In spring 1843, as usual, Stefano set off for Lesa, and as usual his mother worried about him all the time. She wrote to him almost every day and Stefano wrote to her too, but there were long delays in the post between Lesa and Milan and sometimes the seals on the letters were broken; Teresa was convinced the police were opening their letters to find out what was happening in the Manzoni family. ‘The postal police want to see with their own eyes why you went to the country outside your state to your house, by boat with your servant Francesco from Brusuglio all alone and no one there, with dark thoughts of going by boat perhaps even by night not to catch fish, to do what? that’s the point!!! But let him who knows tell. . .’ Teresa intended to join Stefano at Lesa in the autumn with Alessandro, and she asked Stefano to go to Stresa to visit Abbé Rosmini who lived there, enquire if he was well and if they might meet him. ‘So we may or may not go to Brusú this afternoon, depending whether it rains or not. And we must go, because we should have been there before this. It is understood that we are coming back to Milan on the last day of August to prepare for Lesa and to see the Exhibition.’
That summer Uncle Giulio Beccaria became seriously ill. He recovered, but they had thought he was dying. Teresa to Stefano: ‘In weather that became quite fiendish half an hour after he left, Papa has been to Gessate, where the Marchese Beccaria is in a very bad way. I am sorry, because in his heart of hearts he was fond of us, and he is Alessandro’s only close relative. Apart from my distress about the Marchese, I am worried about the weather, and about Alessandro who has gone off in a poor cart, the laundry cart, with two country horses, the steward’s Peppo as a coachman, and Filippo to support him. There’s been a hurricane that nearly made me cry, not for the hurricane, but for Alessandro travelling like that.’ A few days later: ‘Papa came back the day before yesterday without experiencing the horrid mishaps I was imagining might happen to him (I am speaking as you or he might do against myself): the Marchese Beccaria was still making good progress yesterday after, I think, the sixth bleeding.’
Teresa and Alessandro went to Lesa in October, and stayed there more than a month; then Teresa wrote to their administrator, Antonio Patrizio, that for their stay Alessandro wanted ‘to pay the whole journey both ways and two thirds of the expenses’. Manzoni saw Abbé Rosmini at Stresa; they discussed questions of language; Manzoni had submitted to him an essay, ‘Delia lingua italiana’. That autumn, at Belgirate, Manzoni found a shoemaker who made him some comfortable shoes; and as soon as they got back to Milan, Teresa wrote asking Stefano to order three more pairs, one pair col legnazz, that is, with cork soles, and two without. Manzoni had left his blue umbrella behind at Lesa; since Rossari was still at Lesa, Stefano gave him the umbrella to bring back to Milan; but either Rossari did not understand or did not want the encumbrance; Teresa was offended with her son, for she thought he had not treated Rossari with sufficient respect. ‘What on earth possessed you to entrust Papa’s umbrella to Rossari, when we could have brought it in the carriage so very easily!!! Rossari’s passport to Arona! Papa’s umbrella to Rossari! Didn’t you realize it was putting him out to have to come via Velocifero! We should have brought something for him in our carriage, rather than load him with extra things! Oh, what a muddle! Meanwhile Rossari, not believing or not realising he was supposed to bring that umbrella (I mean Papa’s), passed it to Pendola, and Pendola must have taken it back home, so you will bring it to Milan, or send it.’
In the spring of 1844 the Arconatis arrived in Milan: Costanza, her husband and her son Giammartino. The older son, Cadetto, had died in 1839. The Arconatis had left Belgium – Giuseppe Arconati had emigrated to Belgium in 1821, because he was condemned to death by the Austrians; his wife, Costanza, had followed him; now he had been pardoned – and they were living in Pisa. Teresa to Stefano: ‘I’ve seen the Arconatis to whom I was very gracious, and so were they. I shall see the little boy, but meanwhile I know, as far as one can judge at present, that he is a marvel of grace, of bons mots, health, beauty, and everything. I am delighted and pray the Lord to keep him precious and well for those poor people, the poorest in the world since they lost a young lad who was the same age as you.’
