old times as we could. After that I always went to Ida, at first two or three times a week, and afterwards every day, as long as she lived. She could not talk to me a great deal, but the few words that she said were full of comfort.
Every day I used to read the Bible to her. She asked me to read always that, and no other book, and sing her some little hymn.I never knew any other person so perfectly peaceful and happy as she was then, and for the remaining time, nearly four months, that I had the privilege of being near her. She seemed to me almost in heaven already, living in the sensible presence of our Lord, and in the enjoyment of heavenly things, as I have never known any one else do,for so long a time.[10]The almost supernatural happinesswhich she enjoyed—(indeed, if I were to write just as I feel and believe, I should leave out the almost,) had nothing of theconvulsionaryabout it: it was quiet and continuous—just the same when she was better, and when she was worse, through the nights that she could not sleep for coughing, and the days that found her always a little weaker: and it left her mind free to think of others, and to invent many ways of saving trouble to her mother and Giulia, and to find little odds and ends of work that she was still able to do.
Her poor mother still clung to hope, and was always trying to make out that Ida was better, or at least that she was going to be better as soon as the weather changed, or when she had taken some new medicine. When she talked in this way it used to make Ida a little sad; still she seldom said anything directly to discourage her mother, but only would say, “It will be as the Lord pleases: He knows what He does: perhaps He sees that if I lived I should do something wicked.” One day, as we sat about her bed, where she soon began to spend most of her time, and her mother and Giulia were talking about her recovery, she said, “Perhaps it would be better that I should not recover: I can never be well, really: but still, let itbe as the Lord will.” “Have courage, Ida,” said Giulia; and her mother, “Do not be afraid, my child.” “I am not afraid,” she answered. “I think,” I said, “that God gives you courage always.” “Yes, yes,” she answered, with a very bright smile: “blessed are His words!”—and the poor mother went out of the room. Then Ida looked earnestly into my face and said, “There are tears in your eyes, but there are none in mine.” I asked her if she wished to die. She thought a little while, and then said that she had no choice in the matter; if it were the Lord’s will that she should die soon, she was very happy to go; or if He wished her to recover, she should be happy just the same; and if, instead, it pleased Him that she should live a long time as ill as she was then, still she wished nothing different. And she ended with a very contented smile, saying the words which she had said so often—“He knows what He does.”
Another time, when I feared that she suffered with her constant and wearisome cough, she said, “It does not seem to me that I suffer at all; I am so happy that I hardly ever remember that I am ill.” Her spirit never failed for a moment; there were none of those seasons of depression whichalmost always come with a long illness. When others asked her how she was able to have so much patience, she always answered simply, “God gives it to me.” A few words like these I can remember, but not many, and they were nearly all in answer to our questions. She never spoke much about her own feelings, physical or mental, and it was more in the wonderful lighting up of her face, when she listened to the Bible, than in what she said, that I saw how much she enjoyed.
All her taste for “pretty things” continued, and she liked to have everything about her as bright and cheerful as possible. She had a friend who used to send her, by my means, beautiful flowers almost every day, which were a great comfort to her, and it was always my work to arrange them on the little table by her bedside. When she was too tired and weak for her sewing, or her books of devotion, she used to lie and look at these flowers. Edwige (whom every one knows, who knows me, and of whom it is enough to say that she is a good and pious widow who lives in the country, and who was very fond of Ida) used to bring down continually such things as she liked from the country,—long streamers of ivy, and branches of winter roses and laurustinus,and black and orange-coloured berries from the hedges,—and these were a continual amusement to her. As long as she was strong enough, she used to like to arrange them herself with the same fanciful taste which she had always shown in my painting room, ornamenting with them her crucifix, which hung near the head of the bed, and her Madonna, and one or two other devotional pictures; and what were left she used to twine about the frame-work of her bed itself, so that sometimes she looked quite as if she were in an arbour. I think she obeyed literally the gospel precept, to be “like men waiting for their Lord.” The poor little room and its dying inmate presented always a strangely festive appearance, as if they were prepared for the soon expected arrival of one greatly loved and longed for.
