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.