They set off for Lesa half way through August, and stayed there till November. Alessandro saw Rosmini, but not as often as before, because Rosmini had got rid of his horses.
In September a letter came from Vittoria from Montignoso, another country property where the Giorginis had a house, with bad news: Matilde had been coughing blood. She had been bled.
Luisina had been alone in the room with Matilde when she had been taken ill, and running to fetch hot water for her, had scalded her arm.
Manzoni to Vittoria:
‘You can imagine how upset, and I should add frightened, I was to hear of my Matilde’s health problems. But the sequel comforted me, more perhaps than you might think, since the weakness that ensued, and that still prevailed when you were writing to me, is for me the most comforting of symptoms. Thank Heaven the bleeding was done at once, perhaps as quickly as it would have been done in Milan! Delaying this unique remedy is the only danger. . . I expect a letter from you announcing a complete recovery, or rather a continuation of good health.
‘Oh poor Luigina! poor Vittoria! poor everybody! What a trial was set you! But what compensation in the affection, courage and patience displayed by your extraordinary little girl! . . . Thank God for it as for a most rare gift, love her still more if possible, and try not to tell her all that we feel about her merit.
‘But the postman is approaching, and this letter must go. Poor Vittoria, how could I delay so long in writing to you? If your letter had been cold (an impious supposition!) I would have replied by return.
‘I hug you all, and especially implore from the bottom of my heart the blessing of the great Father of all upon you.’
That autumn, while they were at Montignoso, Bista heard that he must leave Pisa and move to Siena, because a decree from the Grand Duke ruled that some faculties, including law, should be transferred from Pisa to Siena. Bista was enraged; it seemed that the Grand Duke was hostile to the university of Pisa, which in 1848 had been a nucleus for Liberals. Bista had to leave at once for Siena; Vittoria began sadly to arrange for the removal; they had so many friends at Pisa, and she was distressed to leave; she also feared the climate of Siena would not suit Matilde. They all left in January 1852; Bista had taken a small villa at Siena, and they moved in; they liked it there; the villa was outside the town, and they went for long walks in the surrounding countryside; Matilde seemed to blossom again. Their father wrote to say he would come to see them soon: ‘I am determined to come, either with Teresa or with Pietro, to rejoice with all you dearest people in the little Sienese villa.’
Matilde to her father:
‘I can’t tell you what I feel when I think of your coming, and of the first moment I see you again! how could I explain such a feeling? ... I have not seen you for five years; who would have thought it when I left Milan! Nothing could have been further from my thoughts! . . . How I long for you to meet all the members of this dear Giorgini family! – I can’t tell you what they mean to me. The Grandfather is at Massarosa now, he very often writes me such affectionate letters, and says he loves me like his own grandchildren. I assure you there could not be a more loving Grandfather. I always call him Nonno, and call Bista’s father Babbo [Daddy]: how could I do otherwise? they treat me just like their child. If you saw the love and concern they show for me when I am ill. . . I think it would be very difficult for me to find another Giorgini family – no one could be more affectionate, warm-hearted, affable, straightforward and delicate than they. I don’t mention Bista because really I can’t find words to tell you what he has always been to me - He has never faltered for a moment, and has always shown me the affection of a brother and care of a Father. . .’
Manzoni to Vittoria, in January 1852:
‘I am writing in haste not to delay for one day sending the promissory note for Matilde of 353 Austrian lire 9 centimes for the half-year, and 68 lire for the interest on her holdings. And I fly from this topic of money which I so dislike, since I am so far from having available as much as I’d like: and not for myself, I assure you.
‘Your dear letter would increase, if that were possible, my hope that I shall be able to carry out the precious plan of coming to see you next spring. The wish cannot fail, and I keep hoping.’
