The Manzoni Family

by Natalia Ginzburg

  D’Azeglio sent Enrichetta a small painting of his (he had already sent some of his lithographs) asking her to give it to her daughter. The note was in French, and was signed ‘Maxime de Zey’. In fact, it had been his mother and his brother Roberto who had jointly encouraged him in this marriage plan. Now his mother was anxious. She had asked for detailed information ‘about this girl and the family’. ‘I know it’s a good name, the mother was not well-born, she has passed on, she was a lady of exceeding virtue and brought blessings upon that House, especially upon her husband, who abjured philosophism and turned to a godly life. To tell you the truth, I think some leaven of his old maxims remained in him, especially as he has been ensnared by Jansenists. If this is so, I do not know to what extent or how much it may have influenced the moral upbringing in the home. [Perhaps her information was incorrect or unclear, because she seemed to think Enrichetta was dead. ] I think of you a hundred times a day, my Massimo, of your affairs, of the important knot you are about to tie, and I pray, and urge other good souls to pray, that all will turn out for your eternal salvation, and for your peace here below if it please the Lord to grant you happy issue in this.’ Then she heard that they must wait a week for a decision; she was pleased ‘at the importance the young lady accords to such a step, and if the answer is Yes, you will have good grounds to hope that Heaven has ratified this decision. ’

  D’Azeglio wrote to Manzoni: ‘Though the heart finds the delay long, reason must bid it be silent, and I am deeply grateful that your daughter did not deny me all hope, and that she fixed upon a term so reasonable. The feelings she cannot fail to inspire show me that her happiness is a necessity to me and always will be, and for this reason I want her to reflect upon the proposal, and not to delude herself in the slightest on my account; if I were to obtain my heart’s desire by fomenting the smallest delusion, I should feel everlasting remorse. I think you all view me too indulgently; I have many faults that I know, and perhaps more than I know. To name one, despite my strongest efforts my temperament is not always equable, perhaps because my nerves are very sensitive. Then, as you see, I am not and never will be rich: for myself I am most happy and thank God for it, for I have found that the desire to possess more than a just and modest competence is a bottomless pit; but I cannot speak for others. And from now until the time when it shall please God to take from me the person who loves me most and whom I have loved most in this world, not only am I not rich, but our circumstances must be somewhat straitened: for the first time in my life I wish for riches, but I have none, and I must say so. The modesty of my present income would perhaps make it advisable to spend some months in the summer at Azeglio, to do as the ant does and enjoy more ease in the winter. The countryside at Azeglio is the loveliest in the world, but the castle has no real beauty, only good air and beautiful views, and local people who feel great affection for me and my family. Then, regarding the problem of my not being Milanese etc., I think I have solved that in advance. If I announced that I have just resolved to settle here, I should be claiming a false merit. But I tell you in all truth that this was my intention in any case. Having striven for many years to learn the principles of my art, I have perhaps reached the age when I may hope to produce some fruit: in all Italy Milan is the place most suited to my purpose, so that your daughter’s delicacy, truly worthy of a noble soul, may be set entirely at rest. . . I therefore await the end of this week, during which I hope you will not forbid me to come and spend a few moments with you all in the evening. . .’

  Manzoni: ‘I can give no better answer to your amiable request than to tell you it was my intention to assure you yesterday evening that you would do us a great favour by calling on us during this time. I was only prevented by the fear of forcing your kindness in some way. You will not be surprised to find a certain person a little embarrassed. ’

