The Manzoni Family Page 5

  In the winter of 1812 Enrichetta’s father died of an apoplectic fit. He had resumed relations with his daughter, but they would not see Manzoni. ‘I haven’t seen him once since my return to Italy,’ Manzoni wrote to Fauriel, ‘and though it’s true neither he nor I was to blame, it continues to distress me. He died mourned by all, especially the poor; he died after making a fortune, always deservedly maintaining his general reputation not only for total probity, but for great delicacy and generosity; all of which should give you some idea of the quality of his mind and at the same time of his moral qualities.’ They used the money Enrichetta inherited from her father to buy a house in via del Morone, ‘a town house with garden’ as it was called in the deed of purchase; it cost a hundred and six thousand lire.

  A brother for the ‘delightful Giulia’, that is little Giulietta, was born in July 1813 at Palazzo Beccaria, where the Manzonis were the guests of Giulio Beccaria, the half-brother of grandmother Giulia, whom she had sought out on her return to Italy and whom she loved dearly. They had moved out of the house in via San Vito and the new house was not ready. Grandmother Giulia wrote to her uncle Michele de Blasco on 24 July: ‘On the 21st, at seven in the morning, our dear, beloved Enrichetta presented me with a fine little boy right on my birthday and in the very house where I was born; her pains did not last many hours, she is very well and is breast-feeding this handsome, bonny, splendid boy. You can imagine our joy.’ She does not say the new baby had been named Pier Luigi, but was to be called Pietro: this was Alessandro’s choice, in memory of the gloomy, elderly man whom he remembered with remorse and whom he had not seen on his death-bed; Grandmother Giulia did not call this first grandson Pietro, but almost always Pedrino, or ‘el Pedrin’.

  Imbonati’s corpse was no longer in the park at Brusuglio; Canon Tosi had told Giulia it would be well to dispose of it elsewhere, so it was taken to the neighbouring cemetery, and as there was no room there it was buried along the perimeter wall by the roadside.

  In the winter Manzoni wrote to Fauriel after a long silence: ‘Madame de Condorcet has been informed by Mother of the birth of a baby boy who, after causing my Enrichetta a lot of trouble in pregnancy, now rewards her and consoles us almost every moment of the day by his good health, placid cheerfulness and goodness. Enrichetta is feeding him herself and is very well. He was born weak and sickly by a mother in the same state, but little by little both have gained strength, so that Enrichetta (apart from a few little problems she is never free from) is an excellent nurse and my little Pietro is one of the bonniest babies you could wish to see. Giulietta is well and profits by the education we try to give her, of which dear Enrichetta has special charge. As for me, I am here with my family, the trees and my verses. [He was writing the Sacred Hymns.] We have bought a house with a big garden of about a tenth of an acre, in which I immediately planted some liquidambar, sophoras, thujas and firs which, if I live long enough, will come up through the window one day looking for me. I have written another two Hymns, and mean to write a lot more. . . When things are quieter, I will send them to you for your opinion, which is always the most authoritative for me. . . Does it not seem strange that I talk about such things in the midst of all this tumult? But you know that it is one of the advantages of poets, among so many showered on them by Heaven, always to find a moment to talk of their own verses. ’