The planned trip, which seemed imminent, was postponed. Manzoni was relying on Pietro to accompany him, and in the spring Pietro had to stay at Brusuglio to look after the silkworms. Manzoni did not write to Vittoria or Matilde for some time; meanwhile, in February, Filippo was arrested for debt. At first nothing was said to Manzoni; he heard it from the Nanny. Vittoria, having no news from home, wrote to don Ghianda. Filippo had been arrested for a debt of four hundred lire.
Manzoni to Vittoria in April:
‘Questioning Nanny in a general way, and receiving hesitant replies, I insisted, and discovered the disaster and shame they were trying to conceal from me, as they were sadly convinced that I hadn’t the means to remedy the situation at once. . .’
There was only one way of remedying the harm already done, and preventing further occurrences, her father explained to Vittoria; this was by means of the interdiction. Grossi had already thought of it two years before, and had spoken about it to Pietro; but it was necessary to get Filippo’s consent, and at that time Filippo had no intention of consenting. Now he promised to consent, if they helped him to get out of prison.
Acquaintances of don Ghianda arranged Filippo’s release, which occurred on 15 April.
Filippo went to Enrico at Renate, with his wife and baby boy; they stayed in Enrico’s villa for a few months; then he and Enrico quarrelled, Enrico sent him away, and he took rooms with his family, still in Renate, with an innkeeper called Radaelli. His wife was pregnant.
Enrico was now included, with Grossi and Pietro, among the people he hated most on earth. He considered him his persecutor and an impostor; the same went for don Ghianda. He saw Enrico and his wife going about the streets of Renate; he saw, or thought he saw, on their faces profound scorn for him and freezing pride. He decided to write to Teresa. He had insulted her years ago in a letter to Pietro, but now saw no possibility of help from any other direction.
‘Renate, 14th December 1852. Dearest Mama,
‘You will surely be very surprised to receive this letter, and at first sight may accuse me of impudence or even temerity; but as your first reaction will be succeeded by the thought that the person I am turning to in these extremities is the person I have the dear obligation, and holy, precious right to call my Mother, you will, I hope, feel moved to peruse it to the end and find in it motives for indulgence and charity. My present position robs me, in every way, of the courage to turn directly to my excellent Father, yet it is absolutely essential for me to summon him to my aid both morally and materially; to whom then should I turn but you?
‘My turning to you will arouse in you a sense of disdain, perhaps almost of repugnance after a certain expression concerning you in a letter I sent to Pietro on 25 June 1850, an expression I know, unfortunately, rang painfully in my Father’s ears. But for now I hope you will be satisfied with my word of honour that the expression was interpreted in a quite opposite sense to the one intended. Neither you nor Father can, I am sure, know its meaning, and to explain it I should have to unmask the cruel, slanderous utterances of a certain person, which are the real and the only foundation of that expression, and, unless I were driven to extremes, I should be ashamed to do this. . .
‘Without bringing up the infamous and distressing vicissitudes I have lately suffered, without reminding you how I have been pitilessly deprived of everything, even the belongings of my innocent child; without dwelling on the seventy days imprisonment I suffered for a debt of 400 lire (which I committed to a rogue whom I trusted to give them to the proper person, and who instead ran off with my money, a notorious fact which should be remembered); imprisonment which apart from the shame, the grief, the abomination it brought upon me, was and always will be very damaging to my health, since my already poor
eyesight suffered from it, and moreover, from the lowly tasks I was forced to perform like brushing and sweeping, making the wretched beds, etc. etc., and from having to sleep almost on the bare, damp ground, I contracted a serious ulcer which I feel acutely and will feel all my life; without, I say, going over such shameful, painful, but well deserved punishments, I must tell you what state I have been in from the 15th April, the day of my release, until now. Enticed both verbally and in writing by people who were surely abusing the name of my Father; ready, as I have shown in my letters, to do anything they told me was my Father’s will, since apart from feeling obliged by nature and duty to do so, I will frankly admit I was also moved by the hope they gave me of his effective pardon; at the moment I thought was to fulfil all the aforesaid promises, I find myself – and why? – plunged into a worse abyss than before, abandoned and driven out by one who had received me and my poor little family with the most expansive demonstrations of affection, thrown