The Manzoni Family

by Natalia Ginzburg

  Fauriel said: ‘Qu’on s’arrange comme on veut. Il a besoin d’être heureux.’ This was reported by Tommaseo, who saw him in Paris at that time. These sentiments are placid, sensible, affectionate and certainly true. Manzoni could not stand grief for long, he wanted to be happy.

  But Teresa made all the others unhappy. She made Giulia unhappy, slowly pushing her out of the space she had occupied till then. Perhaps she did not exactly contest the running of the house, but her place in the house. Above all, she contested the place she occupied in Alessandro’s thoughts. She made the dead Enrichetta’s children unhappy. In the whole world she loved only herself and her own son, and she partly loved her own close relatives, as an extension of herself. Everything else was shadowy. When she married Manzoni, she installed him in the spotlight of her own world. She devoted herself to a cult of his greatness and glory. She did not look upon his children with aversion, but with indifference. They were shadows, useless shadows, grey and uninteresting. She looked at them as one might look at strangers, outside the windows, who have chanced to wander into the garden, and will soon, thank God, go away.

  When Enrichetta died, Filippo was sent away to school at Susino on Lake Como. He was eight. He wrote little letters to his father, full of zeal and melancholy. They discovered later that the school was dreadful, and he had had unhappy experiences there.

  ‘I always pray for my Dear Mummy and my Dear Sister Giulia. I will do my best to study with good will. Come and see me soon. Be so kind as to send me a little drum and a ball and a mouth organ.’

  On 27 January 1837, after his father’s new marriage, he wrote his first letter to his step-mother:

  ‘Carissima mammina. I know I have another Mother who will take care of me, so this is for me a piece of good fortune for which I shall be most grateful. I promise her all the respect and all the love that a son owes his parents, and I will keep my promise. I have written this letter from the heart, and I am resolved to be ever your obedient son Filippo.’

  And a few months later:

  ‘Carissima mammina. As soon as the Headmaster rang the bell to go out to play, I sat down at my little table to write you these few lines. Last Thursday we did our exams, and I hope I have done myself credit. I wait anxiously for you to come with all the family and with aunt and uncle Beccaria, but you never appear. So I beg you, o cara mammina, to come Wednesday. I beg you to bring me my summer clothes, a straw hat, some pencils, a box of brushes and paints, the Magasin Pittoresque and some other nice books, a little drum and a ball. . . Now I come to the chief thing. I hope you are well, as we are. I promise you to study and be a good boy so that I may be a source of consolation to you one day. . . Goodbye, dear mother, please give my love to all the family, and remember your aff. son, Filippo.’

  For many years – since 1822 – Tommaso Grossi had had two little rooms on the ground floor of the Manzoni house in via del Morone. In May 1837 Grossi left those rooms and went to live elsewhere. According to Cantú, Grossi left the rooms as a result of Manzoni’s new marriage, and for some reason connected with Teresa. Cantú: ‘He [Manzoni] had to dismiss some friends. Grossi gave up living in the same house, and here we must just make a sign, for history must show a certain discretion.’

  What Cantú meant by this we cannot know.

  It seems that Grossi intervened in a discussion between Giulia and Teresa, seeking to make peace.

  Many years later, Stefano Stampa explained that Grossi ‘had given up his rooms in the Manzoni household because he had decided to get married himself. In fact, Grossi did get married not long after. He became a solicitor and began to practise. The friendship between him and Manzoni remained unchanged.

  The discussion between Giulia and Teresa apparently concerned Stefano. Giulia was in charge of the house-keeping. Stefano was supposed to pay towards his keep every month. They quarrelled about money, about what should or should not be included in that monthly contribution.

  From Paris Tommaseo wrote to Cantú:

  ‘I am really sorry about don Alessandro. Can Grossi and others not prevent the worst of the gossip?

  ‘And how does he pass the time if he’s not writing?’

  And in another letter:

  ‘What’s this? Manzoni no longer receives his close friends in the morning? Well, when do you see him?’

  Gino Capponi to Tommaseo, still in the spring of 1837 (he had heard Manzoni wanted to reprint a revised version of I promessi sposi): ‘His wife is making him work. Poor man, that’s just what he needed! Cessi ogni ria parola.’ [No more wicked words.]

  Tommaseo to Capponi:

  ‘Manzoni, my good sir, is doing nothing. The daughter-in-law is most capricious, the mother-in-law full of complaints. The stepdaughters in a huff.’