  In the course of that week, Giulietta tried to imagine her own future existence beside this being who was strange to her in every way. She must have compared him with the image of Cousin Giacomo, familiar to her from childhood. Cousin Giacomo was for her like the clear, still water of a lake that had always existed in the landscape of her thoughts, in which she could see her reflection, and whose shores and shades she had always known. With this calm, reflective temperament, Cousin Giacomo was an older, reassuring presence. Perhaps she had never seriously thought she might marry him. He had proved cold and distant towards her, at a certain point, and she had been hurt. But the suffering was more in the nature of idle melancholy than bitter pain. Anyway, it was a closed book. But she could not help knowing her heart needed quiet and abhorred adventure. This evening caller who was manifesting such a hasty desire to marry her, that nose, those whiskers, those eyes, that dazzling ease did nothing to reassure her. That figure would never assume, at her side, the lovable strength of a father figure. And this was what she needed. Perhaps because her father was too self-absorbed to listen to her. Perhaps because there were so many children, and her father and mother could not give her the attention, time and availability she secretly wanted. She wanted someone who understood her, as she had imagined Cousin Giacomo did when she was writing to him from Florence, or as she had imagined Fauriel understood her when she was writing to him. How many letters she had written to one and the other! Both Fauriel and Cousin Giacomo were familiar, friendly figures, and at the same time remote, because they wanted nothing specific from her. The newcomer, on the other hand, said he wanted to marry her.

  Less than a week after the proposal, Giulietta said no. Manzoni had to convey her refusal to d’Azeglio: ‘I must tell you that my daughter has been unable to decide upon a step which, truth to tell, was very far from her thoughts.’

  D’Azeglio to Manzoni, 14 April: ‘ I could not answer your letter immediately, as I was about to leave for a dinner-party which I could not decently fail to attend. You can imagine whether I enjoyed the occasion!

  ‘I pray that God will turn the affliction which your daughter’s final reply has caused me to as much good and happiness for her! God knows these prayers come from my heart: and if they are granted she will have nothing to wish for in this world. As for me, it is God’s will, all I can do is bow my head.

  ‘Your lady-mother has shown such kindness towards me, and such concern that my desires should be fulfilled that I shall remember her with eternal gratitude.

  ‘So I thank you all for the amiability and concern you have shown me on this occasion. Perhaps I will not find it in my heart to come in person to say my last goodbye; I am sure you understand my motive in that it would not enter your head that there could be the slightest trace of bitterness toward you in my heart. Indeed, if I knew at what moment I might find you, it would give me real satisfaction to take my leave of you before setting off. ’

  Manzoni to d’Azeglio, the same day: ‘The distress you are so kind as to express is for me an added reason for gratitude: and you must know that we share it. This is one of those painful situations in which everyone suffers and no one is to blame. . . As for me, you can imagine how eager I would be to take advantage of the friendly readiness you express to see me; but I must tell you that a strange nervous disorder has for many years prevented me from going out unaccompanied. Therefore I am encouraged by your kindness to say that I am at home, usually in a little study on the ground floor, until two, and that you are more likely to find me alone after midday.’

  Grandmother Giulia had insisted that Giulietta should accept. She was her favourite grandchild, and it hurt her to see her always so sad, pale, listless, and apparently resigned to a solitary fate. This d’Azeglio seemed to her a most attractive figure; she could not bear to think of him disappearing; she thought Giulietta would regret it bitterly later. She did not give in; she went on insisting. She was the most authoritative member of the household, warm, impulsive, incautious, even reckless in her propositions; Enrichetta, on the other hand, was prudent, cautious and discreet. As for Giulietta, she probably felt, together with the fear of marriage, the f
ear of growing old in the rooms of this house; she was twenty-three; seven years older than her mother when she got married. She made up her mind. So it fell to Manzoni to write another letter to d’Azeglio in which he begged him to discount the refusal which had gone before: ‘Your way of proceeding with us inspires me in such confidence and prompts me to such freedom that the very doubt that one word can produce an effect so much desired by you and by us is sufficient for me to want to say that word to you, however strange it may seem. You will understand that I refer to a reopening of yesterday’s conversation. If you feel it is still possible to speak on that subject, be so good as to suggest a time or simply to come, and ask them to call me to my study if you don’t find me there; if you feel otherwise, I shall at least have the satisfaction of having hinted at something other than what I was mortified to say in my last letter to you.’

