In May Manzoni wrote to Filippo. He had heard that Filippo intended to raise a loan by mortgaging the income from the shares assigned to him in the wills of his grandmother and his mother.
‘Filippo! This is your father’s voice calling to you; a voice which, whether gentle or severe, has only ever expressed concern for your well-being, as I call upon your conscience to testify. Filippo! turn back from a path which can only lead you to the precipice, and on which I am certain, thank God, that you are not proceeding with an easy heart. Think how you might feel one day when you remember turning a deaf ear to this plea.
‘Must I speak of the many distresses you cause me, or rather of the state of distress I exist in on your account? I must, to make you reflect upon the grievous harm you are doing to yourself. Just think that an old man stricken by so many misfortunes and tormented by continual anxieties, cannot seek distraction without being plunged back into affliction by the recurring thought of a misfortune greater than all the rest; think that this old man is your father, and you are that thought.
‘Remember how I have tried, as long as I could, to keep your first irregularities hidden, secretly making them good, and at the same time using all my authority over you, unfortunately in vain, to end them. And now what have you done, and what are you doing to your reputation? Are you not inflicting another severe punishment upon yourself by devouring your future means of existence? Disgrace and ruin! Pain for those who love you, encouragement for those who may be your enemies; oh, Filippo! is that your goal in life? . . .
‘I have not spoken of God, but all the things I have mentioned are signs of His justice, as well as intimations of His mercy. I appeal to you in His name, with living faith in His grace which can give strength to the words that come from my heart. Your father’s house and your father’s arms are still open to you, if you return now to be henceforth what you should always have been. You can spend the few remaining months of my absence from Milan at Brusuglio with Pietro, with whom you have spent other months you must surely remember with pleasure. I am sure it will be a real pleasure to him to live with you again for a while as brothers. Consider that this return to your family will in itself begin your rehabilitation, like the first step in a new life in which you will forget your transgressions. Ask yourself what your angelic mother would want you to do; can you hesitate to answer which would be more pleasing to that dear, saintly soul, who is surely praying for us all in heaven, which would do more honour to her blessed memory: to obey, or to harden your heart against this invitation. God forbid the latter! God grant that in the days He still wills me to remain here on earth I may call myself Your most affectionate father.’
Filippo did not go to Brusuglio. Where he was living, nobody knew. He turned up occasionally at via del Morone. His father wrote to him: ‘I must remind you of the order I gave the steward some time ago that you should not come to my house with people I do not know.’
Grossi and Pietro had discussed together whether it was opportune to start proceedings for an interdiction.
Filippo wrote to Pietro in June:
‘If you were not interfering in my affairs, why would you be plotting with the amiable Doctor Tommaso Grossi to dishonour me before society and the tribunals by seeking to impose an interdiction upon me? You cannot deny this, for word has come from the office of the same Doctor Tommaso Grossi, once so hated by you, but now, it seems, quite the reverse.'
In July, Filippo wrote to his father:
‘I am obliged in conscience and in the certainty of happiness and tranquillity to take a step which, as the most important step in life, can never be sufficiently pondered, and which, for that very reason, after mature consideration and experience, I have decided I must undertake as the decisive factor in my happiness and my life and conduct. My dear father, I am married. I beg you to forgive me for proceeding to such a decision without your consent, but I swear it was for the best.’
His wife was called Erminia Catena. His father refused to meet her.
In September the father wrote a letter to Pietro of which only a fragment remains (again he had asked Pietro to try to get to Lesa):
‘I pray the Lord to dispose me to receive all that may come to me from that side or any other as His gift, that is, as a means of appearing before Him with some suffering well borne. Why must such cruel reasons be added to all the natural and dear reasons I have to desire your coming? Because it is God’s will. This answer is more joyful and beautiful than any other, if only the heart can find such satisfaction in it as the reason is forced to find.’
