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.