The window was always opened at the foot of the bed,—for light and airshewouldhave, and her dress and the linen of her bed were always as neat and clean as possible, to the credit of her mother be it spoken, who did the washing herself, with the help of her good little servant-maid Filomena. And the pretty flowers and green branches, and the fresh smell of the country which came from them, and in the midst of it all, Ida’s wonderfully happy face, made up asbright and inspiriting a scene as I ever came near. I know that I used to think it better than going to church, to go into Ida’s room.
There was a good American lady in Florence at that time, who did not know Ida; but she had lost a little daughter herself by the same complaint, and having heard of Ida’s illness, she used to send her her dinner every day, choosing always the best of everything from her own table;[11]and this she continued to do as long as Ida lived. This good lady’s children went constantly to see her, and always asked to be taken there, though they could not speak Italian. Children usually avoid a sick room, but she was so lovely and peaceful in appearance, that she seemed to impress them more as a beautiful picture than anything else, and they were always glad to go up all the stairs to look at her. I remember the first time that they ever went there, the youngest little girl sat contemplating her for a few minutes with a sort of wonder, and then asked me, aside, if she might kiss her.
I have said before that Giulia was engaged to be married. Her lover lived at Rome, and he was very anxious to marry her as soon as possible. She however was not willingto leave her sister while she was so ill; and at first I felt as she did, and did not wish her to go away from Ida. But there were some reasons why it seemed better that she should soon be married. Her lover, who was strongly and devotedly attached to her, was living quite alone and among strangers, (he was a Piedmontese,) and he seemed hardly able to support his long continued solitude. There was another reason, stronger yet. The doctor had forbidden Giulia to sleep in the same room with Ida, and she and little Luisa had been obliged to return into the dark closet where they had slept before. Giulia was looking poorly, and had a cough, and seemed very much as Ida had been a year ago; and we all wished that she might change scene and climate before it was too late. Still we all shrank from laying on Ida, in her last days, this farther burden of separation from her dearly loved, only sister.
It was at once a relief and a surprise to me when, one day that they had left me alone with Ida, she began to speak to me of Giulia’s marriage, and asked me to use all my influence with Giulia, and with her mother, to bring it about as soon as possible. She said that she had now only one wish left in the world, and that was, to see her sister happily married, and that it troubled her tosee the marriage put off from one day to another. Ida’s word turned the scale, and in a few days the whole household was immersed in preparations for the wedding. I ought to say that the household was much reduced in number since I had first known the family. One of the little orphans had been adopted into a childless family, another had gone to live in the country with his maternal grandmother. The prettiest and sweetest of them all, little Silvio, had died, to the great sorrow of all the family, at the time when Ida was at Viareggio; so that now only Luisa was left at home. The girl’s brother, Telemaco, had obtained some sort of government employment in a distant part of the country, so that he too was gone. And only the old people, and Luisa and Filomena, would be left to take care of Ida after Giulia should be married.
And now it seemed as if all poor Ida’s hopes for this world, which had been so cruelly cut short, were renewed again in her enjoyment of Giulia’s happiness. One of the prettiest pictures that I have in my mind of Ida, is as she sat upright in her bed, propped up with pillows, her face all beaming with affectionate interest, anddid her last dress-making work on Giulia’s wedding gown. She was very close to Heaven then, lying,as it were, at the gate of the Celestial City, and at times it seemed as if the light already began to shine on her face. Still, as long as she stayed in the world, she did what she could, and as well as she could, for those about her, and could put her heart into the smallest trifle for any one whom she loved.
She seemed always in haste for the wedding day, and often told me how much she wished for it; I think that she was afraid she might not live to see it. The day came at last,—a soft beautiful day of the late autumn, with plenty of flowers still in blossom to ornament the table, and the air still warm enough to make open windows pleasant. We had a very pretty simple wedding at S. Lorenzo, and then went back to the house, where we found Ida up and sitting in the easy chair, which she had not occupied for a long time. She was so excited and interested that a slight colour had come back into her face, and she looked as well as ever, and prettier than ever. Poor Giulia, laughing and crying and blushing all at once, hurried up to Ida, embraced her, and hid her face on her shoulder. Ida folded her closely in her arms for a minute or two without speaking, and I knew by the look in her face that she was giving thanks in silence, and praying for a blessing on this dear sister. Whenthe others went into the next room, where the wedding breakfast was already set out on the table, they invited me to go with them, but Ida said, “Let Signora Francesca stay with me for a few minutes, I want her to do something for me, and then she will come.” I could not imagine what Ida wanted, she was so little in the habit of wanting anything; but I stayed, and as soon as she was satisfied that they had shut the door, she said to me, looking very pleased and triumphant, “Do you know, Signora Francesca, I am going to the table myself! I have always meant to go, when Giulia was married; and now you will help me to dress, will you not?” I was almost frightened, but I helped her arrange the lavender-coloured woollen dress which was her best,—I knew now why she had spent so much time, during the first months of her illness, in altering and trimming it,[12]—and tied her white silk handkerchief about her neck; and then she took my arm, and we went into the other room together.