  A great deal of work was required in the new house, and there were expenses for the property at Brusuglio; the Imbonati inheritance had diminished, and they had financial worries. Besides, they had to pay very heavy taxes; money was demanded from the citizens to pay for the defeats Napoleon had suffered in battle. Many had died in Russia and in the fighting on the Elbe. For some time disorder had reigned in Milan and throughout Lombardy; there was violence in the streets, theft and looting. On 19 April in that year, 1814, a petition was signed for the convocation of the Electoral Colleges, to be presented to the Senate; among the hundred and twenty-seven signatories was Manzoni, Alessandro, landowner. On 20 April occurred the murder of Giuseppe Prina, the finance minister hated by the people for his subservience to the French; he had imposed tremendous taxes in response to the demands of Napoleon. Manzoni wrote to Fauriel, in a letter addressed to Paris to be delivered by his cousin Giacomo Beccaria: ‘My cousin will tell you about the revolution that has taken place here. It was unanimous, and I must say wise and pure, although it was unhappily stained by an assassination which those involved in the rebellion (that is, the major and better part of the population) had no share in; nothing could be further from their nature. It was the work of people who took advantage of the popular movement and turned it against a man who was the object of public hate, the finance minister, who was slain in spite of the efforts of many to snatch him from their hands. You will know in any case that the people are always a better jury than judge; but decent people were saddened by this deed. As it happens, our house is very close to the one where he was living, so that for hours we could hear the shouts of the people searching for him, which kept my mother and wife in a state of cruel anxiety, as they feared the people might not stop at that. And indeed, some men of baser motives tried to take advantage of the momentary anarchy and prolong it, but the civil guard were able to check it with courage, wisdom and diligence worthy of the highest praise. ’

  Among the many who had fought to snatch Prina from the fury of the crowd was Ugo Foscolo, and Manzoni must have known it. In his heart he must have compared the physical courage of Foscolo (who fought with great bravery) with his own fear at any shouting or violence and bloodshed. He must have shared the ‘cruel anxiety’ experienced by his mother and wife, to an even greater degree. Those moments were deeply distressing to him, either because a man was murdered only a few steps from his house, or because he had not the strength to go and defend him.

  Foscolo and Manzoni respected but did not like each other. They were too different. In 1806, when he was in Paris, Foscolo had called on Manzoni whom he already knew. He had read the verses ‘On the Death of Carlo Imbonati’ and he admired him. He expected an enthusiastic welcome, but was received coldly either by Alessandro or by Giulia, for no obvious reason; perhaps Giulia’s nerves were bad that day. On his return to Italy, Foscolo expressed his admiration for Manzoni’s poem in a note to the Sepolcri. But he had been upset by that cold reception and many years later he still remembered it with displeasure.

  ’We are all longing to leave tor the country, Giulia wrote to her uncle Michele de Blasco in the summer,’. . . But all our houses have been chock-full of soldiers. . . at Brusuglio we had forty soldiers; I got them to move out, because we need to go there for the sake of our health, especially Enrichetta who had been ordered to take baths; in fact, all things being equal, we are going tomorrow. It is so hot here; Milan is full, because it’s swarming with soldiers. They are about to create a square, demolishing the house of the former finance minister; I mention it because it’s so close to us. . . Giulietta sends you a hug, as Pedrino will do one day, I’m sure. On his birthday and mine, the 21st July, I surprised his mother by giving us a portrait of this lovely baby boy.’ They spent some months in the winter at Lecco, at II Caleotto: ‘Our poor house had been full of soldiers for a year,’ Giulia wrote again to her uncle de Blasco in Milan, ‘so we’ve had to remove all the mattresses in the house, and replace everything, including the kitchen utensils. . . We were happy there, but we had to come back here very soon, because they wanted to billet men in our own rooms, and we really haven’t one that you could call a spare room.’ Meanwhile Abbé Zinammi had died, an old friend of the family, administrator and friend of Imbonati while he lived; he had been ‘stricken by the universal fate’, wrote Giulia, giving details of his death; he fell into a lethargy, ‘consulted a doctor, was bled in the neck, and finally died on the fifth day. . . Oh, you can see that such happenings are not cheering, but deeply thought-provoking; God grant our thoughts be profitable, that we may trust in the mercy of the Lord, and not indulge in vain melancholy. Apart from
this, Giulietta is well; Pedrino is well and walking on his own like a footman; Alessandro is a bit tired by business matters; I have a cold, and am confined to the house because the streets are so bad; Enrichetta, who is ever more dear to me, and who was so well at Lecco, is now suffering her old troubles all the time. . .’ ‘I must tell you, dear friend, that I have been leading a very sedentary life for more than two months, and have even been obliged to stay in bed for some time; in the last two or three days I have felt some relief from my pains, but I am still living more or less in enforced idleness because any occupation upsets me,’ Enrichetta wrote to her cousin Carlotta. She was pregnant again; in July Maria Cristina was born.

