That spring Matilde was at Renate, and Enrico proposed to take her back to Milan. He now had two babies, and the second, Sandro, was not many months old. He wrote to his father. The letter is awkward, though what he had to say was extremely simple. He wrote:
‘My dearest Father,
‘A matter I could not foresee obliges me to be in Renate on Tuesday. As I am so desirous that we should bring Matilde back to you ourselves, I beg you to leave her with us until Tuesday instead of Monday, assuring you that we shall be in Milan towards the night, where I shall stay for two or three days at most with my little family.
‘Matilde is really well. Dear Sandro has a slight cough, and it does seem like whooping cough, but it is very slight, thank Heaven, and doesn’t seem to upset him at all, We all beg you to give our fondest love to Mama, and we hope to find her well on our arrival. Dear Father, forgive me if I have written to you so frankly, I am always so confused when I take up my pen to write to you, because I am always so afraid I won’t manage to express properly what I would like to say, so without re-reading this scribble, I close it in great haste, persuaded of your indulgence, and I put down my pen because I am certain that you know the affection I have and must have for you.’
His father replied:
‘My dearest Enrico,
‘Although dear Sandro’s cough is slight, naturally I am distressed to hear it is of that kind, both because the poor little fellow will be troubled by it for a while, and because I cannot fail to feel anxious for Matilde. I hope she will never carry him in her arms, or fondle him, but that she will stay some distance from him; but I am worried about the hours she would have to spend in the carriage with him. I am therefore obliged to propose something disappointing for all of you and for me, but which prudence demands, that is, that you come with Matilde on your own, if Emilia has not yet weaned the baby, or if in any case she cannot bear to leave him, even for a short time.
‘Furthermore, though it is unusual but not extraordinary for whooping cough to be passed on to adults too, I confess I should also be anxious about the visit here, especially as Teresa has not yet recovered from an illness very like that.
‘I have said nothing to her, not wishing to worry her unnecessarily; so she greets you all with a light heart, while I send Emilia a warm but sad embrace. I look forward to seeing Matilde quite recovered, and I embrace you with that love you know I bear you.’
Enrico:
‘Dearest Father,
‘I have told Matilde what you have written and she will obey your wishes and not carry Sandro in her arms or fondle him at present. I beg you not to worry because Matilde had whooping cough two years ago. I will come on my own on Wednesday to bring Matilde back, who continues in good health, and I shall return to Renate the same day. Emilia sends affectionate greetings, and thanks you for your messages to her. Dearest Father Wednesday I shall embrace you meanwhile accept my affectionate greetings.’
In the summer tante Louise came and carried Matilde off to Tuscany. They went with the Giorginis to Viareggio. Matilde caught scarlattina. The Nanny was sent to Viareggio. Vittoria was pregnant.
Nanny looked after Vittoria in her confinement. She gave birth to a baby girl, who was called Luisa. Matilde went to Lucca to stay with Bista’s grandfather, Niccolao, and his sister, Giannina, as had been arranged the year before.
In October Lucca ceased to be a state, and became a Tuscan province. Duke Carlo Lodovico left, to the great distress of grandfather Niccolao, who loved him; and Giannina wept. The Grand Duke of Tuscany, Leopoldo II, came in his place. Grandfather Niccolao was appointed Regent of Lucchesia. He was very old and very tired but he accepted the office for a while.
Giusti joined the Tuscan National Guard.
Teresa and Alessandro spent the autumn at Lesa, returning to Milan in November. Stefano had remained at Lesa, but because he was always worrying about his mother’s health, Manzoni wrote every day with news of her. They were very short notes; the news was minimal, insignificant and therefore good. ‘Teresa has had an excellent night, as she expected; a slight tickle in the throat, and a few twinges here and there cleared with six grains of quinine. . .’The tamarind and cassia have got rid of the irritation; she got up, drank some coffee, and later ate some soup and vegetables. . .’ ‘Excellent night – likewise breakfast.’ ‘Slept very well, breakfasted, and will get up what one might now call as usual.’ ‘Excellent night; also breakfast. I will say no more because, when it’s a question of your health, you get so impatient if your mother asks you for minute details, and you produce endless arguments to us on that score, and then you go and do the same about her; in fact, the way the two of you busy yourselves each about the other’s health is just like a scrupulous man’s examination of conscience.’