Emilia’s confinement was drawing near, and she was still anxious and depressed, either from fear of the birth or about money. Sofia was in Milan at the time, and her father asked her to prepare a layette on his behalf for the baby that was expected; Sofia busied herself to get the layette ready in time. She wrote to her sister-in-law trying to cheer her up: ‘Dearest Emilia, you can’t imagine how I felt yesterday as I read your letter thinking I could be of no use to you, I wished I had wings to fly to Renate! poor Emilia, how I should like to be near you! If I were at Verano, I’d move in with you for a few days (would you want me?) and do all I could to help you or at least soothe you; I would have seen to Enrico and to the dear little baby you will soon have; would you have trusted me? But my health too prevents me making plans, otherwise believe me even being in Milan would not stop me flying to Renate to join you. But yesterday for example I was fine, and today I feel dreadful, so that my head is all confused and my hand is shaking. I’m hurrying to send off this stuff I’ve managed to put together. . . I hope you’ll like it, I’ve done my best. You’ll find the baptismal clothes in the carton, you’re welcome to have them because I don’t need them now, in the same box there’s the veil and mantilla you left here, and the bracelet; I’m sending you one of the caps you asked me to get: and I’ve thought about the others. The hat is ordered.’ She had also arranged a nurse for her, the one she had for her baby Sandrino. ‘I’ve talked to Sandro’s nurse and we agreed I should tell you to send for her on Easter Sunday, and she’d be ready to leave before noon. But if you can’t wait, send for her Thursday at the same time, I’ll let her know and I’m quite sure she’ll be ready. I haven’t forgotten the wool-muslin but I haven’t found it yet – thank you for the flowers and the lettuce, it was excellent.’ And to Enrico: ‘I must say I am still so unwell that I simply cannot do what I long to do. I assure you, my darlings, that I think of you all day, and do what I can for poor Emilia, by commending her to the Lord. – Please tell me honestly if she’s pleased with the layette. . . When you write to Papa abut the happy event, you would do well to say a few words of thanks for the layette, he doesn’t know that you were told about it. I’ve looked for the wool-muslin but haven’t found it yet, perhaps you’d send me a tiny piece of fringe to match the red. . . would stripes do? If I can’t find wool-muslin, should I get some other material or percale? Percale does very well in the country. Goodbye, dear Enrico, I think you’ll already have Sandro’s nurse there when this letter gets to you. . .’
Emilia had a baby girl whom they called Enrichetta. Sofia to Enrico: ‘You can’t imagine my joy last night as I read your letter, I rejoice with all my heart for you and dear Emilia, give her all my love, tell her to take great care and be sensible, and not to indulge the very natural longing to see and know everything that’s happening to your baby, tell her to trust Sandro’s nurse, she can rest assured she’s practical and intelligent, and I recommend you to see there’s no noise in Emilia’s room; peasant women have a mania for standing chattering in sick-rooms, tell them there’s to be only one woman or two at the most in Emilia’s room, and that they should be silent, the most important thing at this time is quiet, don’t let Emilia talk. . . Tell her to put the baby to the breast even though she seems to have no milk because that will bring the milk on. . . Tell Sandro’s nurse to keep the baby warm, to cover her up well especially her legs and feet: she ought to put a hot water bottle in the cradle when she’s sleeping to keep her feet warm because these poor little newborn babies have so little vitality that one has to supply what they lack. One of those beer bottles would be best because the earthenware is thicker and keeps the water warm longer, for now it’s best not to put the lacework caps on her but the night ones perhaps with two beguins (bonnets) underneath for warmth. Have a fire lit in the room, and see they don’t expose y
our baby to the open air, try to see she stays in the same ambience, especially in this bad weather it would be best to go to the baptism in the carriage otherwise well covered and have them put warm water in the font, this is done in Milan, they always did it for my boys. . . the broth for Emilia’s pancotti (bread soup) should be veal for the first few days, beef broth is a bit heavy, keep her well covered especially her head. . .’ To Emilia: ‘I meant to write and thank you and scold you for your lovely long letter but I’ve felt so poorly the last two days that it was quite impossible. Goodbye my darling in haste kiss your dear Enrichetta for me, I’m going to bed.’ To Enrico: ‘Please deign to write me a line with detailed news of Emilia; you haven’t even answered the letter I wrote you; tell me if Emilia has any trouble breast-feeding, if she still has plenty of milk, if she has any appetite, how your baby is etc. etc. ... I can’t wait to see her, I don’t know if Lodovico told you of my plan of going with him to Renate and not coming back until the next day; but just at that time I felt even worse than usual, and today has been a bad day too. I’ve had to wait till the evening to write to you because I couldn’t have done so earlier; enough, I mustn’t think about it too much or I get too depressed. . . Goodbye dear Enrico, urge Emilia to be careful, tell her that in her situation if she wants everything to go well she should take care of herself, look at Virginia Dal Pozzo, she was fine all through her confinement and on the 43rd day she went to pay a call; there were lots of flowers in the room, the smell made her so ill that she had to stay in bed for two days and take purgatives, and she still hasn’t quite got over it. Take care what she eats too, only bland things, plain cooking and no salt, and be careful of the air, she shouldn’t be tempted because it’s warm – be patient – has she started to get up? how did she get on? when her milk weighs on her get them to give her a little warm sugared water; it will do her a lot of good. Please write me a note and answer my questions. Goodbye I’ll close now because I’m too tired to write any more. I hug you, Emilia and your baby girl. Sofia. Nanny sends her regards, she is delighted for you and sends her love. At last I am able to send the hat.’
