The Manzoni Family

by Natalia Ginzburg

  She wrote to him again in the spring of the following year. From Marietta who had returned to Italy she had heard that Fauriel was working too hard. As always, she begged him to come to Italy in the summer. She gave him news of everyone. The condition of Uncle Enrico Blondel, who had been ill for many years, was now very grave. Enrichetta was pregnant. ‘Mama is having a rather difficult pregnancy, and the distress she feels continually for the appalling illness of her brother makes it worse. We would rather anything than see my uncle in such cruel spasms; for four months the most famous surgeons confess they have never seen anything like it, I am so afraid it must come to a bad end. His poor wife is more dead than alive and at times seems to be going out of her mind, so you see what a picture this unfortunate family presents.’ There followed more cheerful pictures. ‘I think my brother is one of the happiest young men you could meet, he sings and enjoys himself from morning till night, studies as cheerfully as others enjoy themselves, and enjoys himself desperately, like one who leads a solitary existence, which is certainly not his case. It’s a different matter with the young ladies, what one does the other does, like a clock ticking quietly and regularly, which means we have no cause for complaint. Enrico is beginning to come out of his shell, his temperament is quite the opposite of his brother’s, he is more concentrated and quiet, although in fact he makes more noise. . . Summer is coming, which means it’s time to go to Brusu, but we haven’t fixed the day yet, however, I think it will be towards the end of May to supervise the silk worms. Afterwards Papa intends to spin the cocoons in the house, which requires a lot of attention, so we’ll have to stay there for Mama’s confinement, which I think will be early in July. Grossi is in the country too for his silk worms. . . I don’t expect you to answer this, or at the most just tell me you are well and haven’t forgotten me, but two lines will do for that. ’

  Fauriel was preparing to set off for Provence. With Giulietta’s letter went a brief note from Manzoni; both were brought by the mathematician Guglielmo Libri, who wanted to meet Fauriel, and Manzoni said in his note: ‘In introducing to you a man in whom Italy takes pride, and who will give her more cause for pride each day, I am sure of doing you a particular favour. . . I am pleased and proud to be an intermediary between you; I say no more, except that I envy you both the time you will spend together. ’

  Before leaving, in June Fauriel also received a letter from Gaesbeck where he would not be going that year; it was from Marietta and her sister Costanza. Marietta wrote: ‘Perhaps you do not know Signor Blondel is very ill, one cannot imagine worse suffering. . . Signora Blondel is desperate; she never leaves him, and her delicate health is impaired by so much anguish and fatigue. Signora Manzoni has not been well, they had to bleed her. The whole family was to move to Brusuglio at the beginning of June; Giulietta was rather upset to leave her beloved Milan. . . Poor Giulietta looks rather gloomy, surrounded as she is by so much suffering, her thoughts must be very sad. She seems especially anxious about her mother, she ends up saying: “Anyway, I hope all will turn out for the best.” I hope so too, but like her cannot help feeling sad and anxious at present. I am sorry to give you these painful details. . . And you? what are your plans? Lucky you to be going to the south and seeing those beautiful places. . .’ Costanza: ‘Until now we’ve had more rain and cold than last year. . . Everywhere I turn here I find some souvenir of you, we often say on our walks: we did this walk with Fauriel, or else, just here he left us to go and work. But who knows, you may come back one day? Addio, I leave you, hoping it will be so.’

