The Manzoni Family (32 page)

Tommaseo and Cantú did not like Giusti at all. According to Tommaseo, Giusti spoke derisively of Manzoni. ‘That poor fellow thought he could mock “il Nostro” [Manzoni] and when he was staying with him in Milan thanks to Giorgini [this was not correct, it had not happened like that] he was careful to observe a cold, malign disrespect towards him. It's a sad thing for a young man almost to lie in wait to discover the weaknesses of an old man, of a great man; especially if he is seeking to find in him the wretched traits he himself presents. Giusti would recount with a snigger how the wife of the worthy man meant to make fun of him and his faith by saying that she would die shortly and would be looking at him from
up there:
but it depends how she said it, and whether the poor fellow misunderstood. The wife is certainly a believer now; and certainly the desire of that great mind to learn from Giusti some words of his native Tuscan was a matter to inspire respect and gratitude, and to put to shame the Tuscan who, on returning home, said that he did not share the opinions of “il Nostro” about language. He told me how, when his wife happened to say she had had a bad night, Manzoni asked him like a schoolboy to his master:
should it be ‘notte' or ‘nottata'?
It's like when he says of Renzo in his novel that with the tongs
he traced stories in the ashes,
Giusti suggested that he should correct it in the Tuscan manner to
“made arabesques in the ashes “.'

And Cantú wrote:

‘Manzoni spoke rather ungraciously of Giusti, saying his characters were all caricatures like Alfieri's, and that he translated the latter's phrase-book into the language of chattering sluts; that he knew very little, he held the politics of cafés and the religion of gazettes. In conversation Giusti was more amiable and less caustic. Thanks to Giorgini and the Marchesa d'Azeglio he was introduced to Manzoni in September 1845, and even planted himself in his house. Supposing that his coming would alarm the Austrian empire, he was astonished when he went, according to the rule, to announce his arrival to the police in Milan, to find he was quite unknown to them.'

Looking back on his stay in Milan, Giusti wrote his famous poem, ‘Sant' Ambrogio'. ‘M'era compagno il figlio giovinetto – D'un di quei capi un po' pericolosi. . .' (I had as a companion the young son – of one of those rather dangerous thinkers): he was referring to Filippo, who was then nineteen.

Giusti was delighted with his stay in Milan. This is how he recalled it in a page of his
Ricordi:

‘On the 22nd August I set off for La Spezia, where I would have stayed for four, five or six days, as it suited Bista Giorgini, who took me there. The Marchesa d'Azeglio and Vittorina Manzoni were at the Baths at La Spezia: but unfortunately for us the season was far advanced, and these dear ladies had to return to Milan. They gave us so many good reasons for accompanying them to Genoa, and from there to Milan, that we could not refuse, and we stayed a good month in the house of Alessandro Manzoni, with that dear family. . .

‘What a sad return journey we had! We rushed away, at considerable risk to ourselves and the horse, with the impatience one feels to lose sight of places and things that remind us of a treasure we are obliged to leave behind. A month before we were following the road from Genoa to Milan in the company of two delightful ladies who were taking us to meet a good man; this time we were travelling it alone, moving away from all our friends: you can imagine how the road burned our feet!

‘In all honesty I never remember feeling such dismay, except in the days when I feared I must leave this world. . .'

Manzoni, too, must have remembered their visit with pleasure. Perhaps he later judged Giusti in the way Cantú described. But at the time he must have made a pleasant impression on him: and he particularly liked Bista Giorgini.

That autumn, after their departure, he wrote affectionate letters to Giusti: Geppmo mio . You must make haste to love me, because I am old, and there's no time to be lost.' It is true that Giusti wrote to him and he was slow to reply. ‘I must say that I enjoy chatting, especially with friends, and most especially with friends like you, but not on paper,' Manzoni explained. ‘. . . you know me – don't you know I am full of modesty? and that consequently I am only reluctant to write, not to read? I can't wait to read anything of yours, verse or prose. . . When you have a moment to spare, write to your Sandro; and if he does not reply at once, think that it is out of modesty, not laziness.' The words are affectionate, but it may be that, in stressing the modesty of writing very little, he intended a dig at the other man, who wrote a great deal.

