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.