The Manzoni Family (7 page)

‘Enrichetta is nursing a little Cristina,' Manzoni wrote to Fauriel. It was difficult to get the letter to France, as the postal services were not functioning properly; they had to seize opportunities which did not occur often. ‘Not one letter, nor two, nor a whole volume would suffice for all I have to tell you, and all I would like to ask you; I have to keep alive the hope of seeing you, of spending a little time with you, so that the memory of your friendship may not be as sad and painful as it is dear. '

In June, when the news of the defeat at Waterloo reached Milan, Manzoni was leafing through books in a bookshop, and he fainted with shock; he had placed his hope in Napoleon once again during the Hundred Days, and all hope crumbled with this defeat; from then on his nervous troubles grew worse. He was deeply embittered; an Austrian governor had returned to Milan, imposing iron repression; for a moment he had thought the Allies would establish an independent regime, but he had soon realized this was an illusion. He described his condition to Fauriel: ‘It's a case of worries and anguish causing a strange state of depression. . . Travel might do me good, but where can I go? Society rarely proves a distraction; so many people urge you to forget your ailments and remind you of them just as you were thinking of something quite other; it's a strange sort of consolation to hear people say ten times a day: “Cheer up”, that's all you need to feel wretched. Of course, the remedy is excellent, but suggesting it is not the same as administering it. They don't realize that “Cheer up” means “You are being miserable”, and that nothing could be less cheering than such a suggestion.' He was writing a tragedy,
Il
Conte di
Carmagnola.
But Canon Tosi insisted he should finish a religious work instead, one that he was working on in weary fits and starts:
Osservazioni sulla morale cattolica.
He felt impatient of Canon Tosi and everyone about him: his schoolfriend Ermes Visconti, Vincenzo Monti, the Greek Mustoxidi. He found them all tiresome. In fact he had a great urge to return to France. He wrote to Fauriel: ‘I have never felt so keenly the value of your friendship or so longed for your company. That little room in
La Maisonnette
that overlooks the garden, the little hill of Saint-Avoie, the ridge from which you can look down on the course of the Seine, that island covered with willows and poplars, the fresh, peaceful valley — these are places where I am always wandering in imagination.'

At that time the marchese Parravicini di Persia and his wife were frequent callers, and were the only people he was pleased to see. They were preparing to leave for France and he had a sudden idea of going with them. He would send for the family if he felt he could find comfortable accommodation for them in Paris; if not he would return, having at least had the pleasure of spending a few days with Fauriel. He was held back by the fear of being a nuisance to the Parravicinis on the journey with his health problems; and then there was the difficulty of obtaining a passport at once, and suddenly having to drop so many things, so much family business; ‘all this,' he wrote to Fauriel, ‘made me step hurriedly down from the stage-coach in which, in my imagination, I had already taken my seat. ‘ The Parravicinis left without him.

But the desire to go to Paris haunted him. He was thinking about it all the time and formulated a concrete plan. But he did not want to go alone, so he applied for passports for all the family. Giulia was happy, but Enrichetta was dismayed and anxious. She remembered Paris with dislike; she feared the upheaval and toil both of the long journey with three little children, and of settling such a big family in a foreign city. But most of all she feared the ambience awaiting them. It was a world which might distract her husband from the religious life, a world of unbelievers. And he was going through a strange period; he had been neglecting his religious practices for some time and his relations with Canon Tosi had become cold. It would be dangerous for him to be surrounded by those people at such a time. He might lose his faith for ever. On the other hand, he was not well, and the journey seemed the only thing that might soothe him. ‘Pray for us, ‘ she wrote to Abbé Degola, ‘that this plan may not be contrary to God's will. '

What happened between Enrichetta and Alessandro at that period? They were probably dark days for both of them. Alessandro was in a gloomy mood; the life he had led till then had suddenly become hateful to him. He did not want simply to travel to Paris, he wanted to shake off the dust of many years, and take on a new persona. And she was deeply worried and judged him severely, feeling intuitively that in his dark mood, his intolerance, and eagerness to get away there was something ‘contrary to God's will'.

But the plan came to nothing. The passports were refused. They had presented medical certificates, saying the journey was essential to their health, but just then a police decree was issued banning journeys undertaken on health grounds. Manzoni was regarded with distrust by the Austrian authorities. He had refused to collaborate on a pro-government newspaper, and he had friends among the opposition. So they had to give up the idea of travelling.

