And Manzoni to Cattaneo: ‘You can expect family news from me soon in person, no later than next month. Unfortunately you will see Enrichetta in the same state of health as she left home: however, although there is no outward improvement, she has gained a little strength, and I hope this will help her to overcome the local problem more quickly. Sofia is convalescent. . . Only I can claim to have benefited, which almost embarrasses me; the sea-bathing, the movement, the mental idleness, and being in Tuscany have all revived me considerably. Everyone sends their love, as you must know; but Vittoria has been pestering me for some time that she wants to write to you: I’ve promised to leave a space for her, so I’ll pass her the pen and we’ll see what she can do: Dear Cattaneo, love, Vittoria.’
Now Manzoni was beginning to want to return home; in the letter to Cattaneo, encouraging him to go and see Monti, he concluded: ‘Will you go? I’m afraid, I really mean afraid you won’t. Model yourself upon me who have become a visitor, I might almost say a vagabond. But in Milan, a nook, sofa, hearth with or without fire, my dear friends, and that’s all I ask. ’
Giulietta had felt homesick and unhappy in Florence; she couldn’t wait to return home; her nature was melancholy, and she did not make new friends easily; she found Florence odious, the Lungarni odious, and Lamartine’s daughters who called on her sometimes boring. She did not write to Fauriel from Florence; she had written to him only once from Leghorn during the journey; for too long now Fauriel had not written. Instead she wrote many letters during the journey and their stay in Florence to Cousin Giacomo Beccaria; he was the Giacomino mentioned in Cattaneo’s letter. This cousin was many years older than Giulietta, son of an uncle of her grandmother, and a contemporary of her father; he had a villa at Coprena, and Giulietta had often seen him when they had stayed there. From far away she thought of him with great nostalgia; he seemed the only person in the world who understood her. Cesare Contú mentioned him, when talking of the Manzoni family: ‘Giacomo Beccaria was their cousin, a man of culture who moved a great deal in society, who was secretary, then counsellor to the government of Lombardy in the department of education. As such, he found himself in contact with men of letters and artists, he felt the importance of the name he bore and of his relationship with Manzoni, to whom he was helpful in business matters, and many times he had all the family staying at his villa of Coprena, between Milan and Como.
Giulietta wrote to Cousin Giacomo from Florence in September: ‘Oh! how this Florence lacks precision! The streets are narrow and dirty. . . It’s a real undertaking to go to the Cascine. Where can you walk? On the Lung’ Arno, that’s to say on the bank of yellow, almost motionless water where there’s nothing to see. A short, narrow space, a dirty, uneven pavement, that’s the Lung’ Arno. . . This morning I saw the Church of Santa Croce where there are monuments of various famous people and I quite liked that. . . Grand-Maman thinks of nothing but Milan. . . Enough! we hope to leave this so-called Paradise of Italy on the first of October if the weather is fine. The mountain we have to cross prevents Grand-Maman eating or sleeping in peace, and she talks about it all day. . . I don’t know why I am so eager to get back to Milan! . . . But these beautiful things seem so sad to me, it must be a tinge of melancholy in me that I ascribe to the things I see. . . I will write to you again on Saturday, you have to enjoy these insipid, boring letters of mine to the very last! In fact, you’re bound to be pleased to see us come back to Milan as at least it will bring this burdensome correspondence to an end; if I have any regret, it is that I will not receive any more of your letters which really did me good, but it has been selfish of me to force such constant labour on you, forgive me, you’ve finished now. . . as for me, I sometimes feel a bit embarrassed about it but I do enjoy them so much. . . We still hope to spend a few days at your delightful Coprena and enjoy the sweet peace it always affords!’