  ‘Enrichetta is nursing a little Cristina,’ Manzoni wrote to Fauriel. It was difficult to get the letter to France, as the postal services were not functioning properly; they had to seize opportunities which did not occur often. ‘Not one letter, nor two, nor a whole volume would suffice for all I have to tell you, and all I would like to ask you; I have to keep alive the hope of seeing you, of spending a little time with you, so that the memory of your friendship may not be as sad and painful as it is dear. ’

  In June, when the news of the defeat at Waterloo reached Milan, Manzoni was leafing through books in a bookshop, and he fainted with shock; he had placed his hope in Napoleon once again during the Hundred Days, and all hope crumbled with this defeat; from then on his nervous troubles grew worse. He was deeply embittered; an Austrian governor had returned to Milan, imposing iron repression; for a moment he had thought the Allies would establish an independent regime, but he had soon realized this was an illusion. He described his condition to Fauriel: ‘It’s a case of worries and anguish causing a strange state of depression. . . Travel might do me good, but where can I go? Society rarely proves a distraction; so many people urge you to forget your ailments and remind you of them just as you were thinking of something quite other; it’s a strange sort of consolation to hear people say ten times a day: “Cheer up”, that’s all you need to feel wretched. Of course, the remedy is excellent, but suggesting it is not the same as administering it. They don’t realize that “Cheer up” means “You are being miserable”, and that nothing could be less cheering than such a suggestion.’ He was writing a tragedy, Il Conte di Carmagnola. But Canon Tosi insisted he should finish a religious work instead, one that he was working on in weary fits and starts: Osservazioni sulla morale cattolica. He felt impatient of Canon Tosi and everyone about him: his schoolfriend Ermes Visconti, Vincenzo Monti, the Greek Mustoxidi. He found them all tiresome. In fact he had a great urge to return to France. He wrote to Fauriel: ‘I have never felt so keenly the value of your friendship or so longed for your company. That little room in La Maisonnette that overlooks the garden, the little hill of Saint-Avoie, the ridge from which you can look down on the course of the Seine, that island covered with willows and poplars, the fresh, peaceful valley — these are places where I am always wandering in imagination.’

  At that time the marchese Parravicini di Persia and his wife were frequent callers, and were the only people he was pleased to see. They were preparing to leave for France and he had a sudden idea of going with them. He would send for the family if he felt he could find comfortable accommodation for them in Paris; if not he would return, having at least had the pleasure of spending a few days with Fauriel. He was held back by the fear of being a nuisance to the Parravicinis on the journey with his health problems; and then there was the difficulty of obtaining a passport at once, and suddenly having to drop so many things, so much family business; ‘all this,’ he wrote to Fauriel, ‘made me step hurriedly down from the stage-coach in which, in my imagination, I had already taken my seat. ‘ The Parravicinis left without him.

  But the desire to go to Paris haunted him. He was thinking about it all the time and formulated a concrete plan. But he did not want to go alone, so he applied for passports for all the family. Giulia was happy, but Enrichetta was dismayed and anxious. She remembered Paris with dislike; she feared the upheaval and toil both of the long journey with three little children, and of settling such a big family in a foreign city. But most of all she feared the ambience awaiting them. It was a world which might distract her husband from the religious life, a world of unbelievers. And he was going through a strange period; he had been neglecting his religious practices for some time and his relations with Canon Tosi had become cold. It would be dangerous for him to be surrounded by those people at such a time. He might lose his faith for ever. On the other hand, he was not well, and the journey seemed the only thing that might soothe him. ‘Pray for us, ‘ she wrote to Abbé Degola, ‘that this plan may not be contrary to God’s will. ’

  What happened between Enrichetta and Alessandro at that period? They were probably dark days for both of them. Alessandro was in a gloomy mood; the life he had led till then had suddenly become hateful to him. He did not want simply to travel to Paris, he wanted to shake off the dust of many years, and take on a new persona. And she was deeply worried and judged him severely, feeling intuitively that in his dark mood, his intolerance, and eagerness to get away there was something ‘contrary to God’s will’.