out, I say, into the street, forced to live on the charity of an innkeeper who, trusting my word, and moved to compassion by the horrendous state I was reduced to, received me into his house, and is advancing food and lodgings on my current December allowance. Whether it is true that I did not in any way deserve that those people should fail in so many sacred promises, you might ask Radaelli [the innkeeper], to whom I owe a second life, and who also deserved the gratitude of my Father for the spontaneous solicitude with which he took to his heart my well-being and honour and that of my wife, who was tortured unimaginably by the person who had stretched out to me a hand I thought to be sincerely affectionate. He can give you the most exact information especially about my wife; he has no part in the matter, so he at least can, I hope, be believed. . . if for once in the world truth and charity are to triumph over imposture and malice. So I find myself at an inn, living on the charity of the proprietor, with my wife almost in the ninth month of her pregnancy, inevitably unwell since, apart from the usual problems of her condition, the fact that she has to iron, clean the room, make the beds, in fact do everything herself, undoubtedly damages her health considerably, with my poor baby boy who, thank Heaven, is wonderfully healthy and alert, but who shivers with the cold, and I have not twenty pence to buy something to cover him; and I too, lacking even shirts, oppressed by grief and humiliation, living on the charity of an innkeeper who is relying on my good faith, and continually seeing paraded before my very eyes the disdainful splendour and wounding sneers of other people, who had contracted the holy obligation to treat me with more Christian charity and good faith! Now it is, indeed, charity I am constrained to implore from my Father! I recognize that my faults deserve severe punishment; but will your kind heart and my Father’s generosity allow innocent creatures to suffer any longer, and for my fault? My good wife, in her present state of health, my poor two-year-old child? If, until I have obtained my Father’s blessing upon the head of my good Erminia, it is decreed in Heaven that she must remain absolutely dead and despicable in the eyes of my family, I commend her to your charity as a pregnant woman. . .
I am twenty-seven; I am about to become a father for the second time; I have already savoured to the full the bitter fruits of heedlessness and obstinacy, so you can easily believe my words and my promises. My liabilities, thanks to the endeavours of Radaelli, are reduced to three thousand lire; and for this sum I am obliged to live outside the town. . . without occupation, useless to myself and my family, subjected to cruel gossip and mortifying observations. If I could once (as was so patently promised me in word and in writing) settle these last outstanding affairs of mine I would return to Milan; I already have an occupation waiting me, since more than one lawyer would willingly receive me in his office, and since, despite what certain people say who are no lovers of truth and justice, at least as far as honour is concerned, I still enjoy an unsullied reputation; I know I could earn a moderate amount there, apart from being occupied and making progress in my career and giving a good account of my time and conduct. If therefore my Father, as, no doubt abusing his name, was promised to me verbally and in writing, would turn a charitable gaze of pardon upon my sincere repentance and take pity on my situation, I should return from death to life, and would be enabled to demonstrate my repentance and redemption in deeds, and become a son worthy of the love of his Father, and a father worthy of the esteem and affection of his own children. For my children to grow up seeing me thus rejected and despised by my family. . . But oh God! God! take far from me this terrible thought! I have erred greatly, but you in your mercy cannot wish for the irreparable ruin and desperation of a repentant son.
‘My good Mama, I commend to your charity, so manifest especially towards pregnant women, my poor wife and my innocent offspring. May her condition move you to compassion! . . . If your benevolent hand and my Father’s heart are not moved to succour me, I shall be obliged, it breaks my heart to say so, I shall be obliged to take my wife to give birth in a public hospice in Milan. . .
‘I have unfortunately always disregarded all the salutary advice I have received from you since my earliest childhood; unfortunately I have a thousand times responded to your affectionate gestures with irreverent actions; unfortunately I answered your cordiality with coldness and unconcern; but believe me, Mama, I give you my sacred word of honour, all this did not come from my heart. May this word be sufficient for you, at least until such time as I am constrained, as I said above, to tear a veil which I pray God may remain always impenetrable; . . . May God bear witness to the truth of my words.