The Arconatis had rented a villa at Pallanza. They invited Alessandro, and Teresa, to spend a few days with them. Teresa was not easily moved from home. Only occasionally had she gone, well wrapped up, for lunch with Abbé Rosmini, who had sent his carriage to fetch her. She was very frightened of the lake. But Stefano persuaded her to accept the Arconatis’ invitation and to cross the lake to Pallanza. First he took her out in his boat on the lake a little way. He wrote to Rossari: ‘The last few mornings, as Mama got up earlier than usual, I succeeded in taking her out in my schooner, and, wonderful to relate, in giving her breakfast on my schooner! And I breakfasted with her while they were raising anchor and setting the sails to receive the last breath of the dying north wind. Indeed, we were obliged to wait motionless for about half and hour for the first breath of the south west wind. . . the time passed and the wind came. The result of this trip was that Mama thought my craft comfortable and handsome, gained a little more confidence in my ability to sail it, and quite enjoyed herself. . .’ So Teresa took heart, and the next day confronted the formidable lake again, and went to the Arconatis at Pallanza, not, however, on Stefano’s boat but on the steamer. She stayed at Pallanza four days.
At that time the Arconatis’ guests included Berchet, Ruggero Bonghi, a young Neapolitan friend of Rosmini, and Mary Clarke, who had come to Italy for a little while. Three years after the death of Fauriel, Mary Clarke had married Jules Mohl. She asked Manzoni to find her all the letters he had from Fauriel. She asked Teresa to help him look for them. Teresa promised to see to it immediately on their return to Milan, which would soon take place. Their exile in Lesa was over.
Manzoni had no desire to return to Milan, and would happily have stayed at Lesa. From his meetings and discussions with Abbé Rosmini he had composed a dialogue, Dell’ invenzione. He intended to write another: Del piacere [Of Pleasure]. What he wanted most at that stage in his life was to be with Rosmini.
Costanza Arconati to her brother:
‘Don Alessandro is constrained by his wife and stepson to return to Milan when his passport expires, that is, half way through September, Donna Teresa to be near her doctors, and don Stefano to pursue his painting: but poor don Alessandro is dejected like a schoolboy being taken back to school.’
However, it is possible Manzoni thought it necessary to return. He had to discuss with Pietro many complicated and delicate family problems.
Manzoni to Vittoria and Matilde:
‘Matilde mia, it is certainly a great joy to me that you are blooming, but the pleasure is spoilt a little by not seeing it with my own eyes.
‘We have spent four days with the Arconatis, where Teresa dragged herself with difficulty, as she lacks strength and finds it difficult to stay up for a few hours each day; but she came home a different woman after being in company and having no time to listen to herself. My dear, dear, dear daughters, I must close, because tomorrow we leave at five, and there are so many things to do.’
They went back to Milan on 26 September.
At the beginning of October there was a tremendous cloudburst at Brusuglio with a hailstorm that devastated the countryside.
Teresa, from Milan, to Stefano who had remained at Lesa:
‘The hailstones weren’t stones, they were tiles, bricks, rocks, pebbles! It was dreadful! Don’t tell your Francesco for the time being [Stefano’s servant who came from one of the Brusuglio farm families] because the grain was alread
y harvested and so far I’ve heard of no victims. . . Pietro got up at midnight, and they shut the children between doors for safety. The crockery in the cellar was swimming; water and hailstones were streaming from the damaged, almost collapsed roofs in the granary on to the grain etc. etc. There’s not a leaf left in the garden, or a blade of grass in the meadows etc. It’s the same at La Mojetta: the poor Mojettas came early this morning to tell us of their distress [La Mojetta was a farmhouse and the Mojettas the peasants who lived there]. Pietro has just gone to bed to make up for his sleepless night. In short, wherever poor Alessandro looks, he sees damage.’ ‘. . . plants, roofs, everything smashed, broken, torn, ruined. .