Vittoria had become ill in Milan. In December, as soon as she felt better,
tante
Louise carried her off to Tuscany again.

Manzoni wrote to Giusti as they were setting off:

‘Where the inanimate letter is lacking, two living letters come to supply the need, and I am pleased indeed that they are going to Pisa, but not at all pleased that they are leaving here. The usual harmony of human desires.'

From Pisa Vittoria wrote to Pietro:

‘So here we are at Pisa, but who knows if we will spend the winter here, or if we'll go right down to Sicily, as Aunt would like. For myself, I have no wishes, and I live
an jour le jour.'

Vittoria certainly liked living from day to day, in a capricious and unpredictable way.
Tante
Louise was sometimes in a very bad mood, and either Vittoria or Rina had to put up with her nerves; but in general she found life with her aunt pleasant and cheerful. For the little girl, perhaps, it was less so; Rina, or Biroli as they called her at home, missed her father. Massimo was travelling around Italy, his visits were infrequent and brief; he made up for it by always writing most affectionately to the little girl: ‘Rina, my darling. I could see, perhaps more than usually, that you were sad to see me go; and though, on the one hand, this hurt me, it also comforted me, my pet. But, please God, we will not be apart for long this time. Meanwhile, remember what I told you when I held you on my lap in my study; I am sure I don't need to tell you to love the person who loves you so much, and does so much for you – But I know your heart. God bless you, my little one.'

Coming away from Milan, Giusti and Giorgini had quarrelled, and the quarrel went on for a while at Pisa, provoking a great deal of talk; ‘I'm sick and tired, to put it bluntly,' wrote Vittoria to Pietro, ‘of all the gossip I've had to listen to! – right from Milan Giusti began saying Giorgini had grown cold towards him. Giorgini said it was a fixation and that he had not changed. They stopped for four days at La Spezia on the way back from Milan, and Giorgini spent the four days at the house of the Marchesa Olduini, who, as you know, is a famous beauty, and it seems he was very happy there. To Giusti it seemed impossible that Giorgini, after enjoying himself in our house, could enjoy himself equally well in the Olduini house. For his part Giorgini maintained that they had been obliged to stop at La Spezia because the Magra was in full spate and they couldn't cross, and that anyway there's no law that says just because someone enjoys the conversation of a man of genius like Papa, he may not take pleasure in the company of a beautiful lady. . . Foolish talk, as you see, but when our friends got to Tuscany there was already bad feeling between them. It seems that Giorgini, who is sometimes too silent, and sometimes talks more than he ought, has talked a great deal about their stay in Milan in more than one drawing-room in Florence, Lucca, and here. People were all ears to hear him, and tongues ready to repeat what he had said, often misrepresenting it, as will happen. Giusti kept hearing this one and that repeating remarks made by Papa, and it infuriated him. He said not everyone was capable of understanding what Manzoni said, and that in any case you don't repeat things you've heard a man say in his own home, and he sent word to Giorgini that he
begged him to shut up.
Giorgini took it very badly, said that Manzoni need not be afraid of making his opinions known to the whole world; then he let his tongue run away, saying not very nice things about Giusti. . . for example, that when Papa was talking seriously to him, he fell asleep, that Papa preferred to talk to him than to Giusti, etc. etc. – Aunt has always been on Giorgini's side, and the other evening I was present at a squabble between her and Giusti. She said if there came a day when he wanted to speak ill of her, he should do it openly, and be so good as to spare her those
reticences,
which are always worse than accusations. As I said, Aunt was defending Giorgini, whilst I must confess I inclined to Giusti, because I had allowed myself to be influenced by some gossip I'd heard about Giorgini. Then when I realized it was without foundation, given my character, I couldn't help confessing to him that I had at times thought badly of him, but he told me with a smile that J
was forgiven.
Well, thank Heaven, they've made their peace. – Giusti has good impulses for which you really have to like him; now, for example, as soon as they were reconciled, he wrote Giorgini a lovely letter, saying: “Let's forget these days of misunderstanding. . .”'

Manzoni wrote jointly to Giusti and Giorgini, when he heard they were friends again:

‘My dear friends. It had to end this way! I simply could not believe that two people I had seen united so naturally, and who were so dearly united in my affection, could be parted.

