Manzoni sent Pietro a lot of instructions for the journey. Order a dress-coat. See to the passports. Prepare a sum of money – one thousand five hundred Tuscan lire – which he intended to give to Bista, to reimburse him at least in part for the expenses of Matilde’s keep, which Bista had been providing now for many years. Prepare more money for the journey and their stay. ‘An old, shabby, heavy surtout, in case it should be cold at Genoa.’ ‘I will buy a white tie at Genoa, or you can lend me one of yours: you know I want to observe the strictest economy.’ Pietro was to come to Lesa, and they would set out from there. ‘For the journey from here to Genoa, we must think whether, which is fairly certain, it is best to take the most economical means, that is, the mail. There will be no difficulty about you putting up here in Lesa, that is, in the house, as it can be done without inconvenience.’ They left on 12 September.
From Cornegliano Manzoni wrote to tell Teresa they had arrived safely, and had been able to admire the work on a branch-line of the railroad from Arquata to Genoa. ‘Gigantic bridges, very long, high viaducts with a series of great arcades, and pilasters that look like mountain masses and precipices. . . In short, I am astounded not to have heard of work of such magnitude, for, although we lead a remote life, their fame should have reached us. ... I was delighted to hear what I imagined. . . that is, that there is no stretch of railroad in Europe till now that, for the qualities I have mentioned and the difficulties successfully overcome, can surpass this one.
‘You can imagine how pleased I was to see Rina, grown and blooming, and obviously as happy as could be. Her husband and father-in-law are as they were described to me, that is, amiable in a natural, spontaneous way that indicates other, more essential qualities. Massimo is his usual dear self.
‘I think of you as you go about your daily activities, or rather inactivities: but as soon as you can, prove me wrong, and while I am imagining you sitting on the divan, get about in the carriage. Give my love to Stefano, and my regards to all. Goodbye, my dear Teresa, I shall be happier to tell you by word of mouth how much I love you and long to see you.’
On 17 September they were at Massarosa.
Vittoria wrote in her memoirs:
‘Matilde and I, with Luisina who was five years old that month, were sitting on the flight of steps overlooking the meadow, trembling with impatience and joy, when the travelling berlin came through the gate. We flung ourselves into the arms of Papa and Pietro. . .’
Manzoni to Teresa:
‘I found Vittoria and Matilde in excellent health; they immediately asked after you, as did Bista; I wish I could have said the same of you. I felt as if I had seen Luisina before, she was so exactly as they had described her. . . She has that quickness and grace that everyone spoke of. I will tell you a little reply she gave me yesterday. She came into my room while I was washing my face and preparing to dress again for lunch. I said: “Luisina, you will find I’m not a pretty object.” “I didn’t come for something pretty.” “Why do you come, then?” “Because I love you.“’
At Massarosa Manzoni met Grandfather Niccolao, who was fit and strong although he was eighty; he met Bista’s father, Gaetano, and tried to tell them both how grateful he was for all their kindness to Vittoria, and especially to Matilde: ‘But they show their kindness in a spontaneous, natural way that seems to rule out thanks.’
Everyone at Massarosa still remembered the day Rosmini had called on them. The strange thing was that Luisina seemed to remember it too, although it was three years ago. Manzoni asked her what Rosmini was like. She answered: ‘He was of the right philosophy.’ She had probably heard talk of philosophy of the right. One day when her mother had punished her, she said: ‘Ever since I was in mente dei, you knew you wouldn’t love the baby you were going to have.’ And to her mother who would not let her go out because it was raining, she said as soon as the rain stopped: ‘Mama, now will you take me to enjoy a bit of the air of God’s creation?’
Walking in the countryside, Manzoni saw in a clump of pomegranates ‘a nestful of cyclamen’, a flower not usually found in those parts; he picked one and sent it to Teresa, who used to press flowers in the pages of books; he hoped to find it between the pages of a book, to remind him of those days in Massarosa: ‘It will be a happy moment for me.’
