Old World Series.


  [Illustration]

  THE STORY OF IDA

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration: In the last ray of Sunset.

  And the last day of the Year.

  1872.]




  THE STORY OF IDA
  EPITAPH
  ON AN ETRURIAN TOMB BY
  FRANCESCA ALEXANDER

  [Illustration]


  Portland, Maine
  _THOMAS B. MOSHER_
  M_dcccxcix_




  _This First Edition on
  Van Gelder paper consists
  of 925 copies._




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PREFACE

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[Illustration]




PREFACE.


For now some ten or twelve years I have been asking every good writer
whom I knew, to write some part of what was exactly true, in the
greatest of the sciences, that of Humanity. It seemed to me time that
the Poet and Romance-writer should become now the strict historian of
days which, professing the openest proclamation of themselves, kept
yet in secrecy all that was most beautiful, all that was most woful,
in the multitude of their unshepherded souls. And, during these years
of unanswered petitioning, I have become more and more convinced that
the wholesomest antagonism to whatever is dangerous in the temper,
or foolish in the extravagance, of modern Fiction, would be found in
sometimes substituting for the artfully-combined improbability, the
careful record of providentially ordered Fact.

Providentially, I mean, not in the fitting together of evil so as to
produce visible good,--but in the enforcement, though under shadows
which mean but the difference between finite and infinite knowledge,
of certain laws of moral retribution which enough indicate for our
guidance, the Will, and for our comfort the Presence, of the Judge and
Father of men.

It might be thought that the function of such domestic history was
enough fulfilled by the frequency and full detail of modern biography.
But lives in which the public are interested are scarcely ever worth
writing. For the most part compulsorily artificial, often affectedly
so,--on the whole, fortunate beyond ordinary rule,--and, so far as
the men are really greater than others, unintelligible to the common
reader,--the lives of statesmen, soldiers, authors, artists, or any one
habitually set in the sight of many, tell us at last little more than
what sort of people they dealt with, and of pens they wrote with; the
personal life is inscrutably broken up,--often contemptibly, and the
external aspect of it merely a husk, at the best. The lives we need to
have written for us are of the people whom the world has not thought
of,--far less heard of,--who are yet doing the most of its work, and of
whom we may learn how it can best be done.

The following story of a young Florentine girl’s too short life is
absolutely and simply true: it was written only for memorial of her
among her friends, by the one of them that loved her best, and who
knew her perfectly. That it was _not_ written for publication will be
felt after reading a few sentences; and I have had a certain feeling
of desecrating its humility of affection, ever since I asked leave to
publish it.

In the close of the first lecture given on my return to my duties
in Oxford, will be found all that I am minded at present to tell
concerning the writer, and her friends among the Italian poor; and
perhaps I, even thus, have told more than I ought, though not in the
least enough to express my true regard and respect for her, or my
admiration of her powers of rendering, with the severe industry of
an engraver, the most pathetic instants of action and expression in
the person she loves. Her drawing of Ida, as she lay asleep in the
evening of the last day of the year 1872, has been very beautifully
and attentively, yet not without necessary loss, reduced in the
frontispiece, by Mr. W. Roffe, from its own size, three-quarters
larger;--and thus, strangely, and again let me say, providentially,
I can show, in the same book, examples of the purest truth, both in
history, and picture. Of invented effects of light and shade on
imaginary scenes, it seems to me we have admired too many. Here is a
real passage of human life, seen in the light that Heaven sent for it.

One earnest word only I have to add here, for the reader’s sake,--let
it be noted with thankful reverence that this is the story of a
Catholic girl written by a Protestant one, yet the two of them so
united in the Truth of the Christian Faith, and in the joy of its Love,
that they are absolutely unconscious of any difference in the forms or
letter of their religion.

  J. RUSKIN.

 BRANTWOOD, _14th April, 1883_.

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[Illustration]

THE STORY OF IDA

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




THE STORY OF IDA.




PART I.


A week ago yesterday, I looked for the last time on her who has been,
for so long, at once a care and a help to me.

I feel that her life has left a great peacefulness in mine, that will
be a long time before it quite fades away, like the light which remains
so long after sunset on a summer evening; and while I am yet, as it
were, within her influence, I have wished to write down a little of
what I remember of her, that so beautiful a life and death may not be
quite forgotten.

