The Manzoni Family (35 page)

In December 1846 Teresa made a will. During her long illness she must have thought a lot about death.

I, Teresa Manzoni, widow Stampa, née Borri, by this holograph – will nominate as my sole heir (both in Milan and Piedmont, in case this should ever be questioned) my dear Stefano (that is, Giuseppe Stefano) Stampa, my only son.

I wish everything I possess, either at Lesa, or in Milan, either at his house or here in Casa Manzoni, furniture, books, valuables, everything, to be for him: I repeat, for my aforesaid only son, Stefano Stampa.

It is my intention, however, that my dear Stefano should not be empowered to ask my revered Alessandro, my adored husband Manzoni, during the life of this same, for the restitution of the dowry drawn up in the Instrument of the 31st day of December 1836 in the deeds of the then Doctor Ignazio Baroggi, and that it shall remain intact; except for the receipt of the annual interests at the rate of 4½% (that is, four and a half per cent), which Alessandro my revered husband will pay to Stefano my son, reserving to my beloved husband Alessandro the right to pay the capital also, either in one, or two, or three payments.

It will not be necessary to state that the 20 thousand Milanese lire received one year and some months after the death of my poor mother Marianna Borri née Meda, shall be subject to the same conditions as I have imposed on the dowry which I established by the aforesaid Instrument of Dowry.

In memory of me I leave my adored husband Alessandro Manzoni my gold repeater, which I have always held precious since it has been worn sometimes by him.

In memory of me I leave my adored Stefano (G. Stefano Stampa) afore-mentioned, my church books and also my clothes; since my intention is not to give my things to the servants, of whom I intend to think myself before I die, if and when I can.

I commend with all my heart and soul my dear Stefano to my dear husband Alessandro. I hope he will continue his good will towards my son, as well as some of the good will he has shown me, by his amiability and indulgence.

Moreover (if I may be allowed to express myself in this way, and if my adored Alessandro allow and grant it to me), I commend my dear Alessandro to my dear Stefano, so that wherever Alessandro might need him in any way whatsoever, his actions, whatever they be, would be and shall be those of a son, for by his actions and his love towards me Alessandro has always been the hand of Providence to me, bringing me comfort in my every need, and delight at all times, without ever causing me pain, except when he was ill.

So my blessings fall upon these two, husband and son, Alessandro and Stefano, who have created for me a uniquely blessed life, by God's extraordinary mercy towards me.

This is my last will and testament.

To Vittoria, to Matilde, she left nothing: not a memento, not one small jewel. She left nothing to any of her step-children.

At the beginning of the next month, she was in good health and humour, so much so that she wrote to Doctor Bottelli at Lesa (the brother of the Abbé Bottelli she used to call ‘il Bottel-lone', who had died several years before): ‘I am well, and putting on weight incredibly; and I fall asleep quickly and sleep all night long so that it seems to me short; I get up before nine, after having breakfast; and I'm really pleased with myself, I can tell you!' But half way through January she had a severe throat inflammation, and Manzoni was very frightened; in February he wrote to Abbé Rosmini at Stresa: ‘With my usual freedom, and my usual trust in you, I am writing to ask you and your fortunate children to pray for my Teresa who has been ill for a fortnight with inflammation of the trachea, and has already been bled six times, with no noticeable, or at least lasting improvement. She and Stefano join with me in this request. . .'

Rosmini and his ‘fortunate children', that is, the beadsmen of the ‘Istituto della Carità' which Rosmini had founded, said prayers. Teresa knew and was pleased. Slowly she recovered.

That spring Matilde was at Renate, and Enrico proposed to take her back to Milan. He now had two babies, and the second, Sandro, was not many months old. He wrote to his father. The letter is awkward, though what he had to say was extremely simple. He wrote:

‘My dearest Father,

‘A matter I could not foresee obliges me to be in Renate on Tuesday. As I am so desirous that we should bring Matilde back to you ourselves, I beg you to leave her with us until Tuesday instead of Monday, assuring you that we shall be in Milan towards the night, where I shall stay for two or three days at most with my little family.