‘Thank you for not making me wait too long for this consolation, which I always hoped for, but with real distress that I should be reduced to hoping. I say no more, for what is the use of dwelling on a bad dream?'

During the quarrel relations between Bista and Vittoria had been clouded, too. Then peace and quiet returned.
Tante
Louise and Vittoria, and the little girl, did not go to Sicily and remained in Pisa.

It was said that
tante
Louise and Giusti were lovers. Vittoria had not noticed, and later refused to believe it. Writing her memoirs, she resolutely affirmed it was an idle tale. ‘Enough to make a cat laugh!'

According to Vittoria,
la tante
never thought of anyone but her husband. But she oppressed him with her jealousy. He used to call her ‘the Spanish Inquisition', and ‘avoided' her.

Occasionally he turned up in Pisa, but stayed only a few days and left again.

Vittoria to Pietro:

‘Massimo arrived here Tuesday evening, and will be leaving for Florence tomorrow. The day before yesterday we dined with him and Giorgini at casa Arconati; last night he dined here with Giusti, Montanelli and Giacomelli, who made a tremendous impression on Massimo. He went so far as to say that as far as he was concerned you could keep Giusti and all the great men, even Manzoni, as long as he could enjoy a few hours with Giacomelli. Indeed, I must admit he's
priceless:
he has a really phenomenal talent for imitation, his facility is astonishing. . . After dinner we went to casa Parra, where there's usually plenty of good company, music and singing, and Giacomelli keeps everyone amused. Last night he suddenly took it into his head to mimic two porters from Leghorn squabbling over the suitcase of
the daughter of I promessi sposi,
which had been lost. . .'

Vittoria was enjoying herself, the days flew by; she and
la tante
received and paid many calls; they went for long walks and drives; Vittoria was transformed, unrecognisable, they told her: rosy, animated and pretty. From her sad period she still kept a hair-style that was aging, two smooth bandeaux covering her cheeks;
la tante
and Costanza Arconati recommended a different style, with her hair gathered on top; she was not at all convinced it suited her, she thought she looked impudent and like a witch; ‘I thought my bandeaux were more suited to my face and my nature,' she wrote to Pietro, ‘but patience! . . . Poor Aunt! she really is a loving mother and invaluable friend to me. . .'

Vittoria was happy: she thought everyone liked her, everyone was kind, and Pisa was the most beautiful town in the world.

‘On Wednesday we went for a splendid ride in the Cascine, and went as far as the sea: we were a good party, and very much enjoyed it. Giorgini, who always comes with us, rides as he walks and talks, with that careless,
absent
air quite peculiar to him. . .

‘Aunt is very fond of him and regards him as a son. The other day he reminded me that, before he left Milan, I had promised to make something for him: he had understood from Aunt that I had made him a little purse. I'd never had the courage to give it to him; but on Thursday while he was walking along the Arno beside me, a poor man asked him for alms. Then Giorgini, with a meaningful look at me, answered: “When I have a purse to keep my money in, I can give alms, but not until then. . .” So when we got back, I told him I didn't want any reproaches, and I gave him the purse, telling him he had no excuse now for not giving alms.'

She was sorry for
tante
Louise: she was in love with her husband, and tried in vain to drive from her heart this feeling which caused her such pain. He was ‘kind and considerate' towards her: but what was this to her, who loved him? ‘I think she would be less hurt by ill-treatment than by the frosty correctness of this courtesy shown to her by a man who belongs to her, and who is always leaving her for such long periods, without even telling her when she might see him again. I don't think I could stand such torture. . .'

In December 1845 Bishop Tosi died at Pavia.

Manzoni dedicated
La morale cattolica
to him, with this epitaph: ‘To the venerable and blessed memory / of the very reverend Luigi Tosi / I presume to dedicate this work undertaken / and executed with his paternal advice / now that he can no longer, / in his severe humility, forbid me to do so.'

In January 1846 Pietro got married in the church of San Fedele, without a word to anyone. He married Giovannina Visconti, a ballerina at La Scala. He told no one, because he thought his father would disapprove of his marriage to a ballerina, which was indeed the case. His father was told by Teresa and was shocked and horrified.