The Manzoni Family (16 page)

Manzoni did not write to Fauriel until March 1828. Fauriel had not written either. ‘Dear friend,' wrote Manzoni, ‘why was this letter not written last year? why was it not dated from Florence? How can it be that, thinking of somebody all the time, and feeling tormented by the need to write to him, still one does not write? I put the question to you, as I think you know something about it. For you know that one of the reasons for my long silence was the uncertainty whether to begin with an apology or a reproach.' He sent the letter by some acquaintances, Count Taverna and his wife whom he wished to introduce to Fauriel, and a eulogy of the couple took up a great part of his letter. Then he listed the people he had met at Florence the previous year who all remembered Fauriel: Niccolini, Capponi, Giordani, and ‘that dear, good Cioni'. Then he sent his regards to Mrs and Miss Clarke; the latter had recently written to Enrichetta, severely blaming Fauriel and Manzoni for never exchanging a word of news. ‘Addio; I have found a moment to write: not as I intended, but it's time I lack at present. Would there be any point in asking you to write? Why not? Stranger things have happened. Addio, I press you to my heart.'

‘Mon cher parrain,'  Giulietta wrote to Fauriel a year later. ‘My dear godfather. The other day Marietta passed on to me your dear, kind note (for I hope you would not in all honesty expect me to call it a letter). . .' Marietta was Maria Trotti, sister of Costanza Trotti Arconati; she was twenty, and a contemporary of Giulietta. The Trottis had a villa at Verano, near Carate, and not very far from Brusuglio, and they were friends of the Manzonis. Costanza Trotti Arconati and her husband, who lived in Belgium, were friends both of the Manzonis and of Fauriel. Maria Trotti travelled a great deal between Paris and Milan. ‘You tell us only the vaguest things about the future. . . You know that Milan, Brusú and Coprena exist, you know the peaceful life that goes on there, and you know the place you hold in the hearts of those who live in them alternately, what more can I say? You say
it's impossible,
so we are left longing and regretting. . . For some time poor Papa has been more unwell than usual, because apart from his stomach and nervous disorders, which remain the same as ever, he has had violent toothache which he endured for a long time, and after having the tooth out at last, he is still suffering from neuralgia and inflammation. Mama, too, is never well, in fact only Grand-mama always
sings a triumph song
as we say in Milan because she enjoys perfect health, and she is still as fresh and young as ever. All the children have such bad coughs that we can't help fearing whooping cough, though the doctors assure us that it's only a heavy catarrhal cough. . . We still don't know when we'll go to Brusú and whether we'll go to Genoa for the sea-bathing or elsewhere; in short, summer is drawing near and we're still not thinking about it — which is all to the good, because I hate all changes, I would always like winter to last two years, we have quite frequent storms and even hail. What a joy it would be, dear godfather, if we could see you, and you could see us all! I think you would find the grown-ups pretty much the same, but the children very different; my brother is now quite a handsome young man, taller than his father; he studies moderately and enjoys himself a lot, and spends his time with such lively youngsters that they manage to make us lively too, whether we will or no; Pietro is still mad about horses and hunting — especially horses. I really hardly know what to say about Ermes, because he has become so strange that one scarcely knows not only what to say but even what to think of him. All the other gentlemen are well except Cattaneo who suffers quite a lot from rheumatism. . .'

She wrote to him again from Coprena in October of the same year, 1829; Fauriel had written to Giulietta from Gaesbeck in Belgium, where he was the guest of the Arconatis; he had put a flower in the letter. ‘I cherish the flower you sent me, you wouldn't believe the pleasure it gave me,' wrote Giulietta. ‘Papa has been working hard for some time, which means he suffers much less from his stomach and nervous troubles, so he is almost always cheerful; I feel he is adopting a more youthful way of life, so he seems younger than before. . . He feels better in the country, so he can take more pleasure in everything. I am telling you this without him knowing it, because he never wants to be talked about. If you knew his friendship for you!' — Marietta was at Gaesbeck too. Giulietta liked her, but felt envious because she was there with Fauriel, helping with his correspondence and acting to some extent as his secretary. ‘It takes all the friendship I feel for Marietta not to envy her too
bitterly
for all she is doing for you; I share her happiness with all my heart but not without a stab of jealousy; it's true I wouldn't be such a good secretary as Marietta, but I would try so hard! ... I said to Papa: I have given your regards to Monsieur Fauriel, as you told me to do - you've done wrong to write to him today without telling me - but I haven't closed the letter yet — ah! that's all right then, in that case tell him. . . you must tell him such a lot of things, but I wager you don't write even half of what I tell you to say. . . - the fact is, you may think a lot but you tell me nothing. . . - what? first of all, tell him everything affectionate you can think of, tell him how I wish and how I beg that he will not break his word, and will do what he promised, that I am
avid
to read what he is writing, that he should make haste for love of me, and for love of all. . .' Manzoni was referring to the
Lettres provinciates,
the book Fauriel was working on but never finishing. ‘That's more or less what I remember of what he said. '