  D’Azeglio sent his mother a portrait of Giulietta and the news that all had gone well. His mother replied: ‘And so, my dearest, sweetest Massimo, let us thank God. . . I confess, my dear, I had no peace last night, thinking all the time, who knows what news the post will bring me? My Massimo will be consoled, or a prey to bitter pain! I resigned myself, but in my heart of hearts I was saying if the Lord grants my wishes I shall indeed be happy; and so it went on till morning and the moment when this letter of blessing came into my hands. . . I should like you to send me a copy of the latest edition of Don Abbondio. I read it too hastily last time, and all I remember is that he was an honest fellow.’ She liked the portrait: ‘You have certainly shown good taste, the character of the face is gentle.’ And to Giulietta: ‘Yes, my dear Giulietta, I love you already, because the Lord has chosen you to be the wife of my son. . . My prayers are fully answered; I was longing to see him united with someone who would know how to discern his qualities, and the beautiful soul within the young man. . . My consolation will be complete when I embrace you and call you my daughter. With all my heart I am your loving mother. ’

  Meanwhile Costanza Arconati was writing to Fauriel from Brussels at the end of April:

  ‘Not knowing whether or not you have heard what I am about to announce, I am writing the very moment I have heard it myself. Marietta has had a letter from Giulia saying that she is about to get married to someone she loves and who loves her. It is Signor d’Azeglio, a Piedmontese, a friend of Collegno [this was Giacinto Collegno who would later become a brother-in-law of the Arconatis, by marrying one of the Trotti sisters, Margherita] and worthy to be so. He has spent the winter at Milan, attracted by the reputation of Manzoni, and has fallen in love with the daughter. Poor Giulia seems by every word in her letter to be at the zenith of happiness. Signor d’Azeglio is settling in Milan, not to take Giulia away from her family. I imagine Enrichetta and Alessandro and donna Giulia are very pleased about this marriage (Giulia forgot to say) because it also represents what the families wanted, but it was decided by mutual affection. I take great pleasure in this happy event myself, I have heard a lot about d’Azeglio from Collegno; he really is a distinguished man. The choice he has made proves it, don’t you think?’

  Massimo and Giulietta got married on 21 May. They went to the Castello d’Azeglio where they spent part of the summer. Pietro was their guest at the castle, as well as Cesare Balbo, cousin of the d’Azeglios and friend of Massimo. In July Giulietta wrote to her father. It is a letter that reveals a determination to be a happy wife and to seem so. ‘Now I must tell you something that requires the permission of my husband but a smile was his only response and this is sufficient to absolve me from the bond of secrecy. . . For some time Massimo has been working on an historical novel. . . He wanted to mention it to you and in fact one evening, before our marriage was discussed, he introduced the subject of historical novels, perhaps you will remember what you said to him then; . . . this so discouraged him that he put away his papers and did not confess his secret to me till we were betrothed, on condition that I would tell nobody. It cost me a great deal, but I obeyed him, I tried to persuade him to talk to you about it but his courage always failed him. In Turin his cousin, Count Balbo who knows his work reproved him strenuously for neglecting it like this, Massimo told him the reason for his discouragement and Balbo said he should chance all to win all and that he must complete a work composed with such care, seeing that he has already planned some lithographs illustrating the most striking passages. Massimo had always promised to let me see his manuscript but now that he has regained a little courage in Turin he has been reading it aloud in the evenings. As they say, I don’t know anything about it and I ought not to speak of it because I am persuaded in advance that everything Massimo does must be done well, but I still maintain that I understand enough to be able to say that anyone who was not Massimo’s wife would be very pleased with his work. I find in it a very clear, fluent style, facts well related, a very well contrived plot, and descriptions worthy of a skilful painter. . . However, you will judge for yourself, so I shall say no more. . . The battle of Barletta is the denouement of the novel, Cesare Borgia plays an important part in it, but all this is more sketched in than described. Pietro is delighted with it. I look forward eagerly to a word from you, but do not imagine that I expect a letter, dear Papa; just write a word on the back of the letters the others write to me, so that I can encourage Massimo to work. . . I have written this hastily and very badly, and I do beg your pardon. My mother-in-law sends you her most sincere greetings. Addio, my dearest Father, remember that the affection you show me brings happiness to one who is so proud to call herself your daughter, and who combines with the general admiration the most profound devotion and filial love.’ Giulietta seems suddenly to have realized the public importance of her father, or rather she now views it from outside, warming herself at his fame in the strange landscape she has come to live in.