Stefano wrote to tell her Rosmini felt lost without Manzoni at Lesa. Teresa to Stefano: ‘I read your letter out to Alessandro. . . Alessandro bowed his head on his clasped hands, and said poor, dear Rosmini! Pietro comes to Milan for a few hours every day, and Enrico’s here today too. Nanny’s been going to and fro between Alessandro and Filippo on money matters. . .’
Stefano had stayed at Lesa. In fact, contrary to Costanza Arconati’s statement, he had not the slightest desire to be in Milan. He liked to feel as free and independent as possible, and when his mother and stepfather were in Lesa, he found excuses to escape to Milan, and vice versa. There was a very strong bond between him and his mother, and he was fond of his stepfather; but he enjoyed those little trips from Milan to Lesa and Lesa to Milan, and he was always finding some excuse to go to and fro.
Teresa remembered she had promised to look for Fauriel’s letters, but the commission irritated her and she kept putting it off. To Stefano: ‘Today I hope to be able to get down to the search for things Mile Clarke was asking for, and if not today, tomorrow, for I’ll have to search in Alessandro’s table when there are no visitors. . .’ Then a few days later: ‘I’m just going in search of the things Mile C., now Mme Mauhl I think, is (rightly) longing to have; but I don’t know how I’ll get on, that’s as maybe!’ She misspelt the surname as if it were French, whereas it was a German name. Luisa d’Azeglio came to Milan from the Arconatis at Pallanza, and she too urged this search; Teresa did not see her, but Nanny passed on a letter she had had from Mary Clarke. Teresa to Stefano: ‘She hopes I’ll give her the letters of her dead friend. Till now I haven’t been able to find time to go downstairs and spend a little while in Alessandro’s study – either it was raining – or he had people – or he was writing – or I was writing – etc. etc. : today I’ll see whether I’ll have time, after seeing and talking to Patrizio about my business, to search in that table – I shall have to make up my mind to it, and as soon as possible if she’s leaving in 5 days.’ And again, days later, to Stefano: ‘See if you can find some way of letting Mme Mohl know that we’re getting covered with dust, and looking through old stuff to find those old letters, unfortunately, between you and me, causing Alessandro a great waste of time and the greatest tedium and inconvenience.’ And at last: ‘Yesterday poor Alessandro did a great sorting out of letters with me, and has found only two to give to Mme Mohl. She’ll be very pleased with them, because they are very literary, and one of them mentions Mile Clark, who you know is the same person. Today or tomorrow I’ll look in a little bundle, and in three or four satchels, now I know the handwriting; you’ll understand that Alessandro is losing patience with such a tedious task.’ In all, six letters from Fauriel were found.
On their return to Milan, Teresa and Alessandro had taken back all the servants dismissed when they left, together with one new manservant, and a cook; and Nanny was still with them as well. The cook was called Jegher. Teresa praised his cooking: ‘He does his job well,’ she wrote to Stefano, ‘the soups he makes for me are always so good that I always eat them all up, and there’s always a lot. But as for his own person, l’è on strafojon, che no se cap is s coss’el se sia [he’s an untidy fellow and one doesn’t know what to make of him].’ It was not very clear to either of them why they kept so many servants when they were both convinced at the time that they were very poor; probably each was persuaded it was the other’s wish.
In February 1851 tante Louise had a miniature of Luisina painted by a Spanish painter, one Signora Leona Darro. Tante Louise wanted the little girl to pose dressed as a nun. She thought the habit suited the celestial sweetness of her face. But Matilde and Vittoria, when they saw the finished painting, were both seized with a sense of melancholy. ‘The artist,’ Vittoria recorded in her memoirs, ‘had made a saint’s halo around the head of the little nun. . .’