  In July 1830, Enrichetta had a baby girl. She was called Matilde. Cette pauvre Julie, as Marietta called her, that poor Giulia was sent after her mother’s confinement to the Grigioni to take the waters, but also because they hoped the distraction would lift her spirits. She went with family friends, Peppina Frapolli, the Marchese Lorenzo Litta and the Parravicinis. During the journey she wrote long letters to her sister Cristina: ‘Andeer, 2nd August. My dear Cristina. . . After I wrote to you the other evening, we slept in the little room that Signor Litta let us have and he slept in the sitting-room on a table; there were two beds, a chest of drawers, tables, all our things and Signor Litta’s, you simply couldn’t move, small windows without blinds or shutters and bare new walls. Next morning we went to Mass at half past six, there were only peasants because polite society attends the ten o’clock Mass, it was a bit of a climb to get to the ugly little chapel. . . We set off immediately after in splendid weather, arrived at the top of the San Bernardino in a fresh wind, with snow on the mountain and magnificent sunshine, there’s a beautiful lake with very limpid water, we came down again very rapidly; there are about 60 hair-pin bends, but the horses here are strong and so used to it that you couldn’t be afraid even if you wanted to; you go on like that for three hours down the most enchanting road. We passed through Val di Reno; words fail me to describe the imposing nature of this landscape which is sometimes really the reverse of picturesque. We thought Splugen was a lovely spot; from Splugen to Andeer the road gets more and more beautiful, we reached Andeer just as they were sitting down to luncheon, and as it was midday we did so too. The hotel here is all you could ask in size, order, cleanliness, elegance, even luxury, it presents a strange contrast with everything we’ve seen hitherto; during the meals a young man in a blouse, with great side-whiskers, played the harp; it was really very fine. . . I was very amused by all the serving-women here who don’t even understand the signs we make to them; they just go on laughing and answering in German; when they speak proper German I understand a little and necessity has forced me to find a few words to make myself understood, it’s really funny, but the local language is “Romansh”, I think they call it, and you can’t understand a thing. At half past three Baron Busti, who had heard you could do the whole Mala road and get to Thusis and back in four hours, suggested we should go there to save a day, and we set out just as if we were going on an afternoon outing to Porta Renza, but it’s a strange expedition, I assure you! I had never imagined anything so horridly beautiful. . . My heart is with you despite the mountains that separate us. . . . We eat well everywhere, the potatoes are always excellent and the butter, we have delicious strawberries, and we’ve even had excellent cream ices, which were a sporgiment [an offering, in Milanese dialect] from Signor Battaglia, who does a great deal for this place. . . We always travel in an open carriage so we don’t lose any of the view or the air which often makes you open your mouth to gulp in as much as possible.’ ‘3rd August, San Bernardino. This morning we left Andeer at five, the journey went quite well, though we did have a bit of a storm on the San Bernardino so that I was quite stunned when we got out of the carriage. Signor Litta was the first to bring us your letters which gave me more joy than I can express! I could think of nothing else, to such an extent that I hardly greeted Signor Litta or the other people around me; it was midday, so we were sitting at table, and I put your letters under the tablecloth; we were about 50 at table, and three musicians were playing: you can imagine how wretched I was; some familiar tunes, indeed the whole thing, brought tears to my eyes so that I had to hide my letters altogether and come and read them and cry my fill in my room! San Bernardino is really very dreary, and it’s terribly cold.

  ‘Tomorrow I intend to start taking the waters. I am feeling more or less the same, that’s to say I haven’t time to think of my health, and I can’t eat just what I fancy; today I’m dog-tired. But Cristina, please write so that I can at least guess what you’re trying to say! You reproach me, I don’t know which of us is justified, it really is maddening, I want to devour your letters and I can’t even read them. Tell my good Mademoiselle Burdet that I was more than grateful for her note. But most particularly tell Mama I’ll write to her Saturday, it’s impossible today because if I want to say all that’s in my heart in answer to her letter, I need to devote myself to her entirely; say I’m sure she’ll understand. . . and bonne Maman; and Papa! Dear Cristina, there are no words to express what I feel f
or these dear people! Give my love to everyone at home, and the doctor. My cousin has written, I am truly grateful and I’ll send him a line in haste to tell him so; he says the Lodonio girls are getting married, I’m very pleased to hear it. . . I can’t wait to be with you, however hard I try to enjoy myself. . . Don’t let Mademoiselle go, for goodness sake!’ The cousin who had written was Giacomo Beccaria; this letter from him and the line of greeting she sent him from the Grigioni marked the end of a relationship which perhaps had brightness and intensity in her heart only.