Manzoni never, or rarely, wrote long letters to his stepson Stefano, always these brief notes, but they generally reveal an affectionate and ironic solicitude, a warm, cheerful relationship, and a sort of complicity. Even here, when Manzoni is depicting concisely for Stefano, in a few sentences, the extremely tedious days of his valetudinarian mother, a cheerful relationship is conveyed. Manzoni and Stefano were closely linked in their familiarity with Teresa’s ill health, real or imaginary; closely linked and accomplices in the hope that the various remedies might relieve those ills: tamarind and cassia, Abbé Rosmini’s prayers, Boaria waters, quinine and castor oil. While thinking a great deal about Teresa’s health, Manzoni also thought a very great deal about his own; after all, he had done so all his life. But now he thought of it without too much anxiety, because the worries he had felt about his health as a young man had diminished with the years; somehow, since writing I promessi sposi, he had suffered less from the vertigo, the physical terrors which had earlier afflicted him, although he still did not feel equal to going out of the house alone. As for Teresa’s ailments, they did not really worry him, because they were too many and too slight; they worried him less as the years went by; he got used to them. She complained continually of her ailments, and had set them up in the very centre of their domestic life, the whole household revolved around them; these weaknesses were her strength, her way of imposing herself upon her fellows, her son who worried about her but often fled far away, her husband who said he was worried about her but shut himself away in his own rooms after enquiring briefly after her condition and scribbling a few hasty details to her son.
When Stefano was at home, Manzoni used to look at his tongue in the mirror; Stefano records in his memoirs, in which he speaks of himself in the third person. ‘His tongue was usually rather whitish; but when it was clearer than usual, he saw this as a sign of stomach irritation. And sometimes when he made his stepson show his tongue for comparison, which was always clean and pink, he would exclaim almost enviously, in dialect: “Lengua de can!” (a tongue like a dog!)’
Manzoni envied Stefano. He envied him because he was young, healthy, free to flee from the house any time he liked; and whether near or far, the image of Stefano projected a cheerful light upon the house, his mother, and her tedious ailments.
Manzoni’s own children never cheered him up. He did not see them as young people; on their various faces he traced no images of youth. From Pietro he constantly required services; against Enrico he defended himself: Enrico’s humble, awkward tone probably aroused in him considerable irritation and equal awkwardness. Filippo worried him. With his daughters, he was either congratulatory, expressing his esteem, or apologetic, expressing his remorse. His own children aroused in him neither envy nor cheerfulness. He did not envy them because they did not seem healthy, he had seen too many of them die; and they never seemed to him lucky; when a piece of good fortune came the way of one of them, for example, Vittoria, he was amazed, but fundamentally quite happy for that good fortune to remain at a distance so that he could admire it without being invaded by it. He had never been free, light-hearted or cheerful with his own children. His immediate response to them was to feel reminded of his duty to behave as a father,
to provide sermons, or advice, or praise, or reproof, manifest confidence or misgivings, satisfaction or resentment: except for Pietro, on whom he was accustomed to rely so completely that he seemed not to see him any more. He was never natural and simple with his real children, except when he was quite desperate about their behaviour or the misfortunes that beset them. This habitual lack of ease and simplicity in his relations with his own children arose from the fact that he had never really had a father: he preserved no paternal image inside him: the memory of old Don Pietro, awkward and gloomy, aroused in his memory only a burden of perplexity and ancient remorse that he had never been able to bury.
In I promessi sposi Renzo had neither father nor mother. Lucia had no father. The Nun of Monzo had a terrible father, who ruined her life for ever. But Renzo and Lucia met on their way great father-figures presented by Providence: Father Cristoforo and Cardinal Borromeo. So Manzoni as a young man encountered father figures brought to him by Providence or change: the image of Carlo Imbonati, beloved by his mother, who appeared great and luminous from beyond the grave; and Fauriel; and finally Rosmini.
So to return to Stefano, Manzoni had with him a warm, affectionate, cheerful and entirely natural relationship. Stefano made less grey and gloomy his life with Teresa, which became ever more grey and gloomy with the passing years. Stefano amused him. Later, in her memoirs, Vittoria said he was boring. But perhaps he was not so boring. For Manzoni, he was a charming boy who, near or far, filled the house with his presence, and to whom, when he was far away roaming through villages and countryside, he had to write every day to say how much magnesia his mother had taken.
Matilde
At the beginning of 1848 Vittoria and Bista moved from Lucca to Pisa with the baby. Matilde followed them.
