The Manzoni Family (33 page)

Pietro had always been the most sensible, docile and submissive of his sons. He had been accustomed to lean on his shoulder, since Pietro was only a boy, and they used to go out walking together. He had always been studious, and devoted to his father. He had studied philology and linguistics, economics and agriculture. And he had always been very helpful in the proof-reading and printing, seeing typographers, supervising the various editions of the
Promessi sposi.
After the death of the grandmother, he administered the family estate. He was constantly involved with the properties. Pietro had always stood beside him in any difficult circumstances, the only one of his sons who gave him a sense of security. And now, all of a sudden, he had married, without a word, and had married a ballerina!

But Pietro was both dear and necessary to him: he had to resign himself to this fait accompli. He received this new daughter-in-law, and put aside any resentment. Contrary to all expectations, he liked her. Not so Teresa, who, then and always, treated her coldly.

Vittoria, too, from her childhood had always thought of Pietro as a stable, infallible, secure support. When she heard he was getting married, she was pleased, but also fearful that this support would be taken from her.

Vittoria to Pietro:

‘Remember, my dear Pietro, that everything that is yours is mine – so your Giovannina is my sister. I have always loved and esteemed her, both for what I have heard of her, and because she was dear to you and you to her: a person who has appreciated you above all others, and has preserved the precious treasure of your affections, will always be very dear to me.

‘But listen, my Pietro, I beg you in the name of our mother, never to let this step you are about to take remove you in any way from your Vittoria, who loves you more than a brother, who needs you too much, who could not renounce the smallest part of your affection. I would never want, in any way, to cost you the slightest sacrifice, but tell me that if circumstances forced me to come to you, I would find you unchanged.'

In fact, when Vittoria was writing this, Pietro was already married, but she did not know. He wrote to reassure her: he would always remain her close and loving friend. Then a few days later Vittoria wrote:

‘My dearest, best Pietro! I am almost too moved to express what I felt on reading your letter! Oh my Pietro, you cannot imagine what an immense comfort it is to me to think I am dear to you and belong to you. This certainty gives me a sense of repose and tranquillity, like a child taking refuge in its mother's arms. . .

‘But you're too kind to me, you and my dear Lodovico: please God the comfort that you both afford me may never be a source of pain! . . . If Fate willed that, sooner or later, my situation should change, how could I be content in any other, after experiencing all that is most delicate and generous in this world? You have both spoilt me with your kindness – you have surrounded me with loving care, always guessed and forestalled my desires, and closed your eyes to my faults; and even in the terrible misfortunes which have befallen us, you almost forgot your grief to comfort mine. . . How can you think it a virtue in me if I have not responded with black ingratitude to all that you and Lodovico have done for me? If I share your joy now, after we have always shared our grief? I repeat, I feel I could hardly find anywhere else the feelings I have always found in you two, and I pray God that I may not meet on life's way anyone who is not like you. . .'

By March 1846, Manzoni had quite forgiven Pietro, and peace reigned in the family. Manzoni wrote to Vittoria:

‘Things are going along quite nicely here too, and would be going very well indeed, if Teresa were not tormented by two ingrowing nails which will not heal. Today I had the pleasure of seeing Mossotti and I must say that I was more pleased to hear his good news of Luisa than of you; because I feel quite secure about you now, whereas I had heard that the dear, good Luisa, whom I can never thank enough, was indisposed.'

Teresa felt well enough to leave her bed; she wrote asking her administrator, Antonio Patrizio, to send her some money, and ordered some summer clothes. She was planning a journey with her husband, perhaps to Tuscany, or perhaps much further.

Pietro had settled at Brusuglio with his wife. Stefano was once again wandering from one place to another.

Bista asked Vittoria to marry him. She said yes.

She wrote to Pietro:

‘I need your advice and assistance: remember
Who
entrusted me to your care: I am confiding in you. . . I assure you I find Giorgini so like those who are most dear to me that he seems made expressly for my heart. . . I have always heard his father, his grandfather, and all his family praised to the skies, and I should be very happy to have to do with people like that. . . In the few minutes I have ever spent with his father, I liked him immensely, and Aunt too thought him extremely distinguished. In short, it would be a great grief to me if, in my circumstances, I had to renounce the support of a man like Giorgini. . .