It is now nearly four years ago, that a school-teacher, who had been
long a friend of mine, came to ask that I would interest myself for one
of her scholars, who was about to pass a difficult examination, that
she might obtain a diploma of _Maestra Communale_. Giulia--that was the
young girl’s name--was a pleasant, fresh-looking girl, with honest,
bright blue eyes, and dark hair that curled lightly about her forehead.
Her voice and face interested me at once; and I soon found out that
her history also was an interesting one. She was one of a family of
fifteen children, then all dead but three; her father was advanced in
life, her mother was an invalid, and they were all very poor. There
was a sad story also in the family. One of Giulia’s elder brothers had
been married, and lived happily for some years with his wife. She died,
leaving him with four little children; and such was the violence of his
grief, that his mind gave way,--not all at once, but little by little.
Gradually he began to neglect his work, his language and behaviour were
agitated and unlike his usual self, he wandered much about without an
object,--and one day the report of a pistol was heard in his room, and
that was the last! The grandparents had taken home all the poor little
orphans, and it was to assist in supporting them that Giulia wished to
be a teacher.

She had been studying very hard--so hard that she had finished in
six months the studies which should have occupied a year! She was an
energetic little body, made bold by the necessities of the children;
and she went about to the various offices, and had all the needful
papers made out, and obtained introductions to all those persons whom
she thought likely to help her in her object. Of course I was too happy
to do what I could--very little as it happened--and Giulia’s youth,
and hopefulness, and bright spirit, were like sunshine in my room. She
was much there in those days, talking over her prospects, and what was
to be done. One day she came with a very beautiful companion, a little
girl of sixteen: “I have brought my sister; she wanted to see you,” she
said, by way of apology; and that was how I came to know Ida.

She was very lovely then; I do not think that any of the pictures which
I afterwards took of her, were quite so pretty as she was. Let me see
if I can describe her. She was a little taller than Giulia, and perhaps
rather too slight for perfect beauty, but singularly graceful both in
form and movement. Such a shape as the early painters used to imagine
for their young saints, with more spirit than substance about it; her
hair was dark, almost black, quite straight, as fine as silk, soft,
heavy, and abundant; and she wore it turned back from her face, as was
the fashion just then, displaying to the best advantage a clear, broad,
intellectual forehead. She had a regular oval face, rather small than
large; with soft black eyes of wonderful beauty and gentleness, shaded
by perhaps the longest lashes which I ever saw--with a pretty little
straight nose (which gave a peculiar prettiness to her profile), and
a mouth not very small, but beautiful in form and most delicate in
expression. Her teeth were very white, brilliant, and regular; her
complexion was dark, without much colour, except in her lips, which
were of a deep red. When she was a little out of breath, however, or
when she was animated in talking, a bright glow used to come up in her
cheeks, always disappearing almost before one knew that it was there.
She and I made great friends during that first visit: she liked me, as
a matter of course, because Giulia liked me; and on my part, it would
have been impossible that I should not love anything so beautiful and
innocent and affectionate. I did not let her go until we had arranged
that I should take her likeness; and from that time forward, as long
as Ida lived, I was almost half the time employed either in drawing or
painting her. It was seldom that I could keep any picture of her for
more than a little while: every one used to ask me where I had found
such a beautiful face.

It is pleasant to me now to look back at those days, before any shadow
came over that peaceful and most innocent life. Those long happy
mornings in my painting room, when she used to become so excited over
my fairy stories and ballads, and tried to learn them all by heart to
tell to Giulia; and when she, in turn, confided to me all the events
and interests of her short life. One thing I soon discovered,--that
she was quite as beautiful in mind as in person. If I tell all the
truth of what Ida was, I am sure that it will seem to any one who did
not know her as if I were inventing. She seemed, even in those early
days, like one who lived nearer heaven than other people. I have never
quite understood it myself; she had been brought up more in the world
than is usual with Italian girls, for (as I have said) her parents
were poor, and her mother sickly, and she had been obliged, even from
early childhood, to work hard for her daily bread. It seemed almost
impossible that no bad influence should ever have come near her; but if
it ever did, it passed by without harming her, for there was nothing
in her on which it could take hold. Her mind seemed to turn naturally
to everything that was good and beautiful, while what was evil made no
impression on her, but passed by her as if it had not been.