In March news reached Pisa that Carlo Alberto had granted the Statuto to Piedmont. Then came news of the uprising in Milan.
Bista left Pisa with a university battalion, consisting solely of teachers and students. Vittoria thought they would return immediately, since they were untrained. But some time later she heard that they had crossed the Po.
Stefano was at Lesa; Teresa and Alessandro were in Milan. On the morning of 18 March the insurrection broke out in Milan. Stefano arrived in Milan that very morning with his servant Francesco; he tried to enter the city and failed. The servant suggested they go to Brusuglio, which they reached by lanes and short-cuts. Teresa heard he was at Brusuglio, and wrote him a note: ‘To Stefano, 18th March 1848. I am well. I have slept well. If you are safe, all of you, we are safe here at home. Your Mama commends your life to you, for her sake.’ Manzoni added a line: ‘We are in the midst of the crisis, but untroubled. Love to you all.’ At Brusuglio were Pietro with his wife and Lodovico Trotti. Two days later, on 20 March, Teresa again to Stefano: ‘I am well, and if I could be sure you won’t come to the Dazi to try to enter, a great, an enormous weight would be taken from my mind. O, for the love of God, for the love of me, don’t come and try to woo or force your way in! we will see each other soon, but meanwhile we must have patience. I am well: I get up now at seven a.m. Papa is well and in good spirits, but concerned to hear news of Filippo who was with that French friend of his. . . O Stefano; I beg you, don’t go trying to enter now, for Heaven’s sake. In the evening, apart from the barricades there are traps on every side made of strong wire – apart from the fact that they were thinking of leaving the manholes open to obstruct movement – if they do it or if they’ve done it, it will be very risky for everyone. God’s blessing on you, by my heart and my hand. Give my regards to Pietro and Lodovico, to whom your Mama commends you with that weakness she has and will always have. Papa is writing; he will tell you about Filippo for whom he has been praying last night and yesterday and today; and has asked others to pray. – But as he was with that Frenchman, I do hope he will still be with him. – However, I am distressed for him. For heaven’s sake don’t add to my distress by a lack of care for me, you who are the model of filial care. You need not have the slightest anxiety for me or for Papa. The steward is very well and is always with us. We have an excellent doorman, and an extra man at the door at night. Cormanino sleeps in the hall. . . and Domenico in the anteroom [these were two servants], which is quite unnecessary, anyway, as nobody is attempting to enter houses. I’ve written this on my feet to make haste. Not a half hour or quarter of an hour goes by without my commending you to your Angel, to the Madonna and to the Lord, with all my heart.’
At last they heard what had happened to Filippo. On the afternoon of 18 March he had gone to Broletto, with other Milanese nobles, to sign on for the Civil Guard. In the evening the Austrians attacked Broletto, and took twenty hostages. Filippo was among them.
On 23 March the Austrians left Milan.
Teresa to Stefano:
‘What joyful tidings! What unforgettable, everlasting glory to the Milanese of the 22nd and 23rd March 1848. They have gone! And where is my Stefano? I need to see you to believe my own eyes. I am well in spite of the 15 battles lasting almost 5 whole days, but in my heart. . . The Lord receive our hearts for ever, may the Madonna and the guardian Angel receive our ever more tender affection. I embrace you. . . Will I soon embrace you? Your Mama. Filippo. . . will certainly come tomorrow.’
But Filippo remained a prisoner of the Austrians for several months. He had been taken by the troops of Marshal Radetzky, and imprisoned with the other hostages in the Castello Sforzesco; then, when the Austrians had abandoned Milan, the hostages had been taken on foot first to Melegnano, then to Lodi, then to Crema by stage-coach. At Crema they were visited by a certain Signor Grassi, who was selling arms to the Austrians; Grassi offered to lend them money, and take letters to their families. So Manzoni reeived a letter from Crema; Filippo was well, and suffering no hardships. Still by Signor Grassi his father sent him money, an overnight bag, linen and clothes. ‘My dear Filippo, how can I explain the comfort we felt on seeing your handwriting?’ he wrote ‘. . . Write at once to tell Pietro and Enrico your news, you can imagine how eagerly they await it. You can also imagine how Teresa and Stefano share in your misfortune, and long to see you. I trust in God that the exchange will soon take place, and I will have you in my arms. Oh, how we will thank Him!’