There was a subdued exclamation of surprise from the few friends gathered about the table, and then all voices were hushed,as she came in slowly, looking rather like a vision from the other world, with her wonderful eyes and her white illuminated face and her beautiful smile, and sat down at the table opposite to her sister. But they were soon laughing and talking again, and complimenting Ida on her improved health, which enabled her to come to the table, and hoping that she would soon be well enough to come there every day; and Giulia’s husband said that when she was a little better she must come to Rome and stay with them, where the air would be sure to do her good. I think she knew very well that she should never sit at the family table again, but she would not say anything to sadden their gaiety: so she thanked them all, and took a little morsel of cake, and sat looking very earnestly and affectionately at her sister; and pretty soon she grew tired, and all the loud voices jarred on her, so I led her back to the chamber. “This was the last wish I had,” she said, after we were alone, and she had sunk back wearily into her easy chair, “to be with Giulia on her wedding day! and now, if you please, tell me all about the wedding in the church.” I described it to her as minutely as I could, and she seemed much interested. Then she wanted me to read her a chapter in the Bible, as was myhabit, and after that I left her. At the head of the stairs I found myself waylaid by Giulia, who clung around my neck, weeping bitterly at parting with me, and entreated me over and over again to be good to Ida after she should be gone away.
The next day when I went there Giulia was gone, and Ida was quite weak and tired. She was never well enough to sit up again, and she faded away very slowly. The second day a letter came from Giulia, written almost in the first hour of her arrival in Rome, full of overflowing affection. Ida shed some tears at this, but not many; and she answered it with her own hand, weak as she was. One day, soon after this, as I was sitting beside Ida, she asked her mother to leave us alone for a few minutes, as she wished to speak to me. “Come a little nearer,” she said, when we were alone; and I drew up close to her side. She took my hand, and looked at me solemnly and a little sadly. “I have something,” she said, “that I have wanted to say to you for a long time: you are very fond of me, Signora Francesca?” I told her that I had always been so. “Yes,” she said, “but you are much more fond of me since I have been ill, than you were before, and you grow more so every day; I see it in a great many ways.” “That,” Isaid, “is no more than natural; I could not help it if I would.” “And lately,” she continued, “I have begun to be a little afraid that you may like me too much!” “Dear Ida, what do you mean?” “It is a great comfort to me,” she said, “to have you with me; but sometimes I am afraid that if I should die, you might grieve about it, and in that case I would rather that you should not come so often; I could not bear the idea of being a cause of sorrow to you. Now, I want you to promise that if I die, you will not be unhappy about me.” “I promise you,” I said, “that I will think of you always as one of the treasures laid up in Heaven, and I shall always thank God that He has let us be together for so long. I shall not be unhappy, but all the happier as long as I live, for the time that I have passed in this room.” Her face brightened. “Then I am quite happy,” she said; “that was what I wanted: now let my mother come back.” And having once satisfied herself that I was prepared, she never spoke to me of dying again.