Canon Tosi was delighted. He had told Manzoni this journey was ‘a great mistake'. Some even suspected Canon Tosi had approached the authorities to get them to refuse the passports. Certainly like Enrichetta he was profoundly alarmed by Man-zoni's behaviour at that time; he seemed to think of nothing but France and his friends there; and he felt his faith had diminished, perhaps was already spent. At last he heard they were not going after all. He wrote to Degola:

‘Enrichetta has already written to tell you the outcome of the projected journey, and how well Alessandro has taken the rejection. I must add that, after the grace received in Paris, of which you were the chief instrument, this is the greatest favour the Lord could grant. This fine young man is changed almost entirely. . . he has placed himself in God's hands; he has already received the holy sacraments twice; he has returned to his original confidence in me, which had been chilled by the perhaps excessive freedom with which I had expressed myself; he hardly ever talks of politics now, or does so with moderation. . . he is serene with the family, self-denying at table, moderate in his planned expenditure; in short he has been greatly blessed by the Lord. . . even Donna Giulia, who with a touch of proud vexation was the last to mend in this matter, is now quiet and content; and I hope that she too will turn her heart to do what I am always telling her, to attend seriously to the prime object of life. '

And Enrichetta to Degola: ‘God grant this peace may continue between us; I hope you will understnd what peace I mean, for, thanks be to God, we do not wish for any that is merely an outward show. ‘ Outward peace had perhaps never been lacking in the house, but it had concealed serious personal differences and disharmony; these gradually disappeared and things returned to their original state. But Enrichetta had to resign herself; the idea of the journey to Paris was never abandoned, and they applied again to the police.

That year, 1817, Uncle Michele de Blasco died; in November another baby girl was born and called Sofia; the last but one, Cristina, was dark,
ma
petite noiraude,
her mother called her, the only dark one among the siblings who were all blond. Sofia again was blonde and fair-skinned. Enrichetta nursed her. Then she became pregnant for the fifth time. As always, she had kidney trouble, and at this time she began to suffer with her eyes: they were always inflamed, and her sight deteriorated.

In 1818 they sold II Caleotto, which cost a great deal to maintain and gave no return. In the garden there was a little temple containing the tomb of Don Pietro, which passed, with all the rest, into the hands of Signor Scola for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand lire.

‘Oh my friend, “caro padrino” of our Giulietta, friend of Alessandro and of us all, perhaps all these appellations are nothing but an empty sound to you? Why this stubborn and cruel silence?' Giulia wrote to Fauriel, who had not written for some time. She was thinking of ‘the prime object of her life', that is the salvation of her soul and expiation of her sins; but this did not dispel the fond memories of happy years, loyalty to those she loved, and nostalgia. ‘My son wanted to write to you, but you would not believe or imagine how dearly he has to pay for any strong emotion; joyful sensations may produce a salutary excitement, but thoughts of sadness, of absent friends, friendship or searing memories — oh, these give him such pain. . . Oh, dear friend, if you were to see him! And why do you not see him? . . . He said to me a few days ago: this morning a particular group of trees at Meulan so filled my heart that I felt I was suffocating. '

In 1819, changes took place among the government authorities which proved favourable to them, and this time their passports were granted; they began to prepare for their departure; Enrichetta had to supervise it all as serenely as possible, although now the big family was even bigger: in July 1819 Enrico was born. She was feeding him.

‘We propose to set out at the beginning of September, see something of Switzerland, and go on to Paris via Basle and Alsace,' Manzoni wrote to Fauriel. ‘We are bringing you a Giulietta, in whom you will see all the seriousness that was in her portrait [they had sent a portrait of her to Madame de Condorcet], a Pietro who is an indomitable imp, a Cristina who does her best to imitate him, a Sofia who is beginning to look round to see if the world offers her some similar occupation, and an Enrico at the bosom of my Enrichetta. We'll get by as best we can, but after seeing the English travelling with a veritable Noah's Ark, one is not so frightened of journeys
en
grande
famille.
As you can imagine, we hope to be staying in rue de la Seine, or as close as possible, so we are relying on your kind friendship to find lodgings for us. . . Addio. Do you know what it means to me to be able to end a letter to you with “Arrivederci”? Addio, addio.' Giulia: ‘Mio caro padrino, fondest love to my dear Sophie. I am relying utterly on you for all my caravan. Oh, God willing, we shall be reunited, dear friends, and I do so hope my poor son will regain his health; addio, addio, we will write again. '

They planned to pause on the way to rest at Chambéry, where Somis was now living. ‘My fancy feeds upon this promised delight,' wrote Somis, ‘but also on the pain it will cost me to see you go. But I shall console myself with the thought that your stay will have been useful to you, and it will afford me further proof of the truth that we must not count on lasting pleasures in this life. I have found a coachman here who has three carriages; one will take six people inside and two outside; the two others are the usual size. I have good reports of the coachman.' There were ten in their party as they set off: eight of them and two servants, Fanny and her husband Jean.