From Massarosa they all went to Siena, which Manzoni had never seen; they stayed there ten days; they were all supposed to go to Varramista to see Gino Capponi, then return to Massarosa; but only Manzoni and Bista went to Varramista, because Matilde was not well; Vittoria mentions this indisposition in her memoirs; Manzoni said nothing about it to Teresa. He told her instead that Pietro, Vittoria, Matilde and the little girl were to take ‘the railroad’, and meet them at a station; but they did not meet; by some whim of the director of the ‘railroad’, only two wagons were sent off, and many passengers were left behind; so the four of them had to find some other means of transport, and arrived at Massarosa the next day. Then he wrote that he had not been well, and had had to take magnesia; so she wrote to Vittoria, full of anxiety. He wrote to her: ‘I am writing, in Vittoria’s name, in answer to your letter of the 25th, which I read with enraged affection, and vexed gratitude. Your anxiety would be very pleasing as far as I’m concerned, if it were not very displeasing as far as you’re concerned; because I know perfectly well, unfortunately, that you make yourself really ill about it, as if there were any good jeason; and perhaps you imagined me fettered to my bed, with the Lord knows what doctor beside me, while I was, and am, very well indeed.’
Teresa had had the cyclamen. She wrote to him:
‘I received the longed-for letter. . . in which I found so many dear things; and I bless the poor cyclamen which made you say them. . . among so many dear words in your letter, I choose the dearest, as you would choose one cyclamen among so many flowers: the sweet and blessed word always, a word of fond memory and fond promise. I grasp it and hold it tight, and send it back to you.’
He preserved a precious, yet painful memory of their brief stay in Varramista: Gino Capponi was ill and had gone blind. They had walked in the park, a superb park: ‘little hills with pines, holm-oaks, oaks, chestnuts, meadows and cultivated fields. . . and I can’t tell you how oppressed I felt’, he wrote to Teresa, ‘to walk around it arm-in-arm with him and not to be able to talk to him about the things I saw, because it would only remind him that he could not see them.
‘You know from experience, my dear Teresa, what a comfort it is to me to express and share my feelings with you; and I see that this possibility, even by the poor means of the pen, has brought from me more words than I would have thought.’
He was eager to get home, but he did not want to go to Milan immediately; he would have liked to stay on at Lesa a while and feared Teresa would have decided otherwise. ‘I think it worked perfectly well last year when we left half way through November, and the weather must have been very reasonable. You know better than I how much better good weather is at Lesa than in Milan. Indeed, I should be very sorry to have to renounce this little treat of a holiday I was promising myself at Lesa, and some days with Rosmini. . .’ ‘I am still hoping to hug you (until it hurts) next week; and I hope hope hope that your letter will pronounce Lesa to be our destination. Till then goodbye, my Teresa; if I can’t hurt you by hugging you from here, then I should like to do you some good.’ ‘I will bring you a letter from dear, good Vittoria, whose feelings about our departure you can well imagine, knowing her heart. Oh, why can we not have all our dear ones together! But I hope Bista will bring her to us next year, with Matilde and Luisina.’ They left Massarosa on 12 October.
Manzoni talked to Tommaseo about Luisina. Tommaseo wrote: ‘He often spoke to me about a little granddaughter of less than five, Giorgini’s daughter, who is a little miracle; and who, when asked who the Pope was, replied: “He’s the man who tells everyone to do good” – but she added (and certainly nobody had taught her to say it) – “he’s a dirty man because he makes people kiss his feet.” And
because her grandfather used a word she didn’t understand when speaking to her, she asked him to explain it, then said: “You’re right, Grandpa, I’m very small. “ This same little child who gave such a good explanation of the ministry of the Pope, defined (if the word is applicable) the eternal God: after one of those series of childish questions and answers: who made the carpet? – the carpet-weaver. Who made the chairs? – the joiner. – Who made God? – nobody: He made himself.’
Manzoni’s hopes were fulfilled: he and Teresa stayed at Lesa until the end of November.
Manzoni to Vittoria, from Lesa:
‘How can the pen provide a substitute for the conversations we had at Massarosa and Siena? But what do I mean, the conversations, seeing each other, meeting up again after walks, coming face to face in the rooms, sitting quietly together? . . . I have to console myself with the thought of having you here with me next year. . .’
Matilde wrote back:
‘Dear Papa, how sad we felt as we turned back into these rooms, everything we see and touch reminds us of days that were too beautiful, too happy to last! we were so touched by your letter, it made me cry, you have a way of saying things so that they go right to the heart. How I wish I could say what I feel as well as you do, how I wish I could speak of the gratitude, the love, the veneration I feel for you. Dear, dear Papa, you must read for yourself in the heart of your Matilde!’
They had recently returned from Massarosa to Siena, and Vittoria had had a threatened abortion from the fatigues of the journey. She had to stay in bed for some time.
In February 1853 Matilde was coughing blood again.