‘Matilde is really well. Dear Sandro has a slight cough, and it does seem like whooping cough, but it is very slight, thank Heaven, and doesn't seem to upset him at all, We all beg you to give our fondest love to Mama, and we hope to find her well on our arrival. Dear Father, forgive me if I have written to you so frankly, I am always so confused when I take up my pen to write to you, because I am always so afraid I won't manage to express properly what I would like to say, so without re-reading this scribble, I close it in great haste, persuaded of your indulgence, and I put down my pen because I am certain that you know the affection I have and must have for you.'

His father replied:

‘My dearest Enrico,

‘Although dear Sandro's cough is slight, naturally I am distressed to hear it is of that kind, both because the poor little fellow will be troubled by it for a while, and because I cannot fail to feel anxious for Matilde. I hope she will never carry him in her arms, or fondle him, but that she will stay some distance from him; but I am worried about the hours she would have to spend in the carriage with him. I am therefore obliged to propose something disappointing for all of you and for me, but which prudence demands, that is, that you come with Matilde on your own, if Emilia has not yet weaned the baby, or if in any case she cannot bear to leave him, even for a short time.

‘Furthermore, though it is unusual but not extraordinary for whooping cough to be passed on to adults too, I confess I should also be anxious about the visit here, especially as Teresa has not yet recovered from an illness very like that.

‘I have said nothing to her, not wishing to worry her unnecessarily; so she greets you all with a light heart, while I send Emilia a warm but sad embrace. I look forward to seeing Matilde quite recovered, and I embrace you with that love you know I bear you.'

Enrico:

‘Dearest Father,

‘I have told Matilde what you have written and she will obey your wishes and not carry Sandro in her arms or fondle him at present. I beg you not to worry because Matilde had whooping cough two years ago. I will come on my own on Wednesday to bring Matilde back, who continues in good health, and I shall return to Renate the same day. Emilia sends affectionate greetings, and thanks you for your messages to her. Dearest Father Wednesday I shall embrace you meanwhile accept my affectionate greetings.'

In the summer
tante
Louise came and carried Matilde off to Tuscany. They went with the Giorginis to Viareggio. Matilde caught scarlattina. The Nanny was sent to Viareggio. Vittoria was pregnant.

Nanny looked after Vittoria in her confinement. She gave birth to a baby girl, who was called Luisa. Matilde went to Lucca to stay with Bista's grandfather, Niccolao, and his sister, Giannina, as had been arranged the year before.

In October Lucca ceased to be a state, and became a Tuscan province. Duke Carlo Lodovico left, to the great distress of grandfather Niccolao, who loved him; and Giannina wept. The Grand Duke of Tuscany, Leopoldo II, came in his place. Grandfather Niccolao was appointed Regent of Lucchesia. He was very old and very tired but he accepted the office for a while.

Giusti joined the Tuscan National Guard.

Teresa and Alessandro spent the autumn at Lesa, returning to Milan in November. Stefano had remained at Lesa, but because he was always worrying about his mother's health, Manzoni wrote every day with news of her. They were very short notes; the news was minimal, insignificant and therefore good. ‘Teresa has had an excellent night, as she expected; a slight tickle in the throat, and a few twinges here and there cleared with six grains of quinine. . .'The tamarind and cassia have got rid of the irritation; she got up, drank some coffee, and later ate some soup and vegetables. . .' ‘Excellent night – likewise breakfast.' ‘Slept very well, breakfasted, and will get up what one might now call as usual.' ‘Excellent night; also breakfast. I will say no more because, when it's a question of your health, you get so impatient if your mother asks you for minute details, and you produce endless arguments to us on that score, and then you go and do the same about her; in fact, the way the two of you busy yourselves each about the other's health is just like a scrupulous man's examination of conscience.'