One day a good lady came to see her, who had known her before her illness, and she brought her a pretty little silver medallion of the Madonna, which gave her great pleasure, and she never let it go out of her sightafterwards, as long as she lived. By this time Ida had become so ill that she was never able to lie down, but had to sit up day and night upright in her bed, supported by pillows, and her cough allowed her to sleep but very little. The lady was much troubled to see her in this state, and to comfort her, she told her that it was necessary to suffer much in this world if one would attain to happiness in the other. Ida answered, “Thatismy trouble! Iought, I suppose, to suffer a little, but I do not.I lie here in the midst of pleasure.” This lady had brought her a little book which she called the book of her remembrances, in which she had copied many prayers and pious reflections from various old authors; and because Ida seemed pleased with some portions which she read to her, she left the book with her, saying that when she had done with it, she might return it to her. Ida kept this book for several days, so that I once asked for it, feeling a little uneasy, as I knew the lady held it very precious. She said that she should like to keep it a little longer, and I did not hurry her. Two days afterwards she gave it back to me, asking me to give it to the lady, and to ask her pardon for having kept it so long. “I have added a little remembrance of my own,” she said;“I have copied for her my favourite prayer: I could only write a few words at the time, and that is why I have kept the book for so many days.” I looked at it; it was written in a clear round hand, with great pains. It was a prayer for the total conformity of one’s will to the will of God. I know that the lady for whom it was written has kept it always as a great treasure.
“You are happy,” Ida said to me once, “for you are strong, and can serve the Lord in many ways.” “I hope,” I said, “that we may both be His servants, but your service is a far more wearisome one than mine.” To which she answered, with that bright courageous smile of hers, “What God sends is never wearisome,”—and I know that she felt what she said. At another time, in thanking me for some little service that I had done for her, she said that “I did her much good.” “You do more for me,” I answered. She looked a little puzzled for a minute; then, as she took in my meaning, she said, “It is not I who do you good; this peace which you see in me is not mine. I am nothing but a poor human body with a great sickness, which I feel just as any one else would; this peace is of God.”
About the middle of December she received the communion. As she waited for the arrivalof the sacrament she thought she saw a beautiful rainbow, which made an arch over her bed, and she saw it so plainly that she called her mother to look at it, but Signora Martina could see nothing. When she found that it was visible to no eyes but her own, she did not speak of it again to any one; only when I asked her about it she acknowledged that she had seen it, and that it remained for about a quarter of an hour: adding, “It is well,—it means peace.”
She feared that it might be somewhat of a shock to her sister to hear that she had taken the communion, as it might give her the idea that she was worse; and she wrote her the news with her own hand, thinking that she could tell her more gently than any one else could do. I saw Giulia’s answer to this letter. “My dearest sister,” she wrote, “I always knew that you were more fit for Heaven than Earth, and I only wish I were as near it as you are!”
One day a little girl brought her an olive branch, as she said, to remind her of the one which the dove brought to Noah in the ark: probably the child did not know howherolive branch came, like the dove’s, as a token of deliverance close at hand; but Ida understood the significance of the present, and had the olive branch placed over herMadonna, where it seemed to be a great comfort to her, and it stayed there until she died. Whenever the room was dusted she used to say, “Be careful and do not hurt my olive branch!”
She still loved hymns and religious poetry, and learned by heart many of the verses which I used to sing or recite to her. She liked best those which were most grand and triumphant. One day, as I was leaving the room, I heard her saying to herself in a whisper those beautiful lines of S. Francesco d’Assisi:—
“Amore, Amor Gesù, son giunto a portoAmore, Amor Gesù, da mi conforto.”
She was unselfish in her happiness as she had been in her sorrow. One day I found her worse, much distressed and agitated: she was sitting up in bed with her prayer-book, but there was none of the beautiful peacefulness in her face which always accompanied her prayers,—her eyes looked positively wild with grief and terror. With some difficulty (for she had little voice then), she explained to us her trouble, entreating earnestly Edwige and myself to help her with our prayers. One of her neighbours, a very wicked and profane old woman, who had been generally avoided by all the others, had met with a suddenand fearful accident, and had been carried insensible to the hospital, where her death was hourly expected. Ida, as her mother afterwards told me, had not slept all night, but had continued in earnest and incessant prayer for this woman’s forgiveness,[13]and so she continued during the few hours until she died, asking of all whom she saw the charity of a prayer. The poor woman died without speaking, and only in the next world shall we know whether Ida’s prayers were heard. I have never felt as if they could have been altogether wasted.