So they began to prepare for the return journey. They asked the advice of Count Alessandro Oppizzoni, Chamberlain to the Grand Duke, regarding the choice of a coachman. Oppizzoni was lavish with advice. ‘The journey from Florence to Bologna with the whole family, all expenses paid, with a remittance for the Hotel at Bologna, would come to 18 zecchini, that is 36 ten-paoli coins, without the gratuity for the two men; including the tip, 40 francesconi. . . The service includes lodging, breakfast, and midday meal; breakfast according to your choice, either coffee, and milk, and butter; or two cooked dishes of your choice. Luncheon whatever the guests like or prefer. The stop could be at Conigliaio, which is about half-way, and there’s a better hotel there. It takes 11 hours including the pause at breakfast-time. From Conigliaio to Bologna 10 hours. If you want to continue your journey by carriage, you can leave Bologna at midday or one o’clock to get to Modena by evening, the second day at Parma, the third at Piacenza and the fourth at Milan. ’
The return journey went smoothly. Manzoni wrote to Cioni to give him their news and to express his thanks: ‘Our journey went as happily as could be; I mean there was no inconvenience except that at every step we were moving further from Florence. All those shadowy dangers which so tormented my mother beforehand, vanished the moment they took shape; the devil of the Apennines, not only was not as ugly as she had imagined him, but, by contrast, proved to be almost beautiful; and at the terrible Futa Pass, the earth, the air, and everything was so smooth and quiet that even she joined in the laughter about it. The rest of the journey also proceeded without obstacles or accidents as far as the Po, which, being in spate and having broken the bridge of boats, held us up for a day at Piacenza. We reached here on Sunday. . . What can I say now that will equal or make up for those delightful discussions in Via Campuccio and on the Lung’ Arno? Nothing; nothing, unless that the desire, or the regret, or the longing I feel for them will stay with me all my life.’ Cioni lived in Via Campuccio; on the Lungarno was the Locanda delle Quattro Nazioni, where the Manzonis stayed; it was here that Cioni and Manzoni had devoted themselves to the revision of I promessi sposi.
So it was to Cousin Giacomo that Giulietta had written so much, and he wrote friendly letters in reply. But when she saw him again in Milan perhaps she found him cold and indifferent; he had seemed close to her on the journey and during their stay in Florence, like an understanding and affectionate ghost; and suddenly, seeing him again, she did not recognize him. After all, Giacomo Beccaria had a life of his own, and it never entered his head that it might include a sentimental attachment to this young cousin. And so for Giulietta even the return was sad; her solitude increased without the tender ghost that kept her company in Florence, and with no more letters to write, for in Milan Giacomo Beccaria called on them punctually once a week, no more, no less.
Grandmother Giulia too had suffered from melancholia in Florence, but for her it was a happy return, and she could hardly believe she was in via del Morone again, among their faithful old friends, Grossi, Cattaneo, Rossari, and Torti who now came every day to give lessons to the girls. ‘Do tell me if you have completely recovered from the melancholia which made your absence from home so vexatious to you and caused you such distress?’ the Contessa di Camaldoli, one of their acquaintances at Florence, wrote to her several months later. ‘Has the excellent Signor Alessandro felt any benefit from his journey? Are his nerves a little stronger? Is his health somewhat improved? And how is his good lady wife? Are her eyes cured? Has she got over the other troubles she was suffering from? Is dear Donna Giulietta pleased to be back in the home she so longed for, among her friends? And that fascinating little Vittoria, what is she doing? does she miss us sometimes? We often miss her and repeat all the pretty things she said. . . To tell you what we have been doing - we left the beautiful city of Flora with great regret on the 7th November. . . But we had to yield to the tyranny of circumstances. . . And now our travelling is over. . . We are living in our country house at Vomero. My husband divides his time between books and plants. I busy myself with domestic duties. . Now that it was all so remote the journey seemed to Grandmother Giulia a beautifu
l memory, rich in people, friendship and experience.
In France I promessi sposi appeared with the title Les fiances. The translation was not by Trognon, but was signed with the initials M.G.: it was Pierre Joseph Gosselin (the initials stood for Monsieur Gosselin). When he had already translated a third of the book, Trognon had found out that the novel was in the hands of another translator and a different publisher, since there was no protection then for authors’ rights, and anyone could translate or print a book without any authorisation whatsoever. So Trognon had written to tell Fauriel he was giving up the task. Ten years later Gosselin published a new edition of his translation, revised with Manzoni’s help, and this time his name appeared in full.