Filippo was twenty-two on the very day he was captured. He was studying law reluctantly, and spending a lot of money, and he was on bad terms with his father. But now all was forgiven. ‘My ever dearer Filippo. . .’
Stefano, mentioned in Manzoni’s letter as if he were in via del Morone, in fact, was not there, and had not put in an appearance there; he did not succeed in entering Milan; he left Brusuglio and went back to Lesa, then from there to Novara, then to Turin, and put himself at the disposal of the Piedmontese government. Teresa had no news of him; she thought he was ‘either dead or wounded at some customs post, night and day these were always, always my visions!!!’ she wrote to her administrator, Patrizio; then a friend, Don Orlando Visconti, came specially from Lesa to tell her Stefano was well; but when he came, she was asleep, and neither received nor thanked him. ‘O what brave, heroic Milanese! unique in the world, a hundred times greater than the Parisians of the trois journées! Population of heroes, worthy of Roman Italy! But we. . . but my poor Alessandro whose Filippo. . . was arrested Saturday at the Broletto – poor Filippo, those poor young men in hands worthy of those who perpetrated the horrors of Tarnoff! – O good Patrizio! Will I see Stefano? will I see him alive? – He has been so good to me!’
Manzoni to Vittoria and Matilde:
‘I have no heart to tell you about the wonders here, until I have Filippo in my arms. . . The house suffered no close shell-fire: only the street barricade was fired on, at the Corsia del Giardino end. . . Every minute there would be good news: one place taken, then another, until they held only the castle and the gates. In a word, the predominant feeling in Milan in those five days was joy, especially among those fighting.
‘May God soon send our Filippo back to us!’
Stefano fr
om Lesa, to his mother:
‘I am very well. If I had time I would write about the political news of Piedmont, but it would take three or four pages. . . The name Republic has become generally not only unpopular but odious, at Genoa too, and even the students in Turin no longer talk of it. . . The army and the officers, too, are very uneasy about it, and God forbid that these brave soldiers should be overcome by discouragement or indifference. . . If we were to seem ungrateful, if the Republic were to be declared, there would be a grave danger that the Piedmontese would lose those feelings of friendship and brotherhood they’ve always had for us. . .’
In Milan a petition was circulated for union with Piedmont; many signed it; although Manzoni had signed a request to Carlo Alberto to come to the help of the Milanese, he refused to sign the petition for union with Piedmont. It was never clear why. Massimo d’Azeglio was furious. He said Manzoni was adhering to Republican ideas. But this was not so; Manzoni respected Carlo Alberto, he did not like the Republicans and he did not like Mazzini. D’Azeglio wrote to his wife: ‘Tell Manzoni that, if he succeeds in making a republican of Carlo Alberto, he won’t succeed in making one of Pius IX. It would be putting two serpents in the bosom of Italy, that would tear themselves and her. For the love of God, let’s be content to make a constitutional State on the Po. . . If one is always in one room, talking to the same people, one cannot judge a country and the real world. . . Common sense, possibilities, not poetry, for Heaven’s sake!’
Lodovico Trotti had rejoined the Piedmontese army. He had entrusted his four children to the Arconatis.
One evening, Manzoni was called upon to appear at the balcony. There were three hundred students in the street, ‘accompanied by another great throng’, Teresa wrote to Stefano, ‘and even by ladies with their servants.’ He did not want to appear, but Teresa and her maid, Laura, begged him. Flanked by his servants, Domenico and Cormanino holding lamps (‘the lamps of the century’, Teresa commented) he ‘appeared at poor Filippo’s little terrace or balcony and shouted: “Viva! Viva l’Italia!” Then they shouted: “Viva Manzoni!” and he called, “No! No! Viva! Viva l’Italia, and all who fight for her! I have done nothing! Mine is only a longing. “ And they shouted: “No! No! You have done a great deal! You have given the initiative to all Italy! Evviva! Evviva Manzoni, champion of Italy!” Then their leader pushed forward, banner held high, imposed silence and said: “I am the Leader of the University Battalion. Let us ask Manzoni for a hymn to the Liberation of Italy!” And Manzoni said: “I will do it! I will do it when I can!” ... I did not move from my room, but I could hear the voices and the clapping. Alessandro was quite confused with modesty. But I hope they will have understood the reason for his: When I can! As long as those barbarians have our Filippo, you understand. . . will they have understood? ... I hope so. . .’
The Manzoni Family Page 28