She lived in a dismal old house, up a great many stairs, in one of the
poorest streets of the city. All this does not sound very pleasant:
but what did Ida see there? Any one else would have seen, looking from
the windows there, dirty old houses out of repair, crammed full of
poverty, broken windows, leaky roofs, rickety stairs, rags hung out to
dry from garret windows, pale, untidy, discouraged women, neglected
children. Ida saw the bright sky, and the swallows that built under
the eaves, and the moss and flowers that grew between the tiles on the
old roofs. And from one window she could see a little far-away glimpse
of the country, and from another she could look down into a garden.
She saw the poor neighbours besides, but to her they were all people
to be loved, and pitied, and sympathised with. Whatever there was,
good, in any of them, she found it out, and ignored everything else.
It was a peculiarity of my Ida, that all the people with whom she was
intimately acquainted were, in some way or other, “very remarkable.”
She never admitted that they had any faults. One old woman whose temper
was so fearful that nobody could live with her, was “a good old woman,
but a little nervous. She had been an invalid for many years, and was
a great sufferer, and naturally she had her days when things worried
her.” An idle, dirty old fellow, who lodged in the same house,--who
lived principally by getting into debt at one eating-house until the
owner would trust him no longer, and then going to another,--she
described as “an unfortunate gentleman in reduced circumstances, who
had been educated in high life, and consequently had never learnt to
do anything. Besides, he was a poet, and poets are always peculiar.”
A profane man, who talked atheism, she charitably said was probably
insane. Poor little Ida! The time came when her eyes were opened by
force; when she saw sin in its ugliness in the person of one who was
very dear to her,--and then she died.

But that was some time afterwards. I am writing now of that first happy
winter, when I was coming, little by little, to know what my companion
was. _All_ that she was, I never knew till after she was gone. Ida was
a little seamstress, and she was then only beginning to earn money.
Thirty centimes a day[1] was what she gained when she worked for a
shop, and for this she used to sit at the sewing machine until past
midnight. Sometimes she used to sew for ladies at their houses, and
then she earned a franc a day or more.

Her parents allowed her to keep all her own earnings, that she might
clothe herself; but there was always something that she wanted for
father, or mother, or Giulia, or the little orphans, more than anything
that she wanted for herself; so that her own dress was always kept down
to objects of the strictest necessity. I am sure it was not that she
did not care for pretty things as much as any other girl: if any of
the ladies where she worked gave her a piece of ribbon, or a scrap of
coloured silk, or anything else that was bright and pretty, it was an
unending amusement to make it up in some fanciful and becoming style,
whether for Giulia or herself, though she always enjoyed the most
working for Giulia. But generally she was engaged in saving money, a
few centimes at a time, to buy a present for somebody, which was a
great secret, confided to me under promise of silence. _One centime a
day_ she always laid by for “the poor.” “It is very little,” she said,
“but I save it up until Sunday, and it is enough to buy a piece of
bread for an old blind man, who always comes to us for his breakfast on
Sunday morning.”

When the time came for Giulia to pass her examination, Ida came to my
room every day, and sometimes twice a day, to tell me what progress she
was making. Often she came when I was not at home, and then she would
write a note with my pencil on a scrap of paper, and pin it up to the
window-frame, where I should be sure to see it. I have kept some of
these little notes up to this time, written in a childish round hand,
telling how many “marks” Giulia had received for geography, and how
many for grammar, all signed in the same way--“_La sua Ida che li vuol
tanto bene!_” As long as she lived, her letters were always signed
in the same way. Often I would find two or three flowers, carefully
arranged by her hand, in a glass of water on my table; or, if I had
left my door locked, they would be made into a fanciful bunch, and
tied with a bit of blue ribbon on the door-handle. Giulia passed
her examination triumphantly, as she deserved to do; and soon after
obtained a place as teacher in one of the free schools. I remember that
there was a great excitement at that time with regard to a new dress,
which Giulia was to wear when she took charge of her class. Ida had
been saving money for a great while to buy that dress--it was a grey
alpaca--and it was all made, and trimmed, and ready to put on, before
Giulia knew anything about it. First I saw the dress unmade, and then
made; and then Giulia hurried over to show it to me, supposing that I
should be as much surprised as she was.

Meanwhile the winter had passed into spring, and spring was wearing
fast into summer, and my pretty Ida was beginning to look rather
poorly. She grew very thin, and had but little appetite; I thought also
that she looked rather sad--but if I asked her what was the matter, she
always said that she was tired, and felt the warm weather. I forgot to
say that her mother let rooms to lodgers; by the way, the vagabond poet
of whom I have spoken was a lodger of hers. A man who had lodged with
them for some time had just then left them; and a military officer had
taken his room. I remember still the day when Ida first spoke to me of
this man, and seemed pleased that her mother had found a new lodger
instead of the old one. Oh, if I could only have warned her against him
then!