  But the plan came to nothing. The passports were refused. They had presented medical certificates, saying the journey was essential to their health, but just then a police decree was issued banning journeys undertaken on health grounds. Manzoni was regarded with distrust by the Austrian authorities. He had refused to collaborate on a pro-government newspaper, and he had friends among the opposition. So they had to give up the idea of travelling.

  Canon Tosi was delighted. He had told Manzoni this journey was ‘a great mistake’. Some even suspected Canon Tosi had approached the authorities to get them to refuse the passports. Certainly like Enrichetta he was profoundly alarmed by Man-zoni’s behaviour at that time; he seemed to think of nothing but France and his friends there; and he felt his faith had diminished, perhaps was already spent. At last he heard they were not going after all. He wrote to Degola:

  ‘Enrichetta has already written to tell you the outcome of the projected journey, and how well Alessandro has taken the rejection. I must add that, after the grace received in Paris, of which you were the chief instrument, this is the greatest favour the Lord could grant. This fine young man is changed almost entirely. . . he has placed himself in God’s hands; he has already received the holy sacraments twice; he has returned to his original confidence in me, which had been chilled by the perhaps excessive freedom with which I had expressed myself; he hardly ever talks of politics now, or does so with moderation. . . he is serene with the family, self-denying at table, moderate in his planned expenditure; in short he has been greatly blessed by the Lord. . . even Donna Giulia, who with a touch of proud vexation was the last to mend in this matter, is now quiet and content; and I hope that she too will turn her heart to do what I am always telling her, to attend seriously to the prime object of life. ’

  And Enrichetta to Degola: ‘God grant this peace may continue between us; I hope you will understnd what peace I mean, for, thanks be to God, we do not wish for any that is merely an outward show. ‘ Outward peace had perhaps never been lacking in the house, but it had concealed serious personal differences and disharmony; these gradually disappeared and things returned to their original state. But Enrichetta had to resign herself; the idea of the journey to Paris was never abandoned, and they applied again to the police.

  That year, 1817, Uncle Michele de Blasco died; in November another baby girl was born and called Sofia; the last but one, Cristina, was dark, ma petite noiraude, her mother called her, the only dark one among the siblings who were all blond. Sofia again was blonde and fair-skinned. Enrichetta nursed her. Then she became pregnant for the fifth time. As always, she had kidney trouble, and at this time she began to suffer with her eyes: they were always inflamed, and her sight deteriorated.

  In 1818 they sold II Caleotto, which cost a great deal to maintain and gave no return. In the garden the
re was a little temple containing the tomb of Don Pietro, which passed, with all the rest, into the hands of Signor Scola for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand lire.

  ‘Oh my friend, “caro padrino” of our Giulietta, friend of Alessandro and of us all, perhaps all these appellations are nothing but an empty sound to you? Why this stubborn and cruel silence?’ Giulia wrote to Fauriel, who had not written for some time. She was thinking of ‘the prime object of her life’, that is the salvation of her soul and expiation of her sins; but this did not dispel the fond memories of happy years, loyalty to those she loved, and nostalgia. ‘My son wanted to write to you, but you would not believe or imagine how dearly he has to pay for any strong emotion; joyful sensations may produce a salutary excitement, but thoughts of sadness, of absent friends, friendship or searing memories — oh, these give him such pain. . . Oh, dear friend, if you were to see him! And why do you not see him? . . . He said to me a few days ago: this morning a particular group of trees at Meulan so filled my heart that I felt I was suffocating. ’