She wrote to him again in the spring of the following year. From Marietta who had returned to Italy she had heard that Fauriel was working too hard. As always, she begged him to come to Italy in the summer. She gave him news of everyone. The condition of Uncle Enrico Blondel, who had been ill for many years, was now very grave. Enrichetta was pregnant. ‘Mama is having a rather difficult pregnancy, and the distress she feels continually for the appalling illness of her brother makes it worse. We would rather anything than see my uncle in such cruel spasms; for four months the most famous surgeons confess they have never seen anything like it, I am so afraid it must come to a bad end. His poor wife is more dead than alive and at times seems to be going out of her mind, so you see what a picture this unfortunate family presents.' There followed more cheerful pictures. ‘I think my brother is one of the happiest young men you could meet, he sings and enjoys himself from morning till night, studies as cheerfully as others enjoy themselves, and enjoys himself desperately, like one who leads a solitary existence, which is certainly not his case. It's a different matter with the young ladies, what one does the other does, like a clock ticking quietly and regularly, which means we have no cause for complaint. Enrico is beginning to come out of his shell, his temperament is quite the opposite of his brother's, he is more concentrated and quiet, although in fact he makes more noise. . . Summer is coming, which means it's time to go to Brusu, but we haven't fixed the day yet, however, I think it will be towards the end of May to supervise the silk worms. Afterwards Papa intends to spin the cocoons in the house, which requires a lot of attention, so we'll have to stay there for Mama's confinement, which I think will be early in July. Grossi is in the country too for his silk worms. . . I don't expect you to answer this, or at the most just tell me you are well and haven't forgotten me, but two lines will do for that. '

Fauriel was preparing to set off for Provence. With Giulietta's letter went a brief note from Manzoni; both were brought by the mathematician Guglielmo Libri, who wanted to meet Fauriel, and Manzoni said in his note: ‘In introducing to you a man in whom Italy takes pride, and who will give her more cause for pride each day, I am sure of doing you a particular favour. . . I am pleased and proud to be an intermediary between you; I say no more, except that I envy you both the time you will spend together. '

Before leaving, in June Fauriel also received a letter from Gaesbeck where he would not be going that year; it was from Marietta and her sister Costanza. Marietta wrote: ‘Perhaps you do not know Signor Blondel is very ill, one cannot imagine worse suffering. . . Signora Blondel is desperate; she never leaves him, and her delicate health is impaired by so much anguish and fatigue. Signora Manzoni has not been well, they had to bleed her. The whole family was to move to Brusuglio at the beginning of June; Giulietta was rather upset to leave her beloved Milan. . . Poor Giulietta looks rather gloomy, surrounded as she is by so much suffering, her thoughts must be very sad. She seems especially anxious about her mother, she ends up saying: “Anyway, I hope all will turn out for the best.” I hope so too, but like her cannot help feeling sad and anxious at present. I am sorry to give you these painful details. . . And you? what are your plans? Lucky you to be going to the south and seeing those beautiful places. . .' Costanza: ‘Until now we've had more rain and cold than last year. . . Everywhere I turn here I find some souvenir of you, we often say on our walks: we did this walk with Fauriel, or else, just here he left us to go and work. But who knows, you may come back one day? Addio, I leave you, hoping it will be so.'