‘His family consists of: his father, who is Provost of Studies to the Grand Duchy, and lives in Florence with his younger son, Carlo, an engineer; his grandfather, who lives in his own house at Lucca, where he holds a very high position as President of the Council of Ministers, and where Giorgini's sister, who is called Giannina, lives with him; the older brother, Giorgio, holds an office. As for his mother, although she belongs to a very respectable family, they say she's rather
eccentric:
she spends some time at Florence and some at Lucca, but prefers to live alone in the country; and if she gives no pleasure, neither does she cause annoyance to anyone.

‘Only you and Lodovico must know this for now, and until Giorgini has come to an agreement with his father and grandfather, it's better not to upset Papa; if it did not work out, he would have been disturbed unnecessarily. Nobody knows anything here, except Giusti and Costanza, who are delighted and can't wait for everything to be agreed and arranged. God grant it! I have suffered so much in my life, and sometimes I think the Lord has chosen this compensation for me. His will be done!'

Vittoria was writing at the end of March, the time at which Sofia had died the previous year.

‘For some time my poor heart and mind have been beset by such painful memories, such heart-rending images, and I did not know how to escape from them; as I drew nearer the day that was so sad and terrible for us, the bitterness of my solitude seemed more profound and intense than ever. But the angelic Sofia, who was my support,
my all,
for so many years, and who remembers in heaven all I have suffered for love of her, has come to my aid in these days of such atrocious memories, and has set before me this man, so unusual and so
dévoué
that he has offered to be my companion for life; and I consider, indeed I
feel,
he was sent by
Her,
and I accept him from her hands.'

Meanwhile, Bista had written to his own father, to ask his consent:

‘Dearest Father,

‘As I advance in years, this bachelor life becomes more tedious to me. Obliged as I am to live far from my family, I find myself alone, and therefore driven to seek changing and often insecure relationships, to follow various paths without knowing where they will take me. So I cannot give a steady turn to my habits, a serious or constant direction to my ideas, or live in harmony with the position I occupy in the world. A state in which I might find at once employment for my affections, a serene conscience, the need for order, serious concerns, would satisfy the needs of my moral and material life.

‘After telling you the
matter,
I will tell you the
name,
which plays a great part in the matter, and which you have perhaps already guessed. The more I know Vittoria Manzoni, the more the idea of making her my wife attracts me in every way. The qualities of her mind are such as one rarely meets, her habits simple and modest. After she left the convent, her life was spent tending her sisters in their illnesses, or in the very sad ambience of her father's house, with a stepmother who was also ill most of the time. Thus her character developed, naturally gentle and submissive, remote from any feminine frivolity or vanity. This is not to suggest that Vittorina is an insipid young nun: she is full of intelligence and sound judgement, and all necessary spirit and vivacity.

‘In short, I believe that, even if one were to go out and search deliberately, it would be impossible to find a girl more suited to me, and less likely to cause concern to the family who are to receive her.

‘I confess that the idea of being related to Manzoni, to Beccaria, to d'Azeglio, in short, to the most illustrious relatives one could aspire to in Italy, would be a source of no small satisfaction to me, and an addition to the principal idea of at last establishing order in my life, and to the other, even more fundamental fact that (apart from all the considerations I have stated up to now) I am immensely fond of the young lady. She is not beautiful, but is blessed with extraordinary
charme
and distinction, and has such a gentle gaze that will, I am sure, win your trust as soon as you meet her.

‘As for her health, she has completely recovered since she has been here, and there can be no difficulties on this score. As for her means, I have no precise details, but I am confident they are sufficient to enable us to establish ourselves respectably at Pisa, where my colleagues live on less than half what we, I think, will be able to put together.

‘So I am quite clear and determined in my own mind, and the only thing that could deter me would be to encounter opposition in you, which would, of course, prevent Vittorina and her father from giving their consent: otherwise, I have reason to believe Manzoni would be happy to give me his daughter.

‘Therefore, dear Father, be so kind as to let me know your will in the matter – but, in the considerations which must determine it, I beg you to remember that I am not speaking of a speculation, that the heart has a very large share in it, and that moral and sentimental considerations must be allowed to exert a considerable influence. Your judgement, therefore, must take
all
these things into account.

‘Take all the time you need to reflect, dear Father. . .'

Gaetano Giorgini took a very long time to reflect, almost a month; then he gave his consent. Bista then wrote to Manzoni, who already knew all about it, from Lodovico or Pietro, or perhaps from
la tante;
he also knew there had been some slight controversies of a financial nature, which had been smoothed out.