That summer Marianna, Teresa’s mother, became ill. She had gone to see Aunt Notburga and had caught a chill walking in the damp convent garden. But perhaps it was not only that, because her limbs were swollen. Teresa from Brusuglio to Stefano: ‘Today if I had been able to, if I had had a good night, I would have got up to go to Milan; but I’ll go tomorrow instead; and Alessandro will come too for my sake; and as Alessandro is coming Vittoria will come too, so that will mean all the women and the menservants. So if for the sake of your grandmother even people who are not related to her are moving and putting themselves out, just imagine if the petit-fils were not to bestir himself! So I’ll be expecting you in Milan: Papa is of the same opinion. . .’ But Stefano did not stir. Again Teresa to Stefano: ‘I have heard by express delivery that Mama has had a slightly better night! how does she manage! it’s a wonder she does not die from the continual lack of sleep! but unfortunately today she is bad again! Yesterday Domenico brought a message that the swelling had greatly increased! Just imagine! Swelling and difficulty with breathing! May the Lord help and comfort her, because I can do nothing; when I arrive tomorrow I don’t know if I’ll be able to go there at once or if I shall be obliged to go to bed for a while! however, today I’m quite well: but the looseness is not over, so I’m still on a diet; which makes me very weak.’ Again, Teresa to Stefano: ‘Yesterday I spent some hours with Mama, and she was a bit better, but unfortunately the swelling is much worse; but she still looks smiling and cheerful. She had a good night last night, and is a bit better today. It’s midday and I’m getting up to go there.’ Stefano did not move from Lesa and the Manzonis left Milan and returned to Brusuglio, because it seemed that Marianna was recovering.
Still in that same summer, in July 1844, Sofia had a baby girl and they called her Margherita. It had been a difficult birth. Manzoni was told of these difficulties only when they seemed to be over.
On 15 July Fauriel died in Paris. He was seventy-two. The year before he had had an accident when he was knocked down by a carriage. He died alone. He and Mary Clarke still wrote, but had not met for some time. He and Manzoni had not written to each other for very many years, and had never met again.
It took about ten days for the news of his death to reach Brusuglio. Teresa to Stefano: ‘I’ve had a very good day today by my standards; it’s true it was nearly lunch-time when I got up, but I did the avenue of plane trees before lunch, then ate well: then I walked all round with Alessandro sans être vendue [without being too tired]: and now I’m writing to you in the late evening, and I’m writing without any difficulty: and I’m writing to you from the table, on the table which was used to write I promessi sposi, and in the study which was, and still is used to enclose Alessandro among his papers and books. But I can say, as De Fresne said in that witty letter to Reboul: I search all around, look aloft, rummage, dip the famous pen in the fortunate ink well over and again: I fail to find one phrase of the Promessi sposi, not a line or a thought from the Adelchi or Carmagnola etc. etc. So I’ll tell you that someone who was with Alessandro at Milan and Brusú for perhaps three years and in this very study in the evenings, at the time when M. Cousin was also in Milan and at Brusú, M. Fauriel, such a friend of Alessandro, died some days ago in Paris, which has made Alessandro very sad; the said dear Alessandro himself prepared pen, paper, pencil, lamp and everything for me to write to you on his table; then told me to send you his very, very kindest regards.’
Jules Mohl, friend of Fauriel and Mary Clarke, wrote to Manzoni, sending him a drawing and a miniature which he had found in Fauriel’s bedroom. The drawing was the work of Giulietta, ‘the daughter you had the misfortune to lose’, wrote Jules Mohl. He thought the miniature of a little girl might be Giulietta, but he was not sure. At any rate, Cabanis’ daughter, to whom Fauriel had left all his works of art, had given him permission to send them both to Manzoni. Mary Clarke was in England; Manzoni had sent her a portrait of Fauriel he had; Jules Mohl said she must be too distressed at that time to thank him. Then he gave a few particulars of Fauriel’s death.
For some time Fauriel had been suffering from a polyp which caused a rush of blood to his head and made him sleepy. So he had had an operation.
This polyp was in the nasal cavity. Many years before, in Italy, he had already had an operation at Mary Clarke’s insistence: she thought it deformed his nose and spoilt his looks. But it was obviously not cured and he still had the polyp. So he had another operation. We do not know whether the polyp really troubled him or made him torpid, or if he was again obeying the aesthetic whims of Mary Clarke. From what Jules Mohl wrote, the operation was necessary. All went well. The next day Fauriel was feeling well, and went out to the Louvre. He caught cold, got erysipelas and died within a week.
Of Manzoni’s feelings at the death of Fauriel we have only the word ‘sad’ in a letter from Teresa to Stefano talking of various other matters. In the years that ensued Manzoni rarely mentioned Fauriel in his letters. ‘A friend ever dear and ever lamented. . .’, ‘My illustrious and lamented friend Fauriel. . .’ This is how the image of Fauriel surfaced, not more than once or twice in the course of years, among other topics, names and themes, in Manzoni’s letters.
On 15 August, Teresa’s mother died.
Teresa and Alessandro decided to go to Lesa. They were to be joined there at the beginning of September, by Sigismondo Trechi, who was convalescing after a ‘terrible pernicious fever’. Teresa had ordered a chest of drawers to put in Trechi’s room, and it did not come and she was in despair. Manzoni had had a letter from Abbé Rosmini, who was impatient to see him. ‘I live in hopes that this year will satisfy my most eager desire to see don Alessandro again on the shores of this lake of ours. . .’ And Teresa to Stefano: ‘I’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting for them to send a cantará, a trumo, a something or other with drawers, old but good, already made and finished a century ag
o for us to have it in the future for the 7th or 8th or 9th as Trechi is coming on the 9th or 10th, I think.’
The Manzoni Family Page 23