But, as I have said, Ida seemed to be fading, and I felt pretty anxious
about her. We were going up to the mountains about that time, and when
we parted she said, “Perhaps you will not find me when you come back;
I feel as if I should not live very long.” But she could give me no
reason for this presentiment, and I attached no great importance to
it, thinking only that she was weak and nervous. After we had been
for a few weeks at S. Marcello, I received a letter from her, almost
unintelligible, written evidently in great distress of mind, in which
she entreated me, if possible, to come to Florence that she might speak
to me, as she was in much trouble. She added that she wished she had
confided in me sooner; and begged me in no case to let any one know
that I had received a letter from her, but to direct my answer to the
post-office, and not to the house. I was greatly alarmed, and wrote
to her without losing a minute, telling her that it was impossible
that I could go to Florence (as the journey was much longer than I had
supposed), and begging her to write again immediately, and tell me what
was really the matter. After two or three days of almost unbearable
suspense, her answer came,--long enough, and plain enough, this time.
I wish now that I had kept her letter, that I might tell this part of
her sad story in her own words. In my own, it is hard for me to tell
it without speaking more harshly than I would, of one who has at least
this claim on my forbearance--that Ida loved him!

The military officer of whom I have spoken, who had then been for
three or four months in the house, had fallen in love with Ida, in his
fashion: that is, she was not his first love, probably not his last,
but she pleased him. He was a man of not far from forty years old,
good-looking in a certain way, broad-shouldered, tall, fresh-coloured;
and very much of a gentleman in his manners. He was a man of talent
besides, and he had travelled much in his military life, and could tell
interesting stories of strange places and people. He had also read a
great deal, and could talk of various authors, and quote poetry on all
occasions. As a soldier and an Italian, he had, I believe, done himself
honour.

I wish I could think that there was some foundation of truth in the
passionate attachment which he professed for Ida. I suppose he was fond
of her, somewhat, for I do not see what reason he could have had for
pretending it. He said himself, afterwards, by way of excuse, that he
was “blinded by passion”: so let it be. Ida was then just seventeen,
growing prettier every day, a delicate, spiritual little creature,
looking as if the wind might blow her away; and this military hero,
with the broad shoulders and the fair hair, threw himself at her feet,
so to say; courted her passionately, desperately; and Ida gave him
her heart unreservedly, and trusted him as she trusted her father and
mother. I sometimes fancy that this man made love to Ida at first
partly to amuse himself, to see if he could not put something of this
world into the heart of this gentle little saint, who lived always,
as it were, half in heaven. But if so, he was disappointed. This love
once admitted into her heart became, like all her other feelings,
something sacred and noble; so that, even at this day, it seems to me
in a certain way to ennoble the object of it, unworthy as he was; and I
cannot say a word that might bring discredit on his name.

He wished to marry her immediately; and her father and mother, simple,
pious, kind-hearted people, who would have given their lives for the
happiness of their children, consented willingly. They knew that he
was poor and an orphan, but they were not ambitious for their pretty
daughter; and they promised to take him home, and keep him as a son of
their own. But now came the difficulty. L----[2] was an officer in the
army, and by the present law in Italy an officer, until he reaches some
particular rank--I think that of colonel,--is not permitted to marry,
unless the woman of his choice has a certain amount of dowry. L---- had
about two years and a half left to serve in the army, before he would
be entitled to a pension. Now, Ida was so very young that there seemed
nothing very dreadful in the idea of waiting, but her lover was a
great deal too ardent for that. His proposal was--and he would hear of
nothing else--that they should be married immediately by a _religious
marriage_, leaving the _civil marriage_--the only one now legal--until
another time, when his career in the army should be finished. The poor
child knew nothing of civil and religious marriages, but she was a
little frightened at the idea that her marriage would be a secret from
the whole world; and altogether she was far from happy,--he told her so
many things that she was never to tell any one, and such fearful ruin
was to overtake them both if ever their union was discovered. Meanwhile
he was very tender and grateful and reverential, not only to her but to
all the family. Now at last--so he used to say--“he knew what it was
to have a home and a mother! What a mercy that he, who had suffered
so much in his wandering life, who had been so lonely and friendless,
should have anchored at last in that peaceful Christian home?” That was
the way he used to talk.

Meanwhile Giulia, the sensible, clear-sighted Giulia, whose heart was
all bound up in her little sister, felt an unspeakable antipathy to
L----. On the same day when Ida’s second letter arrived at S. Marcello,
explaining to me her circumstances, one came also from Giulia, giving
_her_ version of the story, no way differing from Ida’s in the facts,
but even more sad and frightened. “I cannot tell you, dear Signora
Francesca,” she wrote, “in what a state of continual agitation I pass
my time at present, and how unhappy I am about our Ida. God grant that
all may go well! Mother has gone to the priest to-day to see what they
can do.” I knew afterwards that Giulia, finding all persuasions fail
with her sister (and indeed she had nothing then to bring up against
L----, except her instinctive dread and dislike of him), entreated her
mother, even with tears, to prevent the marriage by any means whatever.
But the good Signora Martina (who was just as pretty, and gentle, and
soft-hearted as Ida herself) could not bear the pale, wasting face of
her younger daughter, and her little hands that were growing so thin,
and her sad voice; and she thought that it all came of her love for the
captain, and that, if she consented to the secret marriage, Ida would
grow bright and happy again.