  Manzoni had never reprinted I promessi sposi with the corrections made during the trip to Tuscany; he proposed to do so. He had the idea of an illustrated edition, thinking the illustrations would be a defence against pirated editions, of which there had been an enormous number over the years. At that time there was no protection of authors’ rights, so Manzoni had made very little out of I promessi sposi, in spite of its immense success.

  He wanted to publish the illustrated edition himself. He, Teresa, and his friends were absolutely certain it was an excellent idea. They called upon Francesco Hayez, an old acquaintance of Teresa, to attempt some drawings. But these were not considered satisfactory. They called upon the French artist Boulanger, but his drawings too were viewed unfavourably. Then d’Azeglio came up with a painter called Gonin, whose drawings Manzoni thought very beautiful. He started writing to Gonin almost every day. ‘Mio Gonin.’ Engravers were brought from Paris. A small printing-press was set up in via San Pietro all’Orto.

  Giulia was strongly opposed to this project, not to the illustrated edition, but to the idea that Manzoni should become his own publisher. It seemed to her vastly imprudent. Cousin Beccaria shared her fears. So disagreements arose between Teresa and Giulia, in addition to all those already existing. In time it became clear that Giulia and Cousin Giacomo were right.

  Giulia detested Stefano, and for his part Stefano detested Giulia. Perhaps this detestation dated from the very first day they lived together. Giulia thought Stefano spoilt, disorderly, lazy, overbearing and proud. He used to remain shut in his room painting, taking no part in family life. Stefano thought Giulia an unbearable old woman. He refused to call her grandmother. When they went to Brusuglio in the summer, he thought it was the most boring place in the world. He fled to Torricella, Lesa, Morosolo, to the many houses and villas belonging to the Stampas. Writing to his mother from afar, he never put greetings for Giulia in his letters.

  In fact, Giulia detested Stefano above all because he was Teresa’s son. She had hated Teresa ever since she had seen her in their house. She hated her euphoria, exuberance, excitable effusions, loquacity. She hated her delicate health, the thousand attentions she devoted to herself, which seemed to her a way of usurping the centre of the stage. She also detested the way she idolized Alessandro. She thought Teresa’s feelings for her husband were nothing but inordinate vanity.

  Teresa, from Brusuglio, to Stefano, who was travelling:

  ‘How I could love the lady for being A’s mother, B’s daughter, or simply an old lady, a state which has fascinated me since I was a child! But for days now she’s been standing on one leg, with her head under her wing; God forbid that she’s just getting her breath back, because in the process Alessandro is losing his breath for study, his health, his well-being and everything except his amiability, and his divinity. His friendship and love for me take the place of a whole world of happiness, but you’re not here, and I long for you. . .’

  Teresa’s brother Giuseppe came to visit them in July, and commented on his visit: ‘So I bowed to Manzoni’s mother, before whom one is tempted to say: benedictus fructus ventris tui. But if in Manzoni I felt I recognized the philosopher Rousseau would like to find in his democracy, to dictate a code of laws to h
im, in Manzoni’s mother, on the other hand, you feel you are seeing Monna Aristocrazia in the flesh. Her manner is magisterially proud, her words, even when they flatter, keep you at a great distance; she is not the daughter of Beccaria the teacher, but of the Marchese. Her speech is sparing, considered and sententious, and never does the slightest smile appear to smooth her brow. In short, her face, her manners, her words shed a mortal chill in your heart. . .’

  Filippo came home from school in September: ‘Filippo has arrived,’ Teresa wrote to Stefano, ‘he’s a dear, sweet boy; he’s like Alessandro in every way, you met him this winter, but you will get to know him better now.’ And in another letter: ‘Poor Filippo will not go back to Susino, to that ferocious imbecile of a Sig. Longhi’; Filippo stayed home, and they found a tutor for him, don Giovanni Ghianda.

  Tommaseo came in October. He wrote in his memoirs: ‘I’ve been to see Manzoni who invited me to Brusuglio. They disturb me. He is good; his mother unhappy; his wife artful; his son Filippo without affection.’