They gave up the trip through Switzerland and arrived in Paris at the end of September. They put up at an hotel where they found a letter from Fauriel. He was ill, wretched, feverish.
La Maisonnette
was full of guests at that moment, but Madame de Condorcet was adding a few lines to invite them to come.
‘La Maisonnette
is yours, as ever.' The words were affectionate, but the signature abrupt: Condorcet. Giulia wrote a letter of acceptance and thanks; they would come in two days, they had sent their linen to be washed and were waiting for it to be returned. She explained they would need three rooms at
La Maisonnette,
one for Enrichetta and Alessandro, one for herself and Giulietta, and those must be connected; one for Fanny and the other children, and this one must have a fire so she could change the little baby; the man-servant could sleep anywhere. ‘Taking the liberty of a sister, ‘ she warned that she would need soup without meat on days of abstinence, and the same for Giulietta and the servants; then simply eggs and potatoes, ‘and, if possible, fish for me. ‘ She said they intended to pay for their daily keep; they could come to some agreement about this. ‘We are sisters, you are my dearest, my only friend, and we must act accordingly. After nine years I breathe again because I shall breathe with you. ‘ Finally she asked whether, if they could not leave all the luggage in safe-keeping at the hotel, it would be possible to fit it into some corner in the villa. ‘I look forward to a word in answer. . . Addio addio. '

They stayed at
La
Maisonnette
for more than a month. Then they found an apartment in Paris, in Faubourg Saint-Germain. They bought furniture and fitted it up, and moved in in November. They were thinking of selling Brusuglio and the Milan house, and settling in France for good. Enrichetta did not want to and actually feared the idea. In any case, it was a confused notion. They gave Uncle Giulio Beccaria, Giulia's half-brother, the job of going to Brusuglio to find out if it would be possible to sell the estate advantageously. Giulio Beccaria went, walked about examining the estate carefully, and was left ‘somewhat mortified' to find it poor, ‘lacking in mulberries, vines and timber'. He asked for precise instructions. If the properties were not to be sold, they should make new plantations of mulberries. He contacted a certain Signor Poldi, who was a possible purchaser. But later he wrote: ‘Signor Poldi has decided against and no other purchaser has come forward. ‘ And he observed sagely: ‘The worst position of all is to hang fire between selling and not selling. . . The thought of selling postpones the question of repairs. . . The same applies to the house in Milan. '

Canon Tosi was still vexed that Manzoni had left Italy without finishing
La morale cattolica,
and that latterly he had thought of nothing but his tragedy, 77
conte di Carmagnola.
Since Abbé Lamennais was living in Paris, he hoped Manzoni would seek his acquaintance, and also that of Bishop Grégoire. Years ago, Manzoni had translated part of one of Lamennais' works, ‘Essay on indifference in the matter of faith'. Canon Tosi wrote to Lamennais about Manzoni. He sent him the first volume of
La morale cattolica
which had appeared in print. Abbé Lamennais, in a reply to the Canon, spoke flatteringly of
La morale cattolica.
‘I am delighted that you found the work of my friend Manzoni well-written and interesting,' the Canon wrote back, ‘I have frequently urged him to work on the second volume which is promised. . . he has recently written to say he is working on it seriously. . . My persuasion carried less weight than those friends who urged him to finish a tragedy which he had begun a long time ago; he finished it on the very last day before he left here, and it is being printed with a few corrections he has sent from Paris, after which I believe he promptly devoted himself to the more important and profitable work of the 2nd volume. . . What pleasure it would give me if you were to correspond with this author, whose gifts of heart are even more rare and precious than his gifts of mind! But I dare not yet give you his address, as, because of his vertigo which I think is rather worse than better after this journey to Paris with his family which I so deplored, because of the shyness which makes him shrink from new contacts, and also because of family circumstances, I must wait for him to resolve to seek you out. . .'