In July 1830, Enrichetta had a baby girl. She was called Matilde.
Cette pauvre Julie,
as Marietta called her, that poor Giulia was sent after her mother's confinement to the Grigioni to take the waters, but also because they hoped the distraction would lift her spirits. She went with family friends, Peppina Frapolli, the Marchese Lorenzo Litta and the Parravicinis. During the journey she wrote long letters to her sister Cristina: ‘Andeer, 2nd August. My dear Cristina. . . After I wrote to you the other evening, we slept in the little room that Signor Litta let us have and he slept in the sitting-room on a table; there were two beds, a chest of drawers, tables, all our things and Signor Litta's, you simply couldn't move, small windows without blinds or shutters and bare new walls. Next morning we went to Mass at half past six, there were only peasants because polite society attends the ten o'clock Mass, it was a bit of a climb to get to the ugly little chapel. . . We set off immediately after in splendid weather, arrived at the top of the San Bernardino in a fresh wind, with snow on the mountain and magnificent sunshine, there's a beautiful lake with very limpid water, we came down again very rapidly; there are about 60 hair-pin bends, but the horses here are strong and so used to it that you couldn't be afraid even if you wanted to; you go on like that for three hours down the most enchanting road. We passed through Val di Reno; words fail me to describe the imposing nature of this landscape which is sometimes really the reverse of picturesque. We thought Splugen was a lovely spot; from Splugen to Andeer the road gets more and more beautiful, we reached Andeer just as they were sitting down to luncheon, and as it was midday we did so too. The hotel here is all you could ask in size, order, cleanliness, elegance, even luxury, it presents a strange contrast with everything we've seen hitherto; during the meals a young man in a blouse, with great side-whiskers, played the harp; it was really very fine. . . I was very amused by all the serving-women here who don't even understand the signs we make to them; they just go on laughing and answering in German; when they speak proper German I understand a little and necessity has forced me to find a few words to make myself understood, it's really funny, but the local language is “Romansh”, I think they call it, and you can't understand a thing. At half past three Baron Busti, who had heard you could do the whole Mala road and get to Thusis and back in four hours, suggested we should go there to save a day, and we set out just as if we were going on an afternoon outing to Porta Renza, but it's a strange expedition, I assure you! I had never imagined anything so horridly beautiful. . . My heart is with you despite the mountains that separate us. . . . We eat well everywhere, the potatoes are always excellent and the butter, we have delicious strawberries, and we've even had excellent cream ices, which were a
sporgiment
[an offering, in Milanese dialect] from Signor Battaglia, who does a great deal for this place. . . We always travel in an open carriage so we don't lose any of the view or the air which often makes you open your mouth to gulp in as much as possible.' ‘3rd August, San Bernardino. This morning we left Andeer at five, the journey went quite well, though we did have a bit of a storm on the San Bernardino so that I was quite stunned when we got out of the carriage. Signor Litta was the first to bring us your letters which gave me more joy than I can express! I could think of nothing else, to such an extent that I hardly greeted Signor Litta or the other people around me; it was midday, so we were sitting at table, and I put your letters under the tablecloth; we were about 50 at table, and three musicians were playing: you can imagine how wretched I was; some familiar tunes, indeed the whole thing, brought tears to my eyes so that I had to hide my letters altogether and come and read them and cry my fill in my room! San Bernardino is really very dreary, and it's terribly cold.

‘Tomorrow I intend to start taking the waters. I am feeling more or less the same, that's to say I haven't time to think of my health, and I can't eat just what I fancy; today I'm
dog-tired.
But Cristina, please write so that I can at least guess what you're trying to say! You reproach me, I don't know which of us is justified, it really is maddening, I want to devour your letters and I can't even read them. Tell my good Mademoiselle Burdet that I was more than grateful for her note. But most particularly tell Mama I'll write to her Saturday, it's impossible today because if I want to say all that's in my heart in answer to her letter, I need to devote myself to her entirely; say I'm sure she'll understand. . . and
bonne Maman;
and Papa! Dear Cristina, there are no words to express what I feel for these dear people! Give my love to everyone at home, and the doctor. My cousin has written, I am truly grateful and I'll send him a line in haste to tell him so; he says the Lodonio girls are getting married, I'm very pleased to hear it. . . I can't wait to be with you, however hard I try to enjoy myself. . . Don't let Mademoiselle go, for goodness sake!' The cousin who had written was Giacomo Beccaria; this letter from him and the line of greeting she sent him from the Grigioni marked the end of a relationship which perhaps had brightness and intensity in her heart only.