  Stefano tried to spend as little time as possible at Brusuglio. ‘He loves the mountains,’ Teresa wrote to her mother about Stefano, ’and won’t go to the country if there are no mountains or lakes, or a lake; you can’t blame him for this, in fact, I think he’s quite right.’ The word blame is underlined, obviously there had been a quarrel, and Giulia had blamed Stefano, who scorned Brusuglio, a place without mountains or lakes. He spent his summers at Lesa, or Torricella, or Morosolo where he had a villa. Teresa had wine sent from Morosolo, and Giulia refused it, and when she saw it brought to the table, she pushed aside her glass angrily. In the first summer of her marriage, Teresa had written to Antonio Maspero, steward at Morosolo, mentioning the possibility that the whole Manzoni family might descend upon the villa, a fairly improbable event: ‘Who knows if one day you will find us descending on you for a week or ten days! but perhaps there are too many of us: there aren’t enough beds; because, even counting only one male head of the household, with three girls, the grandmother, Stefano and myself, that makes seven beds for a start, and then we’d need ten more for five women and five menservants. So that I wouldn’t know, not just where to house them, but where to sleep them. And then how would we manage for linen and crockery? . . . If ever the grandmother decided to come to Morosolo for a few days, I will let you know well in advance; we would all like to except the grandmother, so it will be very difficult. Stefano will come, if no one else. . . ’ Later, in the summers that ensued, the idea of getting the grandmother to Morosolo or Lesa never arose: relations between her and Teresa had so deteriorated that there was not the remotest possibility of taking her to either place.

  Stefano loved going to Lesa. The Caccia-piattis were still there, but now they were inoffensive; the villa belonged to Stefano; the Caccia-piattis were relegated to a small apartment and caused no annoyance. Sometimes they were asked by Teresa to keep an eye on Stefano. In the summer when Stefano was far away, which was almost always the case, Teresa was consumed with apprehension, and her worries and her low spirits weighed upon the whole family. Alessandro had more than ever to surround her with attentions, distract her and console her. Giulia thought Stefano was given too much freedom. Moreover, in all his comings and goings, she had to see to his dirty linen, and she complained about it. Teresa decided to put an end to these tedious complaints: henceforth Stefano would make his own arrangements for his linen. Or rather his valet, Francesco, would see to it. If he came to Brusuglio, Francesco would go to dine ‘at his own house, or at the small ale-house’. Teresa wrote to Stefano: ‘Write to tell Patrizio you are resolved to ask only for room and firewood at home; you should have done so already.’ Antonio Patrizio administered the property of Teresa and Stefano. Cousin Beccaria, the Councillor, was also informed of all this. He helped Giulia with the household management.

  Teresa’s father, Cesare Borri, had died in 1837, the year she married Manzoni.

  When Stefano was away at Lesa, or Torricella, or Morosolo, Teresa urged him not to forget, in his letters, ‘his compliments to the grandmother’. But Stefano sent Giulia neither compliments nor greetings; and to avoid sending them to Giulia, he did not even send them to Manzoni. Yet Stefano was fond of Manzoni. ‘I do not send my greetings,’ Manzoni once wrote to him at the bottom of one of Teresa’s letters, and she added: ‘No, Papa is not obliged, not only to greet you, but even to state he does not greet you! Unworthy as you are of the good wishes that he feels for you, and that he has sent you! not even once to say: give Papa my love and best wishes. – Shame on you! shameful and shameless as you are; I am not joking, I am in earnest. I hope and believe it is because of a certain recommendation Papa told me he made to you, and which I did not hear about until today, but if you did not choose to obey, you could have sent him love and kisses and said I ask your pardon on my knees, without it being or seeming a jest, you could have done anything, even disobeyed him, but surely you could not have forgotten the noble brow and hair of that divine Alessandro who is so fond of you.’ This was Alessandro’s recommendation: as Stefano was about to leave, Manzoni had whispered to him jokingly: ‘greet the person you don’t want to’, that is, remember always to put a greeting for Giulia in your letters. These joking words, whispered in his stepson’s ear, show how far Manzoni now was from his mother, so far as to joke about her anger. Indeed, Giulia’s anger could seem petty – dirty linen, absence of greetings – but they came from very real and bitter suffering, for which the boy Stefano was not to blame. Giulia knew that Alessandro had moved away from her, to stand, with Stefano and Teresa, on another shore.

  In 1838 d’Azeglio’s mother, the Marchesa Cristina, died. D’Azeglio hastily sold his houses in Turin, as well as the castle of d’Azeglio. He found a governess for little Rina, called Emilia Luti. He came to see the Manzonis at Brusuglio, with the little girl and the governess. Giulia was more cheerful when she had little Rina with her.