Manzoni never, or rarely, wrote long letters to his stepson Stefano, always these brief notes, but they generally reveal an affectionate and ironic solicitude, a warm, cheerful relationship, and a sort of complicity. Even here, when Manzoni is depicting concisely for Stefano, in a few sentences, the extremely tedious days of his valetudinarian mother, a cheerful relationship is conveyed. Manzoni and Stefano were closely linked in their familiarity with Teresa's ill health, real or imaginary; closely linked and accomplices in the hope that the various remedies might relieve those ills: tamarind and cassia, Abbé Rosmini's prayers, Boaria waters, quinine and castor oil. While thinking a great deal about Teresa's health, Manzoni also thought a very great deal about his own; after all, he had done so all his life. But now he thought of it without too much anxiety, because the worries he had felt about his health as a young man had diminished with the years; somehow, since writing
I promessi sposi,
he had suffered less from the vertigo, the physical terrors which had earlier afflicted him, although he still did not feel equal to going out of the house alone. As for Teresa's ailments, they did not really worry him, because they were too many and too slight; they worried him less as the years went by; he got used to them. She complained continually of her ailments, and had set them up in the very centre of their domestic life, the whole household revolved around them; these weaknesses were her strength, her way of imposing herself upon her fellows, her son who worried about her but often fled far away, her husband who said he was worried about her but shut himself away in his own rooms after enquiring briefly after her condition and scribbling a few hasty details to her son.

When Stefano was at home, Manzoni used to look at his tongue in the mirror; Stefano records in his memoirs, in which he speaks of himself in the third person. ‘His tongue was usually rather whitish; but when it was clearer than usual, he saw this as a sign of stomach irritation. And sometimes when he made his stepson show his tongue for comparison, which was always clean and pink, he would exclaim almost enviously, in dialect: “Lengua de can!” (a tongue like a dog!)'

Manzoni envied Stefano. He envied him because he was young, healthy, free to flee from the house any time he liked; and whether near or far, the image of Stefano projected a cheerful light upon the house, his mother, and her tedious ailments.

Manzoni's own children never cheered him up. He did not see them as young people; on their various faces he traced no images of youth. From Pietro he constantly required services; against Enrico he defended himself: Enrico's humble, awkward tone probably aroused in him considerable irritation and equal awkwardness. Filippo worried him. With his daughters, he was either congratulatory, expressing his esteem, or apologetic, expressing his remorse. His own children aroused in him neither envy nor cheerfulness. He did not envy them because they did not seem healthy, he had seen too many of them die; and they never seemed to him lucky; when a piece of good fortune came the way of one of them, for example, Vittoria, he was amazed, but fundamentally quite happy for that good fortune to remain at a distance so that he could admire it without being invaded by it. He had never been free, light-hearted or cheerful with his own children. His immediate response to them was to feel reminded of his duty to behave as a father, to provide sermons, or advice, or praise, or reproof, manifest confidence or misgivings, satisfaction or resentment: except for Pietro, on whom he was accustomed to rely so completely that he seemed not to see him any more. He was never natural and simple with his real children, except when he was quite desperate about their behaviour or the misfortunes that beset them. This habitual lack of ease and simplicity in his relations with his own children arose from the fact that he had never really had a father: he preserved no paternal image inside him: the memory of old Don Pietro, awkward and gloomy, aroused in his memory only a burden of perplexity and ancient remorse that he had never been able to bury.

In
I promessi sposi
Renzo had neither father nor mother. Lucia had no father. The Nun of Monzo had a terrible father, who ruined her life for ever. But Renzo and Lucia met on their way great father-figures presented by Providence: Father Cristoforo and Cardinal Borromeo. So Manzoni as a young man encountered father figures brought to him by Providence or change: the image of Carlo Imbonati, beloved by his mother, who appeared great and luminous from beyond the grave; and Fauriel; and finally Rosmini.

So to return to Stefano, Manzoni had with him a warm, affectionate, cheerful and entirely natural relationship. Stefano made less grey and gloomy his life with Teresa, which became ever more grey and gloomy with the passing years. Stefano amused him. Later, in her memoirs, Vittoria said he was boring. But perhaps he was not so boring. For Manzoni, he was a charming boy who, near or far, filled the house with his presence, and to whom, when he was far away roaming through villages and countryside, he had to write every day to say how much magnesia his mother had taken.

At the beginning of 1848 Vittoria and Bista moved from Lucca to Pisa with the baby. Matilde followed them.