I promessi sposi had an enormous success, whose echoes reached Manzoni from every side; he had his work cut out to answer all the letters he received. There were letters expressing admiration, emotion, and happy amazement; conferring honours; requesting his opinion of works published or to be published; asking favours; offering favours. Count Valdrighi di Modena wrote begging him to send some verses for a volume in memory of Maria Pedena, killed for love: the volume appeared with the title Poems and autographs by learned Italians to the indomitable virtue of Maria Pedena, a virgin of Modena of great chastity who was murdered on the 1st July 1827; in the end Manzoni had declined to contribute. Contessa Diodata Saluzzo di Roero wrote most urgently, begging him to give his opinion of her poem ‘Ipazia’ (‘you are the greatest judge of all things poetical’) and then of her collection of novellas, which Manzoni suggested she should have printed by the publisher Ferrario. Francesco Gera, an expert in botany, wrote sending him some eggs of Chinese worms, that Manzoni had heard of and that he wanted to take to Brusuglio. Manzoni wrote lengthy answers to them all. He was in good health, even if with some - with Contessa Diodata Saluzzo and the botanist Gera — he discussed his ailments and his ‘weak and peevish’ state of health; for her part, Contessa Diodata Saluzzo descanted upon her own nervous troubles. He had a letter from the poet Lamartine, whom he had met in Florence: ‘Reading your book has restored my need to write,’ and ‘I assure you it is one of the 4 or 5 books which has afforded me the greatest rapture in my life.’ He had a letter from Cesare Cantú, who would later become a friend but whom he had not yet met; ‘The book is the author. Your immortal pages make me enamoured of the extraordinary intellect and heart you certainly possess. . . It feels like a century before I can come and avail myself of your generous permission to call on you,’ and he begged to be allowed to dedicate to Manzoni a ‘poetic novella’ he had written. He had a letter from Zuc-cagni Orlandini, Royal Censor of Drama, asking his permission to produce his two tragedies in a theatre in Florence. Permission was granted, and the Adelchi was put on; it was attended by the Grand Duke of Tuscany (with whom Manzoni had remained on friendly terms, and who called on him once when he was passing through Milan), but it was a resounding failure, as Niccolini said in a letter to the actress Maddalena Pelzet. ‘For three acts people just laughed and yawned; the chorus and the fifth act met with some approval, but the actors with a deal of derision. But not a word to the Milanese about this. .
‘My dearest Rosa,’ Counsellor Somis wrote to his daughter who had been a guest of the Manzonis for a long time many years ago, and who was now married and living in Turin. ‘I am sorry about the life you are leading which cannot be good for your health [apparently her married life was a fairly wretched and laborious one]. Possess your soul in patience, and commit yourself to God, but in all love, and do read I promessi sposi, which you will enjoy, whatever others have said, and do not choose to be mad with love for a madman. . . [obviously the father did not like the husband she had chosen]. Your sisters embrace you, as I do, praying that God will send you His divine blessing.’ ‘My dearest friends,’ he wrote to the Manzonis, recommending a priest he had met at Susa at the house of another daughter. ‘The reason I have not written to you, or to others, is that I am losing the little sight God gave me, which I have so abused. . . Last year Contessa Sclopis was more fortunate than I in seeing you and embracing you, and she talked to you about me more than she should have done. She gave me news of you, which delighted me; especially of the glory Don Alessandro has earned with his Promessi sposi. . . My daughters Rosa, Paolemilia, Teofila and Veturia send you their warmest greetings. . . Pray God for me as I draw to the close of my life, and love me as I love you, Donna Giulia, Donna Enrichetta and Don Alessandro, my dearest friends.’
Manzoni did not write to Fauriel until March 1828. Fauriel had not written either. ‘Dear friend,’ wrote Manzoni, ‘why was this letter not written last year? why was it not dated from Florence? How can it be that, thinking of somebody all the time, and feeling tormented by the need to write to him, still one does not write? I put the question to you, as I think you know something about it. For you know that one of the reasons for my long silence was the uncertainty whether to begin with an apology or a reproach.’ He sent the letter by some acquaintances, Count Taverna and his wife whom he wished to introduce to Fauriel, and a eulogy of the couple took up a great part of his letter. Then he listed the people he had met at Florence the previous year who all remembered Fauriel: Niccolini, Capponi, Giordani, and ‘that dear, good Cioni’. Then he sent his regards to Mrs and Miss Clarke; the latter had recently written to Enrichetta, severely blaming Fauriel and Manzoni for never exchanging a word of news. ‘Addio; I have found a moment to write: not as I intended, but it’s time I lack at present. Would there be any point in asking you to write? Why not? Stranger things have happened. Addio, I press you to my heart.’