  Giulietta did not write to Fauriel, and he had news of her from Costanza Arconati who sent him a short letter from Brussels. In France the last of the Bourbons, Charles X, had been deposed in July, and Louis Philippe d’Orléans had succeeded him. It was a great event for European Liberals. Costanza wrote: ‘I feel I must tell you how happy we are and rejoice with you at the great happenings in your country. We have been living a new life for the last few days, we first heard the news on the way back from Germany when we were still a day’s journey from Brussels. Peppino [her husband] would like to set off at once for Paris with Berchet. Tell me if this is wise. I am more than eager to return to France, in two months perhaps. You will have heard of Enrichetta’s safe confinement, but you won’t know that Giulia has gone to take the waters at Saint Moritz with Signorina Frapolli, or that Alessandro, Pietro and Grossi were to leave for Geneva at the end of July, I hope they are there to rejoice freely in the happenings in France.’ Fauriel replied: ‘You know the facts as well as I do; I can only repeat what millions have already said everywhere. I need not tell you of my immense joy: that would be as unnecessary as to tell you all the rest. All that remains is to proceed to the consequences of this great and just event, and everything justifies the hope that they will be as happy as possible. I see not the slightest objection to Peppino and Berchet coming here when they like; they need take no particular precautions except to make sure their passports are in order. . . Everything is calm and peaceful here as if nothing had happened. . . Do come, as soon as possible! I heard Enrichetta’s baby had arrived safely; as for Giulia’s journey, I knew nothing of that, but I am pleased. I am also very pleased that Grossi and Alessandro are appearing, it will be a great pleasure for them to breathe on this side of the Alps; I only pity them the moment of return. . . Young Count Libri, whom I met recently when he brought me a letter from Giulia, bore himself admirably in our recent events. . . I wish Italy many men like him. Other Italians also gave an excellent account of themselves. Some Englishmen were magnificent. I think all the nations of Europe were represented in this victory, which is as much European as French. ’

  Manzoni, Grossi and Pietro did not go to Geneva. The Manzonis remained at Brusuglio. Enrico Blondel died in Milan on 4 September, and his wife, tante Louise, tried to poison herself. In October, Enrichetta became ill with bronchitis. She could not shake off the fever. ‘I wanted to write to you about the distressing news I have heard of dearest Enrichetta,’ Bishop Tosi wrote to Manzoni ‘ The Marchese [Parravicini] was so kind as to give me more precise information, and to reassure me.’ In December a friend of Manzoni, Abbé Giudici, wrote to Bishop Tosi: ‘Do you know that Enrichetta has had a recurrence of the bronchitis she had in October? They have bled her six times. But now there is reason to hope that the remaining slight fever will be passing over. But such a weakening illness could be fatal to a feeble constitution. It’s lucky that Alessandro and Donna Giulia have the gift of seeing everything through rose-tinted spectacles.’ Manzoni to Diodata Saluzzo in December: ‘When I received your very kind letter, my wife had succumbed to a tracheal, inflammation, which yielded only at the seventh bleeding. Now, thank Heaven, the illness is past, and there remains only the problem of a long and weary convalescence.’

  In March 1831 Massimo d’Azeglio appeared in the Manzoni household. He was then thirty-three. He had recently lost his father. Manzoni had corresponded with the father years before on literary topics. He came with a letter from his brother Roberto, whom Manzoni had met for a few minutes in Genoa. Cesare Cantú wrote of the d’Azeglios in his Reminiscences: ‘Alessandro had had a literary correspondence with Marchese Cesare Tapparelli d’Azeglio (1763-1830). . . Cultured, pious, a monarchist like most of the Piedmontese aristocracy, Cesare was editor of the newspaper L’amico d’ Italia. . . Of the three sons, whom he brought up strictly in honour and piety, Luigi became a Jesuit, and distinguished himself in jurisprudence and philosophy; the first-born, Roberto, was an artist, and upheld the honour of the family in Turin; Massimo devoted himself to landscape painting and led a free, artistic life in the Romagna and in Tuscany. ’