I, at that time, knew almost nothing about such things, and could
not therefore advise very strongly on one side or the other. But it
pleased the Lord that the worst should not happen to our Ida. L----
was called away from Florence at a few hours’ notice, to join his
regiment, on _the very day before the one fixed for the marriage_. The
government was just then making its preparations for the taking of
Rome. What she suffered from this separation is not to be told, yet I
feel that it was a providence to save her from far greater evil. When
we came back to Florence in September I found Ida quite changed in
appearance, but patient and resigned as she always was--willing, as
she said, to leave all in the Lord’s hand. “Her L---- was so good!”
she used to tell me: “he had been so kind to his own family!” in
particular to his brother’s widow, who had been left in destitution
with two little children, and to whom he was continually sending money,
though he had so little to send. He did not, however, wish to have
anything said about this woman, as he feared that Ida’s parents might
not so willingly consent to the marriage, if they knew that he was so
burdened. L---- always had a great many things that he did not wish
anything said about. Giulia, however, had her suspicions, and I had
mine, about this brother’s widow. We both spoke about them--Giulia, I
rather think, pretty freely--to Ida. She had resolution enough, when
right and wrong were concerned; and without saying anything to Giulia
she went to the post-office, and inquired of the people employed there,
if her lover were really in the habit of sending money to Naples, where
his sister-in-law lived, and to whom. A record is always kept at the
post-office of all the money that comes and goes, so that it was easy
to ascertain the truth. And she found that he frequently sent money to
a woman in Naples, bearing the same family name as himself. So she and
I and Giulia were all quite satisfied. There was a depth of wickedness
that we could not imagine, and that even now I find it hard fully to
believe, with all the proofs before me!

And now the Italian troops were preparing to march upon Rome, and we
were all fearing a great battle; which really never came. We were all
preparing lint and bandages, thinking that they might be wanted, as
on former occasions; and my mother gave out work of this sort to all
whom she could find to do it. Ida, I remember, refused to be paid for
any work of this sort which she did for the army, saying, “Perhaps it
may go for L----,”--and while she sat, very pale and quiet, over her
lint-making in my room, I drew that picture of her which I called “La
Fidanzata del Capitano,” which I think more like her than any of my
other pictures, though not half so pretty as she was, for all that.

And now I am coming to the darkest part of my Ida’s history--a time
when she suffered much, and which I do not like very well to think
about. I said before that I did not know much then about civil
marriage. The law had not been in operation more than a little while.
But at the same time, I did not feel quite easy about this marriage
which was to be kept a secret. It seemed to me that my poor Ida was
passing into a perfect network of secrets and mystery. I knew that the
captain intended to marry her when he should come back from Rome--and
that would probably be very soon. So I consulted a friend, who knew
more about such things than I did, and she told me just what this
religious marriage was--that is, as far as its consequences for this
world were concerned, no marriage at all. Then I thought that I ought
to tell Ida what she was doing,--which was not very easy, for I knew
how her heart was bound up in L----.

One day, up there in my room, we talked it all over, and I told her, as
gently as I could, all that had been told to me. She was much shocked
and distressed, and shed a great many tears, but quietly. What affected
her most was the idea that such a marriage might bring misery on her
children, if she should ever have any. “It must be fearful,” she said,
“for a woman to feel remorse in the presence of her children,--to see
them in misery and to think ‘_I brought this trouble upon them!_’”
Then she added, “People have all been very cruel not to have told me
these things before! I knew that I could not have borne such a life.”
Still, she was not willing at that time to make me a definite promise
that she would not do it. I was anxious that she should do so, as we
were about going away for a month’s visit to Padova and Bassano. During
that month I knew that L---- was expected in Florence, and I feared his
influence upon her. Ida was so very gentle, and usually so submissive
to those about her, that I did not then comprehend the true strength
and determination of her character.