Her charity took in the smallest things as well as the greatest.[14]Often, after leaving her, I used to go to see a young lady, a friend of hers and mine, who was an invalid just then, and she too liked flowers, so that sometimes when I went to Ida’s room I would have two bunches of flowers in my hands, one for her and one for our friend; Ida would always wish to see them both;that she might be sure her friend’s flowers were quite as pretty as her own, and if there were anything very beautiful in her bunch, she would take it out and put it in the other. And yet, if she cared for anything in this world, she cared for flowers: her love for them amounted to a passion.[15]Every day she would ask me particularly about all our acquaintance who were ill, or in any trouble; and sometimes it seemed as if she cared more for their small ailments, than for her own deadly illness.
Christmas Day came, her last Christmas in this world; and Ida and I arranged between us to have a little party in her room! Of course it was very little and quiet, because she was so weak then. There were only the old people, Luisa, and her little sister (the one who had been adopted into the family), Filomena and myself. But the room looked very pretty; Ida said it was the festadel Gesù Bambinoand she had her little picture of the Gesù Bambino taken down from the wall and placed on the table beside her, all surrounded with flowers and green branches. I arranged all this under her superintendence, and then set the table for breakfast close to her bed, that the familymight eat with her once more. How pleased and happy she was while all this was going on! She was a child to the last in her enjoyment of little things. Then they came in; but before breakfast she would have me read S. Luke’s story of the Nativity, and sing the old Christmas hymn—
“Mira, cuor mio durissimo,Il bel Bambin Gesù,Che in quel presepe asprissimo,Or lo fai nascer tu!”
Then we all ate together; even Ida’s tame ringdove, her constant companion during her illness, who was standing on the pillow close to her cheek, had his meal with the rest.
And after that came a great surprise; Ida put her hand under the sheet, and drew out, one by one, a little present for each of the family. But this was a little too much, being so unexpected; and when she gave her father his present, which consisted of some linen handkerchiefs, the poor old man, after vainly trying once or twice to speak, dropped his head with an uncontrollable burst of sobs, and was obliged, in a few minutes, to leave the room; and so ended Ida’s last festa. The next day I found her hemming one of the handkerchiefs for her father; it was the last work that she everdid, and it took her several days to finish it, a few stitches at a time.
I am coming to the end of my story now. Soon after that, she began to be much worse, and we saw that we had her for only a few days.On the last day of the old yearI was with her in the morning, and found her very weak, and, I feared, suffering much, though she made no complaint, and seemed to enjoy my reading as much as usual. I left her, promising to come again the next morning. About three o’clock the same day, as I sat at work, little Luisa came to my room, and said that Ida had fallen asleep, and they could not waken her. I immediately went home with the child, and Edwige also came with us, as she was in my room at the time. It was a dark, wet, gloomy day, but not cold; and we found Ida’s room all open to the air, as usual. I had feared, from what the child said, to find Ida dead; but instead of that she was really in a deep and most peaceful sleep, sitting upright in the bed, with her face to the window. Everything about her was white; but her face was whiter than the linen—at least it appeared so, being so full of light; only her lips had still a rosy colour. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders, and one hand lay on the outside of the sheet; her hand did not look wasted anymore, but was beautiful, as when I used to paint it.
We all stood about her in tears, fearing every minute lest her quiet breathing should cease—for her mother had been vainly trying for some time to awaken her, and none of us knew what this long sleep meant—when all at once the sun, which had been all day obscured, just as it was setting, came out from behind a cloud; and shining through the open window at the foot of the bed, framed in a square of light the beautiful patient face, and the white dress, and the white pillow, while the weeping family about the bed remained in shadow. I never saw anything so solemn and overpowering; no one felt like speaking; we stood and looked on in silence, as this last ray of light of the year 1872, the year which had been so full of events to Ida, after resting on her for a few minutes, gradually faded away.
Soon afterwards she awoke, and seemed refreshed by her sleep, and said she had been dreaming she was in a beautiful green field. After this she slept much, which was a mercy; and would often drop asleep through weakness, even while we were speaking to her. In these last days she wanted me always to read her passages from S. Paul; and the epistles of S. Paulhave become so associated with her in my mind, that I can never read them without thinking of her, as I am constantly coming to some of her favourite verses. I see now, as I look at these verses, that they are, without exception, those that express our utter helplessness, and the perfect sufficiency of the Saviour; two truths—or rather one, for they cannot be separated—which had become profoundly impressed on her mind, and which she, as it were, lived on during her illness.