Manzoni to Bista:

‘Giorgini mio,

‘You already know my attitude, and you have seen how my feelings for you began and how they have grown over a period of time, when there was no thought that something more intimate and sacred might be added to them; so my answer is naturally understood, like your question, and it remains only for me to say how happy I was to receive your letter which changed my hope to certainty. . .

Manzoni hinted briefly at the slight financial controversy:

‘I confess, when I thought how little my circumstances permit me to give my daughter, this difficulty caused me some embarrassment: a quite different difficulty might well have arisen instead, and one reason for my gratitude is that this has not been the case. . .

‘My dear Bista, I love you as a friend, and henceforth as a father.'

And the same day, to Vittoria:

‘Vittorina mia,

‘My letter to Giorgini is part of my response to the extraordinarily welcome letter from you: now I am answering you directly, but still only in part, for how could I express all I feel for you, now more than ever?

‘I thank God, Who wishes you to be the companion of a man, whose rare talents would, in any other circumstances, be the first thing to strike me: but now it is his heart and soul. I feel this separation from you, my Vittoria, but let us see this too, as a benevolent design of Providence, choosing to remove you from places that hold so many dear, but too painful memories for you. In God's grace I know that, for the good Giorgini, and this most respectable family who are welcoming you with such loving kindness, you will be that sweet, sensible Vittoria I've always known, full of cheerful gratitude. . .'

Teresa assumed the wedding would take place in Milan. She heard, however, that it was to be held somewhere else, perhaps at Pisa: she was not told precisely. She was offended. She wrote to Vittoria:

‘My dear Vittoria, I must say this decision of yours to get married so far away is not very civil, not exactly a well-bred thing to do! To turn your back on us, when we were on the doorstep, so to speak, waiting for you! . . . but I forgive you for the sake of the Pisan air which has done you so much good; I forgive you for the love you bear that young man, who is wiser than so many aged scholars; I forgive you for the sake of that carefree
je ne sais quoi
in his face, which I could recognize even in the near-dark: and if you said a
je ne sais quoi
had no appearance, I maintain it has a most significant one. And as
se raviser
(changing one's mind) is generally considered to be insincere, whether in Paris or in Milan, I want you to know that I spoke to Alessandro about that
je ne sais quoi
of Giorgini, so mature and candid, calm and open, as soon as I saw him, that is, a few days after I was given extreme unction; and when one is in that unknown region, between earth and heaven, one is not concerned with compliments, so it is not likely that I was resorting to hyperbole with Alessandro about his distinguished guests, however fond he was of them.' She sent her a present of a ring. ‘And now, to
vegninn a vunna
[come to the point] and get round to speak of a certain poor thing, I don't know which way to turn or how to unfold my tale, so instead I will ask you, my dearest, to unfold this enclosure. . . I beg your pretty hand – which is now Giorgini's – to accept this humble ring, which to speak in the style of the seventeenth century, will bring you the colour of hope: hope and trust that every blessing will descend upon you and your Giorgini: but this is no longer seventeenth century talk. Addio, dear Vittoria! you must never imagine I could forget what I cost you when I was ill, with all the anxieties that I unwittingly added to all those already heaped upon your poor heart. If my poor prayers have been accepted by God, then I have made up to you for all the good you did for me. If you see Signor Giusti, remind him of the false prophet. I who, by the bathing season, was supposed to look down on him from above, still look at him from below. No more now to Giorgini. I am already tired, and I don't want to talk to him in a rush like this. Papa wants me to give his regards. . . but I won't! I do send you Stefano's regards, all the more since, if he has given up the idea of writing to you,
it is not that he did not have it!
Would you say something kind and nice from Stefano to Giorgini? you would be doing me a great favour, you know! I should like to send a most affectionate word to your dear new relatives, but I dare not begin just now. The dear grandfather who travelled specially! My most distinguished and friendly greetings to the Marchesa Arconati, and my compliments to the Marchese, if you see them, as I hope. We are expecting Lodovico, but he has not turned up yet. Probably he will arrive in a few days to give us news which is always such a dear consolation to us. Please give my compliments to the Marchesa d'Azeglio. I will say this to you, and to you alone – the Marchesa d'Azeglio has done you so much good in body and spirits by taking you away where the air has suited you, and showing you so many new things, that I am grateful to her as for a kindness done to me and to Alessandro, who is more important than I am. So you see how many times my gratitude to her is doubled! but as this feeling can be of no use to the person who inspires it, I do not like to express it. I am a little tired, so I must put an end to this pathetic play of the pen, which can never aspire to say all I feel in my heart, as you can guess.'