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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..30b29b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69044 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69044) diff --git a/old/69044-0.txt b/old/69044-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a358342..0000000 --- a/old/69044-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2001 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The story of Ida, by Francesca -Alexander - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The story of Ida - epitaph on an Etrurian tomb - -Author: Francesca Alexander - -Release Date: September 25, 2022 [eBook #69044] - -Language: English - -Produced by: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF IDA *** - - - - - - 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._ - - - - -[Illustration] - -PREFACE - -[Illustration] - - - - -[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_. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[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. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The story of Ida</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>epitaph on an Etrurian tomb</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Francesca Alexander</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 25, 2022 [eBook #69044]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF IDA ***</div> - - - -<p class="big bb"> Old World Series.</p> - - -<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter" id="img001"> - <img src="images/001.jpg" class="w25" alt="Decorative image" /> -</span></p> -<h1> -THE STORY OF IDA</h1> -<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter" id="img002"> - <img src="images/002.jpg" class="w25" alt="Decorative image" /> -</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"><p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter" id="img003"> - <img src="images/003.jpg" class="w50" alt="Woman in bed" /> -</span></p> -<p class="center caption">In the last ray of Sunset.</p> - -<p class="center caption">And the last day of the Year.</p> - -<p class="center caption">1872.</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"> -<span class="xbig">THE STORY OF IDA</span><br /> -<span class="big">EPITAPH<br /> -ON AN ETRURIAN TOMB BY<br /> -FRANCESCA ALEXANDER</span><br /> -</p> -<p class="center p4"><span class="figcenter" id="img004"> - <img src="images/004.jpg" class="w10" alt="Publisher logo" /> -</span></p> -<p class="center p4"> -Portland, Maine<br /> -<i>THOMAS B. MOSHER</i><br /> -M<i>dcccxcix</i><br /> -</p> -</div> - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center p2"> -<i>This First Edition on -Van Gelder paper consists of 925 copies.</i><br /> -</p></div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter" id="img005"> - <img src="images/005.jpg" class="w20" alt="Decorative image" /> -</span></p> -<p class="center xbig">PREFACE</p> - -<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter" id="img006"> - <img src="images/006.jpg" class="w20" alt="Decorative image" /> -</span></p></div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</span></p> - -<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter" id="img007"> - <img src="images/007.jpg" class="w25" alt="Decorative image" /> -</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PREFACE">PREFACE.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Providentially, I mean, not in the fitting together of evil so as to -produce visible<span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</span></p> - -<p>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 <em>not</em> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">J. Ruskin.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Brantwood</span>, <i>14th April, 1883</i>.</p> - -<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter" id="img008"> - <img src="images/008.jpg" class="w25" alt="Decorative image" /> -</span></p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> - -<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter" id="img009"> - <img src="images/009.jpg" class="w25" alt="Decorative image" /> -</span></p> - -<p class="center xbig">THE STORY OF IDA</p> - -<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter" id="img010"> - <img src="images/010.jpg" class="w25" alt="Decorative image" /> -</span></p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span></p> -<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter" id="img011"> - <img src="images/011.jpg" class="w25" alt="Decorative image" /> -</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_STORY_OF_IDA">THE STORY OF IDA.</h2> -</div> - -<h3 class="nobreak" id="PART_I">PART I.</h3> -</div> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Maestra Communale</i>. Giulia—that -was the young girl’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>It is pleasant to me now to look back at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> 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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span></p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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. <em>All</em> 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<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> was what she gained when she worked for -a shop, and for this she used to sit at the sewing machine until past -midnight.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> Sometimes she used to sew for ladies at their houses, and -then she earned a franc a day or more.</p> - -<p>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. <em>One centime -a day</em> 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.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span></p> - -<p>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—“<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">La sua Ida che li -vuol tanto bene!</i>” 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> claim on my forbearance—that Ida loved him!</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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——<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> was an officer in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> -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 <em>religious marriage</em>, leaving the <em>civil marriage</em>—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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 -<em>her</em> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <em>the very day before the one fixed for the marriage</em>. -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> 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!</p> - -<p>And now the Italian troops were preparing to march upon Rome, and we -were all fearing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> -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——.</p> - -<p>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 ‘<em>I brought this trouble upon them!</em>’” -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> I would give a good deal if I -could put in some of my pictures of saints.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> years and a half. “I cannot feel,” she said, “as -if it could ever come right now, but we shall see.”</p> - -<p>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 <em>dear<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span> mother</em>!), 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> 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 -<em>knew</em> 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.”</p> - -<p><em>One day she found a New Testament in my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> room</em>,<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> 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, <em>being for that reason</em>, 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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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—“<em>As -God has destined it, so will it be.</em>” 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> for me to talk. L——’s will was law to her, if only it -did not interfere with her own conscience.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <em>very</em> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> 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.</p> - -<p><em>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)</em>, still less that she gave -herself any airs of superiority, for she was humble almost to a fault, -<em>willing to act as servant to the lowest amongst them if she could be -of any use</em>,<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> 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.</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h4>FOOTNOTES:</h4> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> Three English pence. The larger payment at private houses, -a franc, is one hundred centimes, or tenpence.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> 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.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> Italics mine.—J. R.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> Italics all mine.—J. R.</p> - -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span></p> -<h3 class="nobreak" id="PART_II5">PART II.<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></h3> -</div> - - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Ida was much grieved at his leaving her so abruptly. Giulia was more -than grieved,—she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> 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 <em>religious</em> marriage,<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> -promising to marry her legally when he should leave the army. She was a -Neapolitan, the very same widowed sister-in-law<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> to whom he had been in -the habit of sending money. So all was explained.