A day or two afterwards she came to say goodbye before I went. “I had a
sad night,” she said, “after our talk the other day; I could not sleep
for thinking of L----. But you must not think hardly of him: he has
always meant well, but he is a passionate, impulsive man, and does not
know always how to stop and think of the consequences. You must not be
anxious about me while you are away. I cannot make you any promise just
now, but I have quite resolved never to marry until we can be married
legally, and I hope that I can promise you this when you come back.”
During the month that we were away I heard no more of Ida, and those
to whom I told her story shook their heads, and prophesied that the
captain would have it all his own way when he should come to Florence.
I did not think so, but I kept silence, for I had no reason for my
faith, excepting a certain look in Ida’s beautiful eyes when she said
those words to me,--a look humble and yet steadfast, as of one strong
in another’s strength,--a look that I would give a good deal if I
could put in some of my pictures of saints.

When at last I did come back, Ida came to my room as soon as she heard
that I was there. She looked pale and frightened and ill, and began to
talk almost before she was in the room, as if she had something that
she was in a great hurry to say. “I have come to make you that promise,
Signora Francesca, which I could not make you before you went away. I
promise you that I will never marry L----, nor any one else, excepting
by a lawful marriage.” “I thought,” I said, “that you had come to tell
me this, and I am very thankful to hear it.” “And I have been in such
a hurry,” she said, “for you to come home, that I might say this to
you. I have been afraid always that my courage would not hold out.” I
then asked her to tell me exactly how it had all gone. She said that
L---- had come back from Rome about a week before, fully prepared for
the marriage. She had not told him of her change of resolution before
his return--she could not make up her mind to write it to him: but as
soon as he came, and she had a chance to speak to him alone, she told
him all that I had told her, saying that she had consented at first to
the religious marriage in ignorance, but that she was now convinced
that it would be wrong. At first he seems to have thought, as every one
else thought, that he could make Ida do what he pleased; then, when he
found that she stood firm against all his persuasions, he went into a
passion, and terrified the poor girl beyond measure with his violence,
still without shaking her resolution. And then he left her in anger,
and went away from Florence without seeing her again, and she had not
heard from him since. She had been ill--had been three days confined to
her bed--and she looked half dead; and I noticed then, for the first
time, that peculiar tone in her voice which it never afterwards lost.

Still, she said that she was not sorry for what she had done, let it
end as it might. It was all in God’s hands now, and as He had ordered
it, so it would be. She had been very unhappy, but she felt less so now
that I had come; and it would certainly have been a great deal worse if
she had married L---- first, and found out all these things afterwards.
I tried to comfort her, though I myself felt a good deal shocked and
surprised at the turn which things had taken. I told her that if L----
really cared for her he would write to her again, and would be willing
to wait for the two years and a half. “I cannot feel,” she said, “as
if it could ever come right now, but we shall see.”

Two days afterwards she really did receive a very penitent and
affectionate letter from L----, which she brought to me; but she
was not very much cheered by it. She still loved L----, but she no
longer trusted him, though she always tried to excuse his conduct in
speaking of him; but I do not know if there be anything in the world
more unhappy than love without trust. He had been ordered to Sicily,
to fight the brigands, and they were not likely to meet again for many
months. I did not quite know what to make of this letter: it was very
fervent in its expressions of affection, full of desperate sorrow for
the long and inevitable separation. But there was not a word in it
about marriage. I noticed the same thing in his succeeding letters,
which for a long time she always brought for me to read. Some of them
were very beautiful letters, full of interesting descriptions, and of
much tender and lofty sentiment. He would speak of her as “the lamp
that gave light to his life”; he sent many affectionate and reverential
messages to “the dear mother whom he loved as his own” (and only to
think of the trouble that he brought on this _dear mother_!), but
he never spoke of their marriage, or of their future home. Besides,
his letters were, to my mind, just a little too virtuous, too full of
sensitive shrinking from other people’s sins, pathetic lamentations
about the wickedness of the Sicilians, and paternal advice to Ida,
who was so much better than he was! That style may do very well for
a clergyman, but I rather distrust it in a military man. However, I
supposed that all would end well, and that there was probably some
reason, more than I knew, for whatever seemed strange in L----’s
conduct. I tried to keep up Ida’s courage--more, I think now, than
I should have done--but she was gradually coming to talk less about
L----; less, indeed, about anything. She liked better than anything
else to sit and read when she came to my room. She took her choice
always of my books, generally choosing poetry--religious poetry rather
than anything else; and she used to read aloud to me with great
simplicity of manner (for she had never been taught declamation), but
with a certain tone in her voice which invariably put me into tears, so
that I sometimes had to stop her reading, as it made me unable to go on
with my work. The room which had been occupied by L---- when he lived
in Florence had now been taken by a married couple; the husband was
an officer, and his wife married to him only by a religious marriage.
This poor woman was very unhappy, and she confided her troubles to Ida,
who often spoke to me about her. Once she said to me that I had done a
great deal for her in many ways (this was only a fancy of hers, arising
out of her strong affection for me), but never so much as when I had
prevented the religious marriage; that she should have died if she had
found herself in the condition of her poor neighbour. It was a comfort
to me that she said so, as I had begun to feel almost sorry for the
part which I had taken, seeing how she was pining, and to wish that
I had not interfered about this marriage, which, after all, however
dangerous, would not have been regarded by the Church as sinful. But
I _knew_ now that I did right in that matter. She gradually stopped
bringing L----’s letters for me to read; and when I spoke of him, she
used to tell me that the feeling was strong in her mind that she should
never be L----’s wife, and that she tried not to think too much about
it, nor to set her heart upon it, but to keep herself “ready for the
Lord’s will, whatever it might be.”

