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.