‘Mon cher parrain,’ Giulietta wrote to Fauriel a year later. ‘My dear godfather. The other day Marietta passed on to me your dear, kind note (for I hope you would not in all honesty expect me to call it a letter). . .’ Marietta was Maria Trotti, sister of Costanza Trotti Arconati; she was twenty, and a contemporary of Giulietta. The Trottis had a villa at Verano, near Carate, and not very far from Brusuglio, and they were friends of the Manzonis. Costanza Trotti Arconati and her husband, who lived in Belgium, were friends both of the Manzonis and of Fauriel. Maria Trotti travelled a great deal between Paris and Milan. ‘You tell us only the vaguest things about the future. . . You know that Milan, Brusú and Coprena exist, you know the peaceful life that goes on there, and you know the place you hold in the hearts of those who live in them alternately, what more can I say? You say it’s impossible, so we are left longing and regretting. . . For some time poor Papa has been more unwell than usual, because apart from his stomach and nervous disorders, which remain the same as ever, he has had violent toothache which he endured for a long time, and after having the tooth out at last, he is still suffering from neuralgia and inflammation. Mama, too, is never well, in fact only Grand-mama always sings a triumph song as we say in Milan because she enjoys perfect health, and she is still as fresh and young as ever. All the children have such bad coughs that we can’t help fearing whooping cough, though the doctors assure us that it’s only a heavy catarrhal cough. . . We still don’t know when we’ll go to Brusú and whether we’ll go to Genoa for the sea-bathing or elsewhere; in short, summer is drawing near and we’re still not thinking about it — which is all to the good, because I hate all changes, I would always like winter to last two years, we have quite frequent storms and even hail. What a joy it would be, dear godfather, if we could see you, and you could see us all! I think you would find the grown-ups pretty much the same, but the children very different; my brother is now quite a handsome young man, taller than his father; he studies moderately and enjoys himself a lot, and spends his time with such lively youngsters that they manage to make us lively too, whether we will or no; Pietro is still mad about horses and hunting — especially horses. I really hardly know what to say about Ermes, because he has become so strange that one scarcely knows not only what to say but even what to think of him. All the other gentlemen are well except Cattaneo who suffers quite a lot from rheumatism. . .’
She wrote to
him again from Coprena in October of the same year, 1829; Fauriel had written to Giulietta from Gaesbeck in Belgium, where he was the guest of the Arconatis; he had put a flower in the letter. ‘I cherish the flower you sent me, you wouldn’t believe the pleasure it gave me,’ wrote Giulietta. ‘Papa has been working hard for some time, which means he suffers much less from his stomach and nervous troubles, so he is almost always cheerful; I feel he is adopting a more youthful way of life, so he seems younger than before. . . He feels better in the country, so he can take more pleasure in everything. I am telling you this without him knowing it, because he never wants to be talked about. If you knew his friendship for you!’ — Marietta was at Gaesbeck too. Giulietta liked her, but felt envious because she was there with Fauriel, helping with his correspondence and acting to some extent as his secretary. ‘It takes all the friendship I feel for Marietta not to envy her too bitterly for all she is doing for you; I share her happiness with all my heart but not without a stab of jealousy; it’s true I wouldn’t be such a good secretary as Marietta, but I would try so hard! ... I said to Papa: I have given your regards to Monsieur Fauriel, as you told me to do - you’ve done wrong to write to him today without telling me - but I haven’t closed the letter yet — ah! that’s all right then, in that case tell him. . . you must tell him such a lot of things, but I wager you don’t write even half of what I tell you to say. . . - the fact is, you may think a lot but you tell me nothing. . . - what? first of all, tell him everything affectionate you can think of, tell him how I wish and how I beg that he will not break his word, and will do what he promised, that I am avid to read what he is writing, that he should make haste for love of me, and for love of all. . .’ Manzoni was referring to the Lettres provinciates, the book Fauriel was working on but never finishing. ‘That’s more or less what I remember of what he said. ’
The Manzoni Family Page 12