‘I dare not ask you to embrace my Father for me; I fall at his feet. .
To Stefano, the same day;
‘I have always recognized in you the sincere affection of a brother who, though not belonging to me by blood, still loved me and always treated me with the attachment that should rather be the holy duty of brothers by blood! If you found me more than once remiss towards you, attribute it partly to my playing the rascal and believe that my heart, and indeed my entire will, were strangers to it. This is the moment to exercise to the full the fraternal sympathy you have always had for me; help me to obtain the charity of our mother, and then you can both unite to plead with my Father for me. If I could at least have the consolation of speech with you, you could be judge of my words. With what sincerity I would throw myself into your arms, with what trust I would move your excellent young heart. .
Teresa replied:
‘The only thing Stefano and I were able to do on your behalf was to hand your two letters addressed to us to Alessandro so that he could read them; this we did and he agreed to do so. As far as we are concerned, no more can be done, since we have absolutely no wish to enter into family matters and intimate relationships. Do not imagine that any personal rancour could be the cause of this abstention, for it would already have been forgotten, if there were any motive, (even without need of Christian sentiments), towards one who has involved himself in such an unhappy situation. I pray God to spare you and your poor father any further troubles, and commend you to Him.’
It does not seem that Filippo had ‘speech’ with Stefano, or his stepmother, or his father. His wife gave birth to another boy, who was called Massimiliano. Apparently the debt was paid, because he left Renate and settled in the town, with his wife and children. He lived and maintained his family by small expedients, debts, and with the money he received from his father each month, which came from the interest on the legacy from his mother and grandmother. Proceedings for the interdiction were abandoned. The thing he so much desired, to present his wife and children to his father, did not occur.
Manzoni decided to make the journey to Tuscany, with Pietro, in the autumn. He spent the summer at Lesa. He wrote to Vittoria at the beginning of August:
‘However dear all your letters are to me, you will not be surprised to hear that the last was extraordinarily precious for the good news it gave of Matilde. O my dear Matilde who, by no fault of your own, caused me such grief as a baby, the time I feared to lose you, so I can hope to e
mbrace you soon, and see you fit and well! As for Luisina, her Mama has no need to write, for I have heard wonders of her from so many others, and have come to expect them, whether you will or no.
‘I need hardly say how much Teresa would like to see you all again, especially her Vittoria; but, in her valetudinarian condition, she could not set out on a journey without being afraid of falling ill, either on the way, or when she got there; and the thought of being ill away from Milan is an insurmountable terror to her. .
As Giovannina, Pietro’s wife, was about to give birth and it might be difficult for Pietro to leave her, Vittoria wrote to ask her father if he would not like as a travelling companion not Pietro but Bista, who was prepared to come and fetch him and accompany him. But Giovannina had her baby in mid-August, a boy who was called Lorenzo. A nurse was found; ‘a good nurse’, Manzoni wrote to Pietro, rejoicing in the birth, ‘is so important for the prompt and tranquil recovery of the mother, the father’s peace of mind, and especially for the poor little creature. To wish for sons is normal at any time for those who have none; they come to fulfil the wishes of a good father. . . then when you hear them whimper and take them in your arms, it seems unjust and cruel not to have wanted them always.’ So all was well at Brusuglio, and Pietro could leave in all-confidence.
Then a letter came from Massimo d’Azeglio: his daughter Alessandrina, little Rina, was getting married at the beginning of September, and he asked Manzoni to act as witness. Manzoni accepted.
Rina was eighteen. She was marrying the Marchese Matteo Ricci, son of an old friend of Massimo’s. The marriage was to take place at Cornegliano, near Genoa.
From Cornegliano, Manzoni and Pietro would proceed to Massarosa, where Vittoria and Matilde would be waiting for them; then they would all go to Siena together.
The Manzoni Family Page 32