  Besides, she must have realized that d’Azeglio had married her because she was Manzoni’s daughter. Awareness of this gave her, in her marriage, both unhappiness and strength.

  Manzoni informed them that he was willing to hear the novel. D’Azeglio himself should read it aloud when they met again, after the summer. So d’Azeglio wrote to him:

  ‘I think that in principle your arguments against the historical novel cannot be refuted; certainly not by me. But I also doubt if the time will ever come when your opinion will be adopted by the masses, and in the meantime I feel this genre, although imperfect, might be put to use for the general good. . . Comparing what has been written, painted and engraved by the French in particular about the glorious events of their nation, with what the Italians have done to illustrate theirs, I feel there is so much pride on one side and so much modesty on the other, that I could not help wishing that we too might learn to boast a little of things that are true. . . Then thinking over the Italian events that might form a series, I hit upon Barletta’s challenge and tried to paint a picture of it. When I had finished the painting, I thought one might enliven it (you will say spoil it) with some sort of a plot, and so it went from one day to another and I found myself filling five or six notebooks; and Balbo kept me at it by goading me like an ox whenever F stopped.

  ‘Dear Papa, please kiss the hands of Mama and Grandmother for me, and give them my fondest greetings; you must take my opinions in good part; from Mama’s letter I see they are disposed to digest my story. It takes some courage to arrive in the Manzoni household un gros manuscrit à la main, and start reading as if it were nothing at all! But I say to myself ‘Vouran minga coupam’. [They won’t want to kill me’] — God knows if I am right Tomorrow we are going to the Baths: our address Aosta by Courmayeur.’ His mother added at the bottom of this letter: ‘Our dear young people set off yesterday morning for Cormaior in good health: I hope the air will restore Giulia completely; her departure caused me a pang at heart: I love her so much and every day I see more clearly that she will bring happiness to Massimo. ’

  The novel was read aloud to Manzoni in the sitting-room at via del Morone, at the end of the summer; Enriche
tta and Giulia, Grossi and Manzoni were there to listen to it; when it was finished, Manzoni said: ‘A strange profession, a man of letters, anyone can take it up from one day to the next! Here’s Massimo; he takes it into his head to write a novel and lo and behold, he doesn’t do at all badly!’ He found some stylistic negligence here and there, especially in the last pages; he offered to revise them, d’Azeglio said ‘please go ahead’. (The novel appeared two years later. It was called Ettore Fieramosca. It had been revised by Manzoni and printed by the usual publisher, Ferrario of via San Pietro all’ Orto. It was a great success.)

  Massimo and Giulietta went to live in an apartment in via del Durino, that Enrichetta had prepared for them.

  In August Enrichetta wrote to her cousin Carlotta de Blasco, to whom she had not written for many years. Her cousin had married a Signor Fontana and lived in Savona.

  ‘I cannot reproach myself for one moment of indifference or forgetfulness, indeed I cannot, my dear cousin; you will have heard how I have often had long periods of wretched health, you will have heard that for several years I was quite incapable of reading or writing a word because of my sight, which, although a little better now, still does not allow any prolonged concentration, and if I can write, it’s partly force of habit and always with difficulty. . . . What changes there have been since we met, dear Carlotta! It seems a century!

  ‘You must know what a big family I have, I must tell you a bit about my children, 8 in number, although I had 12 births, but the children God deigned to preserve to me are robust and quite well endowed by nature, all having, thank God, good characters and intelligence. As you have heard, my daughter Giulia had the good fortune last May to marry the Marchese Massimo Taparelli d’Azeglio, a most accomplished young man, and it would take too long to tell you about her surpassing happiness. After Giulia comes my son Pietro who is already a full head taller than his father, he is 18, then comes Cristina who is 16, Sofia 14, Enrico 12, Vittorina 9, Filippo 5 and a half and my little Matilde who is only 13 months and so dear to me, she is as fascinating to us as if she were our first baby.’