The Manzoni Family (25 page)

We do not know what Cantú replied. We know only that, later in his memoirs, Stefano Stampa wote pages and pages on that ‘galante, too'. Cantú, in his
Reminiscences,
included Tommaseo's letter without comment.

The wedding day was fixed for 2 January. Teresa ordered lots of clothes. She was a fragile, slender, graceful woman, small in stature, with thick, curly hair. She was then thirty-eight.

Manzoni's sons and daughters came to meet her. She said she wanted to be a big sister to them.

The Provost of San Fedele, don Giulio Ratti, came to meet her. He probably spoke to her about the most suitable way of comporting herself in the household. She wrote to Manzoni: ‘I was in full agreement with everything he said. . . I am perfectly happy about it, and we parted in complete accord. Alessandro, will that Alessandro have a good night? There is one who would have stayed awake all night asking herself this question if she had not indulged in writing these few lines, in which is included the most tender embrace for a certain incomparable mother.'

The wedding took place on 2 January 1837. Teresa and Stefano moved into via del Morone. Disagreements with the ‘incomparable mother' began at once.

Stefano Stampa, in his memoirs:

‘When she entered the house, donna Teresa left donna Giulia in complete charge. Needless to say, she did not interfere with the three sons, two of whom, as young men, were always out, and the last was at school; neither did she attempt to influence the girls: two of marriageable age, the third at school, and the fourth a little child, cared for in all material things by the French nanny, and educated, then later sent away to school, under the direction of her grandmother and her sisters. It did not cost donna Teresa to abdicate all influence in this way, as it was her own carefully considered choice, for she thought there was no need for anyone to interfere in the Manzoni family; and if there had been any need, any attempt to break old habits would only have led to disagreements.

‘Besides, her poor health would have been an insurmountable obstacle.'

Cantú:

‘When Enrichetta died, it was thought that
Postquam primus amor deceptum morte fefellit
[‘After my first love failed me, cheated by death. . .',
Aeneid
IV, 17], in the autumn of life Alessandro must resign himself to a widower's solitude, and be content to watch over Pietro's family. But he felt the curse of solitude and the need of a companion. He chose Teresa, daughter of Cesare, one of the Borri counts (2nd January 1837), who had been wife to the nobleman Stefano Decio Stampa, and had a son in the prime of youth and hope. We wished him that repose which is often called happiness, and that he might find the domestic support customary in such marriages in the winter of life, where warmth is replaced by reciprocal help and common memories.

‘It is rare for a stepmother to bring comfort to children already adult. The newcomer, while feeling the great worth of possessing such a man, and without wishing as some claimed to wean him away from importunate friends and isolate him in order to absorb him, claimed more wifely authority than the meek Enrichetta had done. This was hurtful chiefly to donna Giulia, accustomed to being regarded as the mistress of the house. The change led to bitterness, which was bound to affect Alessandro.'

The 6th January, Costanza Arconati, from Bonn, to her sister Margherita (who had meanwhile married d'Azeglio's friend, Collegno):

‘I haven't heard a word about Manzoni's marriage; it is no surprise because his mother's letters indicated how keen she was on it. Yet this decision makes me sad. It takes away something of the aura of sublimity that surrounds him. When I consider all the particular circumstances, it seems an act of weakness. What does Fauriel say about it?' And a few days later: ‘I was surprised to hear that a son of 17 was appended to Manzoni's imprudent marriage. The girls have every right to grieve; and it's natural that the public should judge Manzoni more severely than another. Tell me what Fauriel says. . . It's a calumny to suggest Manzoni did not treat Enrichetta with every kindness. I am also convinced that he does not love the wife he has now as he loved Enrichetta, but he could not manage without a companion.'

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 him, 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.