Matilde to her father, in April:
‘I’ve been wanting and meaning to write to you for several days, but I put it off until now because Vittoria kept getting strong pains and I hoped she would soon present us with a little Giorgini, and I would have liked to tell you all the good news in one letter, but as I see things are taking their time I won’t delay any longer, and that good news must wait till next time. I am keeping really quite well. . . After three weeks in bed on a diet, after the bleedings and all the medicines, I got up without feeling faint. . . If I can, I’ll go out for a little drive today or tomorrow, I’ve already been down the stairs twice. . . I will never never be able to express what Bista and Vittoria have been to me, they have kept me company all the time, never leaving me in the day and staying with me at night till one or half past one, always waiting until the crises which occurred every night about midnight had completely passed. . . Dear Papa, now I must speak of something else, which demands all the trust a daughter can have in her Father for me to speak openly to you. I’m afraid my illness must be quite a shock to my sister’s purse, because, according to my reckoning, it must have cost 20 or 22 “Francesconi” for the doctor here who has been to see me 50 times by now and will come a few more times, because he always had to come late in the evening when the gates are closed, and you have to pay to have them opened for the carriage to pass through. Then there’s the doctor from Pisa they sent for when the illness seemed to be getting more serious, I don’t know what they’ll give him so I can’t say anything about that; and then I went on taking a lot of medicines for a month so I’m afraid there’ll be a sizeable bill from the apothecary. Dear Papa, I can’t tell you how I feel when I think I cost you so much, without being able to be the slightest use in the world to you! Have patience, dear Papa, insofar as it depends on me, I promise never in all my life to displease you! If it is more than usually difficult for you to pay out money at this moment, allow me to say that I still have something left from my last half-year, and for now it would be enough to send me a quarter only. Please forgive me if I have annoyed you with all this talk. . . I must finish now and close my letter before Bista and Vittoria come, if they even imagined I was talking to you about these things, goodness knows what they would do! ... I beg you to write me a line, it can’t cost you so very much, and if you knew what it means to me to receive a little letter from you! Indulge me in this caprice this time, I pray, and brighten my convalescence. . .’
That same April Vittoria had a boy, who was called Giorgio Niccolao. Matilde wrote to tell her father the news.
Towards the end of May, one day when Manzoni had gone to Brusuglio and was talking to Pietro, ‘and, of course, immediately talking about you all,’ he wrote the next day to Vittoria, ‘there emerged from the fond conversation the sad discovery that we had not answered Matilde’s precious letter telling me of the safe arrival of Lao (or Giorgio?). . .’ There had been a misunderstanding beween him and Pietro, and each of them thought the other was writing. ‘I can’t tell you how mortified I felt. . . I wish this letter could take wings. Poor Vittoria! so much suffering and such a reward, and then to be left to guess how we shared in both. . . . Tell Matilde that the coming month will not pass without her receiving a letter from me, assure her of this.’
In July Manzoni arranged for an order for one thousand Tuscan lire to be sent to Vittoria, ‘partly for our Matilde’s half-year allowance, and partly as a reimbursement, perhaps inadequate, of the exceptional expenses you incurred during her illness. . . . I have touched upon my mortification for the delay, but I must state it plainly, together with the mortification I feel in giving so little. May God improve my circumstances and send more prosperous years. . .’
Manzoni was about to leave for Lesa. The plan of sending for Matilde and Vittoria to come to Brusuglio was not mentioned again; in any case, perhaps Matilde’s health would not allow it.
Manzoni and Teresa stayed at Lesa until December.
In December, on the day they returned to Milan, Tommaso Grossi died. He had been ill for some time. He was sixty-three. He left a wife and two children. Manzoni to Matilde:
‘O my dear daughters, what a grievous and unexpected loss! Unexpected by me particularly, who am so much more advanced in years than he that I had never considered the possibility of having to weep for him. Rossari who was also completely at one with him, spoke at his funeral in words worthy of Grossi, and of such a friendship. . . . You continue to send good news of yourself, which is a great comfort to me in the midst of such distress.’
In February 1854 Grandfather Niccolao died at Massarosa.
In the summer the Giorginis went with Matilde to Viareggio; the doctor had ordered sea-bathing for Matilde; they took her to the beach in a sedan-chair; but there was cholera at Viareggio and they all left. They went to Montignoso. Matilde had been advised to drink a lot of milk; they sent for a she-ass – ‘Pussy’ Matilde called her in a letter to her father – which she also used for little rides. The summer passed peacefully apart from the cholera scare; there had also been a few cases in the surrounding countryside, so the ‘Puss’ and her ‘baby-Pussy’ had been brought from the Pisa district. Tante Louise who used to travel a lot between Lombardy and Tuscany, had quite a few problems with the various ‘cordons sanitaires’.