About a week before her death, as Edwige was sitting alone by her, she said, “This can last but a very few days now: pray for me, that I may have patience for the little time that remains.” Then she spoke of L——, and said that she could not bear to hear people say, that he had caused her death by deserting her. “It was my own wish,” she said, “to part from him; and it would have been better if we had parted before.”[16]With her usual care for his good name, of which he was himself so careless, she said nothing of the reason for which she had wished to part from him, but let it pass as a caprice of her own. Then she asked Edwige, as alast favour, to help Filomena dress her for her grave, in case that her mother should not feel strong enough to do so. She seemed to shrink from the idea of being put into the hands of a stranger.
After this she often asked for the prayers of those about her, and always that she might have patience until the end. She never asked us to pray for the safety of her soul, for she was half in heaven already, and the time for doubting and fearing was over. I think it was on Friday that she spoke to her mother about her funeral, and tried to arrange everything so as to save trouble and expense to the family. That night she was in much pain, and not able to sleep, which greatly distressed her mother; but she said, “Why do you mind, mother? I shall have all eternity to rest in.” On Saturday morning, as usual, she asked me to read her something of S. Paul. I read the fourth chapter of the second epistle to the Corinthians. As I came to the verse, “We having the same spirit of faith, according as it is written, ‘I believed, and therefore have I spoken,’ we also believe, and therefore speak,” I looked up to see if she were able to attend, and I saw her face all lighted up, and she whispered, or rather her lips formed the word “beautiful.” But as Icame to the end of the chapter, that unconquerable drowsiness came over her, and she fell asleep. I never read to her again.
On Sunday she was worse—slept almost all the time; and when she was awake, wandered a little in her mind, thinking that she saw birds flying about the room. On Monday, when I went to her, I found her asleep; and though I stayed some little time, she did not awake. I knew she would be disappointed not to see me; so, as I had some things to do, I went away, telling her mother that I would come back soon. On my return I was met on the stairs by one of the neighbours, who had been watching for me at her door. “She is worse!” she said; “I wanted to tell you, for fear that it should shock you too much to see her, without knowing it beforehand.” I thanked her, and hurried up to Ida. The priest, who had been very kind all through her illness, was sitting by the bed, and a crucifix and prayer-book were lying on it by Ida’s side. She had changed much in the one hour since I had left her sleeping so quietly. The peculiar unmistakable look of death was on her face, and she seemed much distressed for breath. I paused at the door, and the priest asked me to come in. Ida turned her eyes, from which the light was fast fading, towardme, and the old smile came back to her face as bright and courageous as ever. “God gives you courage still, I see, Ida!” I said to her, as I came up to her side. She could not speak, but she nodded her head emphatically. Then she made a sign for me to sit down in my old place, near the foot of the bed, where her eyes could rest on my face; and there I sat through almost the whole of that sad yet beautiful day. Once she made a sign for me to come near her; I thought she had something to say to me, and I put my face close to hers, that I might understand her; but she did not speak, only kissed me twice over. That was her farewell to me.
All day long she alternated between sleep and periods of great distress for breath. Towards the end of the day, as she awoke out of a sort of stupor, her face became very beautiful, with a beauty not of this world. It was thatbellezza della morte, which is seen sometimes in great saints, or in innocent little children, when they are passing away. I cannot describe it. I suppose it is what the old Jews saw in the face of S. Stephen, when it became “like the face of an angel.” Certainly it was more like heaven than anything else we ever see in this world. She looked at me, then at her mother, with asmile of wonderful joy and intelligence; then raised her eyes towards heaven with a look, as it were, of joyful recognition,—perhaps she saw something that we could not,—and her face was in a manner transfigured, as if a ray of celestial light had fallen on it. This lasted for a few minutes, and then she dropped asleep. When evening came on, they sent for me to come home. She seemed a little better just then, and when I asked if she were willing that I should leave her, she nodded and whispered, “To-morrow morning.” About seven o’clock that evening, without any warning, she suddenly threw her arms wide open, her head dropped on her bosom,—and she was gone.