_One day she found a New Testament in my room_,[3] the first which
she had ever seen; and after that she never cared so much for any
other book, but would sit and read chapter after chapter with
never-failing delight, only interrupting herself now and then to say,
“How beautiful!” When Giulia had a holiday she used to come also, and
she was as much pleased with the Testament as her sister. The two girls
would sit by me while I painted, by the hour together, and one would
read till her voice was tired, and then hand the book to her sister;
and so they would go on taking turns until they would read often more
than twenty chapters at once. When I found they did not grow tired of
it, I gave them a Testament to keep for themselves, and such was their
excitement that they sat up reading it nearly all the first night after
they had it.

Meanwhile, poor Ida had continued to grow thin and pale, and did not
eat enough for a sparrow. We took her to our good English doctor, but
he was not able to do much for her, and indeed could not tell what
was the matter with her. He thought that the room where she slept was
unhealthy, as there was no window in it. The family, being poor, were
obliged to let all their good rooms, and to occupy all the dark and
inconvenient ones themselves; so that Ida and Giulia and their little
niece Luisa slept all together in what was really nothing more than a
dark closet. He thought also that she had injured herself by drawing
water for her mother, who took in washing. So Giulia, out of her small
earnings, hired a woman to come every day and draw the water, and the
poet received notice to leave his room at the beginning of the next
month. This was the less loss, as he had not paid his rent for some
time, and the family were also frequently obliged to give him his
dinner, because, as Ida told me, “they could not eat their own meal in
comfort while there was a man in the house with nothing to eat.” He
said, when told that he must leave, as Ida was ill and needed the room,
that, _being for that reason_, he could not refuse; and when the time
came he walked away majestically, with a bundle of manuscript and a
pair of old shoes, which appeared to constitute his whole property. And
now, as I shall never say anything more about the poet, I will add to
his credit, that he afterwards came back, to everybody’s astonishment,
and paid up all his debts, having obtained employment, I believe, to
write for a republican newspaper.

So that year finished and another came; and Ida had a little cough, but
no one thought much of it. We went away again into the country for two
months, and during that time the sisters wrote to me twice, and Ida’s
letters were happy and affectionate, and she seemed to enjoy her new
room (which was the very one that looked away into the country), and
she spoke again of L----, as I thought, more hopefully.

We went back to Florence about the first of September, and I found Ida
still ailing, but with nothing particular the matter with her. She was
studying for an examination so that she might also be a teacher, and
she said that L---- wished it. He had now (I believe) only a year and a
little more left to serve in the army, and during that time he expected
to come to Florence for a visit. I told her that the time would pass
soon, and that the long waiting was nearly over, and she and L----
would be happy now before very long. To this she only answered--“_As
God has destined it, so will it be._” I thought sometimes that she had
become indifferent to her lover, or else that she was frightened about
her own health, and did not expect to recover. I did not like to have
her study so much, as I was sure it hurt her; but about that it was of
no use for me to talk. L----’s will was law to her, if only it did not
interfere with her own conscience.

Her cough had increased, and she could not read to me very often. Then
one night she was taken ill with insupportable pains in her shoulders,
which lasted for several hours, and then left her as weak as a baby.
That was the beginning of the end.