  Emilia Luti was a Florentine. She supplied Manzoni with invaluable suggestions about the Tuscan language, and was a great help to him in his revision of I promessi sposi.

  Teresa wrote to Stefano, preaching the Tuscan language to him:

  ‘Note that Papa says novamente and not nuovamente as you are so fond of saying with the u: you’re always saying buonissimo viaggio, for example, which is quite unsuitable; the u is hardly ever said or written. Have you seen that finir gli anni is said for compir gli anni? and dar una capata for fare una scappata? We have noted and learnt this from signora Emilia Luti, together with many other fine things. . . do remember that cosicché is not Tuscan; they say sicché, di modo che, but not cosicché. . . Papa is here and greets you.’ ‘I certainly do! Do you know who it is?’ Manzoni added in dialect. ‘I embrace you most affectionately. Without saying who! . . .’

  A young man called Cristoforo Baroggi, son of a solicitor, had fallen in love with Cristina, and she with him. They wanted to get married, but the Baroggi family were hostile to the marriage. Cristoforo’s father, lawyer Ignazio, thought that Cristoforo, who enjoyed spending money, should marry a girl with a large dowry, and that Cristina’s dowry was insufficient. He felt he could not help his son from his own income, which was why he opposed the marriage.

  In the summer of 1833, just before Enrichetta fell ill, they had received a visit at Brusuglio from Henri Falquet-Planta, son of Euphrosine and Sebastian Falquet-Planta; he had fallen in love with Cristina and wanted to marry her. Euphrosine would have been pleased, but grandmother Giulia was not taken with the idea of Cristina marrying this Henri, and had opposed the idea. Henri lived in France, which was too far away. Cristina was still so young.

  Years later, she received a proposal from a merchant in Cremona, twice a widower. She rejected it.

  In love with Cristoforo, she was hurt to find herself repulsed by his family. Uncle Beccaria and Cousin Giacomo intervened to persuade Lawyer Baroggi, but the latter refused to hear of the marriage. Cristoforo and Cristina prepared to marry in spite of this. There was a lengthy
correspondence between Manzoni, Uncle Giulio and the cousin. Finally, after a long period of uncertainty, the lawyer yielded and gave his consent. In September 1838 Cristoforo Baroggi came to the Manzoni house as a fiancé.

  In October of that year Sofia married Lodovico Trotti, brother of Costanza Trotti Arconati, Marietta, and Margherita. He had been a captain of the Uhlans in Moravia and Bohemia, but had resigned from the army and returned to Italy a few years before. Teresa wrote to Stefano, who was at Lesa as usual:

  ‘Papa has asked me if I have written to you about Sofia’s marriage. Lodovico Trotti will be much better off than we thought; and he’s so good, affectionate, brave, proud and gentle that Sofia really is a lucky girl; as you know, he’s a very good-looking young man, strong but kind, and all his relatives are such excellent people, respectable and respected that it’s a great joy to Alessandro to have them related to his daughter. The father, the Marchese. . . is delighted with this marriage, like all the Trotti family. . . Poor Cristina, too, has had a chance to show her affection for me; Pietro and Enrico are making a fuss of me. . .’ Pietro and Enrico behaved cordially towards her.

  Cristina and Cristoforo got married in May 1839.

  In June 1839 Enrico set off for Lyons, where he spent a year, to gain experience of the breeding of silk-worms and of the silk trade. Cristoforo Baroggi had recommended him to his acquaintances in the town; he had founded a bank there. ‘My dear Enrico,’ Manzoni wrote to his son, ‘you can imagine what comfort I got from your letter, and from the intentions it conveyed. . . My satisfaction in you, as in all of you, depends upon your well-being. So continue to prosper; indeed, go swiftly from strength to strength in the career you have embarked on, in which your father will do all he can to help you. Always bear in mind that fine maxim, the truth of which you must already have learnt from experience, that to go to sleep happy one must say, not: I’ve done what I wanted today, but: I’ve done what I had to do. Work and boredom are the choice before us in this world; the first, apart from the other reasons for embracing it, brings its own reward: in the second all is punishment. But you know that even good things are not entirely so, unless they are subordinated and directed to the one absolute good. Think often, dear Enrico, of the angelic mother from whom you chiefly learned this lesson. . .’