  Massimo had also lived in Rome for a long time, where he had had an affair with a lady, Contessa Morici, by whom he had a daughter, little Bice; then the Contessa had left him; this hurt him very much, and he had left Rome and lived in his father’s house at Turin for some time; on the death of his father, he had decided to settle in Milan. ‘In Milan I found the Germans,’ Massimo d’Azeglio recounted in My Memories, ‘which was not appealing; but was Carlo Felice any more appealing, felicissimo as he was to rule on their behalf? I wanted to apply myself to the study and exercise of the arts, and I felt one might die of consumption in Turin, where the arts were tolerated about as much as Jews in a ghetto. In Milan, on the other hand, an artistic movement had arisen from a combination of many circumstances, and of many distinguished men who had come together there. ’

  Besides being a painter, Massimo d’Azeglio had been writing for some time. He had begun and got quite a long way with an historical novel, but he did not mention it to Manzoni at that time, as he had been intimidated by some of the ideas Manzoni had expressed to him on historical novels. He was tall, slim and strong, with well-marked features, a large nose, large moustache and large eyes. Cantú said in the Reminiscences: ‘Manzoni admired in d’Azeglio that all-round ability he lacked: he played, sang, danced, rode, fenced, played billiards and cards.’ Perhaps Manzoni did admire him at their first meetings, but with a vague uncertainty and reserve; but Grandmother Giulia liked this visitor enormously and at once, because ‘he played, sang, danced’; this worldly self-possession, boldness and ease of manner and bearing took her back to figures of men who had fascinated her in her youth.

  Massimo d’Azeglio, in coming to call on the Manzonis, had two precise purposes: to talk about his historical novel, and to see what the eldest daughter was like, possibly with a view to matrimony. He did not dare talk of the novel, as has been said; but he did write asking for Giulia’s hand in marriage; it was the 9th of April, not many weeks after his first call.

  ‘May I say I have come to Milan expressly to make the acquaintance of your family. I wanted to meet you and you cannot fail to understand my motive and all that it means to me. Then I wanted to know your daughter of whom my family had spoken highly, and this was confirmed by all I saw and heard on coming to Milan. Without more ado, may I say from the heart that I should consider myself only too happy to be your son-in-law.

  ‘My income is 21 thousand francs, which I do not yet enjoy in full, as I have to pay annuities to my mother, some uncles and other family pensioners, but I shall do so when I have the misfortune to lose the former, whose heir I am. . . I shall be disposed to spend the winter in Milan, and the summer at d’Azeglio or elsewhere. My work has borne fruit hitherto, and may bear more fruit in the future: and I do not think this is contrary to your way of thinking. Which means, this income may also be calculated among my possibilities. As for myself, in part you already know me, but you may easily make further enquiries in Turin.

  ‘For now I have little to add. . . The matter speaks for itself. I can not flatter myself that I deserve the most important consent, that of your daughter, but I cannot renounce all hope of obtaining it.

  ‘If she had reasons to reject my proposal, having placed such trust in her, I feel sure the whole matter will remain buried for ever. I would leave Milan, and I do not think my conduct would give rise to gossip. Aft
er being received into your house in such a friendly manner, it would be a great grief to me to cause you one moment of displeasure.

  ‘If you feel we can enter into discussion, please write me a line, suggesting a time when you are free, and I will call on you. Any time suits me, as I have no other business in Milan. ’

  Manzoni was certainly pleased with this letter. He talked about it to Enrichetta and his mother. He weighed up the advantages: he had known the father well; he knew the brother a little; he knew they were a family of sound principles. Giulietta was questioned; she seemed doubtful. She asked for a week to think it over.

  Manzoni answered the letter, expressing his own consideration, and that of all his family, for d’Azeglio: ‘You cannot fail to have seen in us the high esteem which your character and talents must inspire in all who know you. I am only doing justice to my daughter’s feelings in saying she is included in this “we”. But will it seem strange to you that she asks for a week to reflect? . . . My daughter has always felt a difficulty which has hitherto seemed insuperable to her, that of uniting herself to someone who is not from her own part of the world; as it seems equally painful to her to think of moving away, or to impose, in such an important matter, upon the delicacy at least of the person in whose will she must submerge her own.’