The next morning, when I went to the house, she was laid down on the bed, for the first time for two or three months. The heap of pillows and cushions and blankets and shawls had all been taken away, and she lay looking very happy and peaceful, with a face like white wax. Even her lips were perfectly white at last; they were closed in a very pleasant smile. I went into the next room, where the family were all sitting together. The poor mother gave me a letter which Ida had written and consigned to Lena, (an intimate friend of hers,) a few days before her death, with directions to giveit to her mother as soon as she should be gone. In this letter she disposed of what little she had in money and ornaments.
She had never bought any ornament for herself, but several had been given to her, and she divided them, as she best could, among her relations and friends. Most of the letter, however, was taken up with trying to comfort her father and mother. She thanked them with the utmost tenderness for all that they had done for her, especially in her illness, and entreated them not to mourn very much for her; reminding them that, if she had lived a long life, she would probably have suffered much more than she had done. She left many affectionate and comforting messages to her brother, her sister, and various friends. She also left many directions for her burial,—among others, that a crucifix, which her dear old friend Edwige had given her on New Year’s day, should be placed on her bosom, and buried with her. So the letter must have been writtenafterNew Year, at a time when she suffered greatly, and was too ill and weak almost to speak; and yet, not only did she enter into the smallest particulars (even to leaving her black dress to Filomena, andadvising her to alter the trimming on some other clothes, so as not to spend for the mourning),butshe even took the pains to write the whole letter in a very large round hand, that her mother, whose sight was failing, might read it without difficulty. A little money which she had in the savings bank, and which was to have been her dowry, she left to her beloved sister Giulia. To me she left a ring and some of her hair. I read this letter aloud amid the sobs of the family, which came the more as each one heard his or her own name recorded with so much affection. We went back into her room, and her mother opened the little drawer in the table at the head of the bed, where she had kept her few treasures, and took out the little ring which she had left me, and put it on my finger without speaking, as we stood by Ida’s side. Then I went away to find some flowers—the last flowers that I was ever to bring to Ida!The first lilies of the valley came that day, and I was glad to have them for her, for they were her favourite flowers.
Late in the day I went back to sit, for the last time, a little by Ida’s bedside. Edwige and Filomena had dressed her then for her grave, and very lovely she looked. She wore a simple loose dress of white muslin; her beautiful dark hair, parted in the middle, was spread over her shoulders and bosom,and covered her completely to the waist. Edwige’s crucifix and a small bunch of sweet flowers lay on her bosom. Her little waxen hands, beautiful still as in life, were not crossed stiffly, but retained all their flexible grace, as they lay one in the other, one of them holding a white camellia. A large garland, sent by the same friend who had for so long supplied her with flowers, was laid on the bed, enclosing her whole person as in a frame. Sometimes these garlands are made altogether of white flowers for a young girl; but Ida had been always so fond of bright colours, and of everything cheerful and pleasant, and her passing away had been so happy, that it seemed more natural in her garland to have roses and violets and jonquils, and all the variety of flowers. There was not one too gay for her! Six wax torches in large tall candlesticks, brought from the church, stood about her; the good priest sent those.
We all sat down beside her for a while, and I felt as if I should never be ready to leave her; but at last it grew late, and I had to come away. For a minute at the door I turned back, and wiped away the tears, that I might take one more look at the beautiful face smiling among the flowers; then I passed on, and my long, happy attendance inthat chamber was over. That night, when she was carried away, the artist who had long wished to paint her portrait followed her to S. Caterina, where all the dead of Florence are laid for one night, and went in and drew her likeness by lamplight. All the servants employed about the establishment gathered about her, wondering at her beauty.
Ida is buried in the poor people’s burying ground at Trespiano. Edwige went to see her grave a while ago, and found it all grown over with little wild “morning glories.” There is a slab of white marble there, with the inscription, “Ida, aged nineteen, fell asleep in the peace of the Lord, 20th January, 1873”; and over the inscription is carved a dove with a branch of olive in its beak. I miss her much, but I remember my promise to her, and there has never been any bitterness in my grief for Ida. She does not seem far away; she was so near Heaven before, that we cannot feel that she has gone a very long journey.