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.