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile she told no one, not even her sister. <em>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.</em><a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> 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.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></p> -<p>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 <em>her</em> -the happiness, before they parted, of knowing that he had done right.</p> - -<p>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 <em>should</em> -recover. And then, for the last time, came<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> the old signature, in a -very tremulous hand now—“La sua Ida, che li vuol tanto bene.”</p> - -<p>However, I still worked to have her admitted, and she <em>was</em> -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, <em>she went out every morning to search for it, gathered, -and prepared it herself</em>. She was very kind and attentive also to -the poor sick children, who,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> as usual, made up nearly all the inmates -of the hospital.</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Having gone back to Florence much worse<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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, “<em>I know what I ought to do, and I will do it</em><a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a>; 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> 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.<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> No doubt about which of the -sisters suffered the most, <em>now</em>!</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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. <em>I never -knew any other person so perfectly peaceful and happy as she was then, -and for the remaining time, nearly four months</em>, 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, <em>for -so long a time</em>.<a id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> The almost supernatural happiness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span> 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 <em>convulsionary</em> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> 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.”</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>The window was always opened at the foot of the bed,—<em>for light -and air</em> she <em>would</em> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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;<a id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <em>did her last -dress-making work on Giulia’s wedding gown</em>. She was very close to -Heaven then, lying,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> 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,—<em>I knew now why she had spent so much time, during the first -months of her illness, in altering and trimming it</em>,<a id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a>—and tied -her white silk handkerchief about her neck; and then she took my arm, -and we went into the other room together.</p> - -<p>There was a subdued exclamation of surprise from the few friends -gathered about the table, and then all voices were hushed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span> said, “is no more than natural; -I could not help it if I would.” “And lately,” she continued, “<em>I -have begun to be a little afraid that you may like me too much!</em>” -“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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> 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 <em>is</em> my trouble! I <em>ought</em>, -I suppose, to suffer a little, but I do not. <em>I lie here in the -midst of pleasure.</em>” 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;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> “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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>About the middle of December she received the communion. As she waited -for the arrival<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> 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.”</p> - -<p>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!”</p> - -<p>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 <em>her</em> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> 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!”</p> - -<p>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:—</p> - -<p class="poetry" xml:lang="it" lang="it"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Amore, Amor Gesù, son giunto a porto</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Amore, Amor Gesù, da mi conforto.”</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span> 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,<a id="FNanchor_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> 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.</p> - -<p>Her charity took in the smallest things as well as the greatest.<a id="FNanchor_14" href="#Footnote_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> -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;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span> 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.<a id="FNanchor_15" href="#Footnote_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">del Gesù Bambino</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span> 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—</p> - -<p class="poetry" xml:lang="it" lang="it"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Mira, cuor mio durissimo,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Il bel Bambin Gesù,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Che in quel presepe asprissimo,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Or lo fai nascer tu!”</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> did, and it took her several days to finish -it, a few stitches at a time.</p> - -<p>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. <em>On -the last day of the old year</em> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> more, but was beautiful, as when I used to paint -it.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.”<a id="FNanchor_16" href="#Footnote_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> came to the end of the chapter, that -unconquerable drowsiness came over her, and she fell asleep. I never -read to her again.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">bellezza della morte</i>, 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> -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, “<em>To-morrow morning</em>.” 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <em>after</em> 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 <em>advising her to alter the trimming -on some other clothes, so as not to spend for the mourning</em>),<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span> but -<em>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</em>. 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! <em>The -first lilies of the valley came that day</em>, and I was glad to have -them for her, for they were her favourite flowers.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h4>FOOTNOTES:</h4> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> Thus divided by the writer—the evening from the morning. -They are but one day.—J. R.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> I do not understand how the Catholic priesthood permits -itself to be made an instrument of this wickedness.—J. R.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> Italics mine.—J. R.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> Italics Francesca’s, and mine also.—J. R.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> He did.—J. R.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10" class="label">[10]</a> The Italics after these are Francesca’s. I have marked the -sentences here for after reference in ‘Our Fathers.’—J. R.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11" class="label">[11]</a> Pretty—as if for her own dead daughter.—J. R.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12" class="label">[12]</a> Think, girl-reader, of the difference between that dress -and a fashionable bridesmaid’s bought one!—J. R.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_13" href="#FNanchor_13" class="label">[13]</a> 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.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_14" href="#FNanchor_14" class="label">[14]</a> 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.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_15" href="#FNanchor_15" class="label">[15]</a> Just the reason why she wouldn’t take the best. I -understand <em>that</em>.—J. R.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_16" href="#FNanchor_16" class="label">[16]</a> 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.</p> - -</div> -</div> - - -<p class="center p4">THE END.</p> - -<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter" id="img012"> - <img src="images/012.jpg" class="w25" alt="Decorative image" /> -</span></p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span></p> - - - -<p class="right p2"><i>PRINTED BY</i><br /> -<i>SMITH & SALE</i><br /> -<i>PORTLAND</i><br /> -<i>MAINE</i><br /> -</p> - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF IDA ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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