Tante Louise proposed to take Matilde with her to Pisa, where the winter was much milder than in Siena; the idea appalled Matilde, but the doctor said it was a good thing, essential even, and she had to resign herself.
Matilde to her father, from Pisa in November: ‘Dearest Papa; here I am settled on the Arno with my kind aunt who overwhelms me with attentions. Dear Papa, I can’t tell you how it hurt me to leave Vittoria, Bista, and the dear little ones, and how I feel their absence every moment of the day! The Lord requires this great sacrifice of me, let us hope at least it will not be in vain, and that I may really get my health back! Dear Papa, if you could have come to Pisa with us! . . . We had little hope of it for we realized Mama’s health would be an invincible obstacle, and yet we flattered ourselves until the last moment! We will hope that Mama will pick up nicely in the winter, and that her health will allow you to leave her with an easy mind and come here in the spring; who knows? . . . but one must not cling to such dreams! . . . This morning I had a lovely letter from Vittoria, one from Bista, and one from ‘Babbo’: what an interest they all
take in my health and how kind they all are to me! Vittoria tells me that when my name is mentioned, Giorgino starts to cry and calls for me, poor little pet, what it costs me to be far away from them, he was such company for me, and really entertaining, too. Here we just don’t know what winter is, we never light a fire. . . Aunt has given me the finest room, it’s beautiful, with the best aspect. For a few days I’ve really been feeling a tiny bit better. . . As it was fine this morning, I was able to go to Mass in a nearby church, which pleased me very much, because it was three weeks since they had let me go. Dear Papa, I have to come to something very tedious for you, please believe that I do it because I feel constrained to, but so reluctantly. I should like to be only a comfort to you and instead I am always a worry and a burden! – Since I’ve been ill like this, Bista has been put to a lot of expense. The doctor alone who looked after me all winter in Siena charged 38 francesconi. . . then there was another 12 for Prof. Fedeli for coming to Siena and for the consultation, I don’t know exactly how much for the apothecary. . . Puccihotti would not accept payment for his consultation, and Prof. Almansi who saw me three times at Viareggio wouldn’t hear of it, because they are both friends of Bista’s and also because I am Manzoni’s daughter. . . . then there are always a thousand other things when you have to move and we’ve had to move several times this year because of the Cholera, they have to find the most comfortable way for me, because the slightest fatigue on a journey makes me feverish. . . . Dear Papa, if you could send something to Bista, you would be giving me a great present too! ... I know they have some unavoidable expenses just now; but they always have to think twice and do everything as economically as possible because they’re not very well off! But when it’s a question of me and my health they are quite regards less and would take the bread from their own mouths. . . . And now I also need you to tell me what arrangement I must come to with Aunt d’Azeglio here; I asked her if she had settled something with you, and she answered, you don’t think I talk about money to Uncle Manzoni, you are my niece, I’d be ashamed. . . but on the other hand she has said at times that she’s really quite short of money now. . . I started to pay for a few expenses, like the coach to come here, special mail, making a note of them, but I can’t go much further because my half-year fell due at the end of September. Dear Papa! have patience and sympathy with me, I assure you it grieves me to be such a worry and a nuisance to you! . . . My poor health is really to blame; if I were well, I wouldn’t have cost you much because I really never throw anything away; I always keep my things for years, so that even Aunt praises me for it, and I never make unnecessary purchases. But even I often find I have to spend my pin-money on little extras like tips etc. and I get through it quickly even though I economise on my clothes. Dear Papa, please write back to me at once. This time it’s not a simple wish to have a letter from you, I really need you to tell me what I must do and what arrangement I must make! ... I couldn’t finish this letter yesterday or the day before, which perhaps is just as well as it means today I can tell you the result of the careful examination Prof. Fedeli gave me this morning. He says he can guarantee there is no organic defect of the heart, the left lung is perfectly healthy, but there’s some slight congestion of the right lung. If this congestion continues, they will have to try some vesicants – for now I must alternate cod-liver oil and Mialke syrup of iron iodide – go for a little drive along the Arno when the weather is good and be content with that for now and not go walking. I haven’t been for a walk for nine months. . .’
The Manzoni Family Page 33