Cristina’s husband, Cristoforo Baroggi, a banker, had gone bankrupt in January 1851, and shortly after was sent to prison. He had a passion for gambling and had run up enormous debts. His little girl, Enrichetta, was then eleven. She had grown up in the house of some relatives of her father, called Garavaglia, who had taken her in when her mother died. Matilde wrote to ask Massimo d’Azeglio if he could come to the help of Baroggi, who intended to go to Belgium and make a fresh start. He needed some letters of recommendation. D’Azeglio refused. He was then President of the Council in Piedmont. He wrote to Bista that he had no intention of using his name Tor that wretched creature. . . Women’s hearts often screen the light from their brains.’
Manzoni to d’Azeglio:
‘State affairs may be scabrous and painful, but I don’t think they have fundamentally the bitterness of private affairs, when, like this one, they are sad from every angle.’
He must have been thinking of the anguish Filippo was causing him.
In 1850 a son, Giulio, was born to Filippo. The next year, at Easter, Filippo had written asking to be reconciled to his father, imploring his pardon, and expressing his wish to send the ‘poor babe’ to receive his blessing. Manzoni replied:
‘That you should remind me that, as Easter draws near, men should be reconciled amongst themselves, suggests you suppose me to be your enemy, since only among enemies can there be reconciliation. But for a father to be regarded in this way, and to need to be reconciled with his son, he must have done him some quite extraordinary wrong. Let your conscience tell you if I need to be reconciled with you.
‘As for the pardon you ask of me, I have already assured you I felt no rancour towards you, and wished and prayed for everything good for you. . . But your telling me that, if your courage had not failed you, you would have tried to impose on me by surprise something I have never given you the remotest right to do [send the baby to him], forces me to declare that any such attempt would be an act, not of courage, but of violence. To forgive does not mean becoming a slave to the wishes of the person you have forgiven. . .’
And a few days later, sending Nanny with some money for him (this time Filippo had proposed bringing his wife to see him):
‘The last words in your letter oblige me, against all my expectations and to my extreme repugnance, to declare again that I am, I wish to be and must be a total stranger to relationships you may have taken upon yourself but cannot impose upon me, and which I cannot allow you to impose on me. . . If, after attempting in vain to win your obedience, I am reduced to defending myself against you, I must make clear that, since, thank Heaven, I am moved to this by no passion, I shall and must be intransigent, conscious that I am doing nothing that does not conform to the duties of a Christian and a father.’
In the summer of 1851 Teresa and Alessandro stayed in Milan until half-way through August. Stefano was at Acqui for the mud-baths, and was waiting for them to go to Lesa with him. Manzoni was writing an appendix to a chapter of La morale cattolica. Teresa was making a list of all the furniture and objects that were her absolute and exclusive property. She wrote letters to Stefano with the usual lessons on the Italian language. ‘Please note, my son, that piano terreno is not said, but a terreno, and not coltre but coperta. You don’t say coperta greve, or calzoni grevi, but coperta grave, calzoni gravi.’ The summer was sultry and they were plagued by mosquitoes. A doctor Vandoni had been murdered as a spy for the Austrians, and for a few days there was a state of siege
in Milan, and cannon on the Dazi: Teresa wrote to tell Stefano not to be afraid on his arrival. ‘Milan is peaceful and quiet, perfectly quiet, and as far as I know there’s no shadow of trouble. . . ’ Rossari was suffering from the heat and could not accompany Alessandro on his walks. Teresa had news of Torti, whom they had not seen for some time. ‘I’ve had news of the good Torti, but news that is “torete ritorte” [twisted and turned], as it came not from him but from someone who spoke with someone else who sees to his poor dear affairs in that tiny house of his. Poor, dear old man! and he is writing! and printing verses now, they say: I say they say because I haven’t seen them. I imagine they will be few and of worth like the verses of G. Torti, as a certain poet said in I promessi sposi. Then the certain poet was Manzoni: now he is my Alessandro, and he’s well, quite cheerful, looking rather better, and sends you his warmest greetings. As for his other old companions, poets, and half poets [Grossi and Rossari], I never ever so much as catch a glimpse of them, because I never go down to the ground floor: they never come up where I am. . .’
The Manzoni Family Page 31