Poor Giulia suffered more, I think, than her sister. She was now
herself engaged to be married, and should naturally have been saving a
little money for her wedding outfit. But of this she thought nothing;
there was no room in her heart now for anything but Ida. All that she
could save she spent daily in an attempt, nearly vain, to buy something
that her sister could eat, and then she would come to my room,
crying bitterly, to tell me of her failures and of Ida’s constantly
progressing illness. But Ida continued to come to my room all that
winter and spring, and the change in her for the worse was so _very_
gradual that I was not much frightened about her. She seemed cheerful
and interested in everything about her, as indeed she always had been.
She was more beautiful than ever, and might have turned the heads of
half the men in Florence if she had been so disposed, for as a general
rule all those who saw her fell more or less in love with her. But
Ida, kind and friendly in her manners with all those who treated her
respectfully and kept their distance, would shrink into herself, and
become quite unapproachable at the least shadow of a compliment; so
that I do not think, after all, that any of her numerous admirers ever
went so far as to make themselves very unhappy about her, seeing from
the first that she was out of their reach.

_All the poor people used to call her “Signora,” now that she was grown
up, though her condition was no higher than their own. I am sure that
it was not that she was better dressed than themselves (excepting in
the one matter of neatness)_, still less that she gave herself any
airs of superiority, for she was humble almost to a fault, _willing
to act as servant to the lowest amongst them if she could be of any
use_,[4] ready on all occasions to take the lowest place. But there was
a certain peculiar refinement and unconscious loftiness about her which
we all felt, and which raised her above other people.

And the summer came again, and this time we had to go away earlier than
in other years because we had a friend very ill in Venice, who wished
us to come to him. Ida came to take leave of me as I was preparing to
leave my painting room, and she seemed more sorry to have me go than
she had ever been before. She loved dearly that room where we had first
met, and where we had spent so many hours together, some sad and some
happy: it had always been one of her principal cares to put it in order
when she came to me, and to bring flowers for it, and to make it look
as pleasant and pretty as she could. And on that day she walked around
it slowly, stopping often that she might look long on each one of the
objects grown, in the course of time, to be like familiar friends. And
then she came up to me and kissed me, and I saw that her eyes were
overflowing with tears. I wonder if the thought was in her mind that
she should never see the place again.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Three English pence. The larger payment at private houses, a franc,
is one hundred centimes, or tenpence.

[2] L is not the initial of the lover’s real name, nor of that by which
Ida called him, which is used by Francesca in her manuscript.

[3] Italics mine.--J. R.

[4] Italics all mine.--J. R.




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,--she was 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 a _religious_ marriage,[6] promising
to marry her legally when he should leave the army. She was a
Neapolitan, the very same widowed sister-in-law to 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, so I
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 give _her_ the
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 she _should_
recover. And then, for the last time, came the 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 she _was_ admitted.
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 worse than 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. She
told 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 time of
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 luminous white 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 happiness which she
enjoyed--(indeed, if I were to write just as I feel and believe, I
should leave out the almost,) had nothing of the _convulsionary_ about
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 it be 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 which almost 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
air_ she _would_ have, 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 as bright 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 willing to 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 to see 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, and _did 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. When the 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 my habit, 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,” I said, “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 sight afterwards, 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, “That _is_ my trouble! I _ought_, 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 arrival of 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 how _her_ olive 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 her
Madonna, 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 porto
  Amore, 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 sudden and
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 festa _del Gesù Bambino_ and 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 family might
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 ever did, 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 year_ I 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 any more, 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. Paul have 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 a last 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 I came 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, toward me, 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 that _bellezza 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 a
smile 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 give it 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 written _after_ New 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, and _advising her to alter the trimming
on some other clothes, so as not to spend for the mourning_), but
_she 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 in that
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.


FOOTNOTES:

[5] Thus divided by the writer--the evening from the morning. They are
but one day.--J. R.

[6] I do not understand how the Catholic priesthood permits itself to
be made an instrument of this wickedness.--J. R.

[7] Italics mine.--J. R.

[8] Italics Francesca’s, and mine also.--J. R.

[9] He did.--J. R.

[10] The Italics after these are Francesca’s. I have marked the
sentences here for after reference in ‘Our Fathers.’--J. R.

[11] Pretty--as if for her own dead daughter.--J. R.

[12] Think, girl-reader, of the difference between that dress and a
fashionable bridesmaid’s bought one!--J. R.

[13] All this is dreadfully puzzling to me,--but I must not begin
debating about it here, only I don’t see why one wicked old woman
should be prayed for more than another.--J. R.

[14] Yes, of course; but the worst of these darling little people is,
that they usually can’t take in the greatest as well as the smallest.
Why didn’t she pray for the King of Italy instead of the old woman? I
don’t understand.--J. R.

[15] Just the reason why she wouldn’t take the best. I understand
_that_.--J. R.

[16] Take care, girl-reader, that you do not take this for pride. She
is only thinking of shielding her lover from blame, so far as truth
might.--J. R.


THE END.

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