The Manzoni Family

by Natalia Ginzburg

  Manzoni to Matilde, in December:

  ‘My dear Matilde.

  ‘I was sorry to have to delay sending this letter a few days more than I had said. This time I assure you it was not laziness. I was grateful for the page where you found room in the margin to give me better news again of your health, and if not of perfect health, at least of progress for the better. . . . God bless Pisa, and a dear name that rhymes with it! I hope your next letter will tell me that your rides on the Lungarno have grown longer, and God grant they will soon change to walks!

  ‘Unfortunately my wife’s condition does not improve, at least not appreciably. But, simply from the fact that there is no worsening, I can’t help deriving hope of a happy turn. I’ve seen her before now languish for a long time, and then recover bit by bit; I’ve also seen her in a much worse state. God grant my prediction be fulfilled! She sends lots of greetings to you and Luisa.

  My life goes on as usual: not cheerful, as you can imagine. I ask the Lord for grace to love all that comes from His will: but He replies: You too must do what you can. And this is the problem. I find work helps. Thank heaven, I have sent the end of the appendix to La morale cattolica to the printers. .

  Matilde to her father, February 1855:

  ‘My dear Papa,

  ‘I have delayed sending you a letter from one day to the next in hopes of announcing my convalescence, but now I’ve lost heart, and feel too strongly the need to write to delay any longer. I am still feverish every evening, and it does not look like stopping for the time being; in the day, except for a slight headache which often troubles me and more or less acute chest pains, I’ve otherwise not been too bad for some time now and I can’t complain; but in the evening I feel really poorly, sometimes I get very heavy sweats which leave me weak. Fedeli examined my chest again yesterday morning, and found no change, that is, the breathing is very laboured in the left lung because it is making up for the right which is still somewhat congested. Just think, dear Papa, I’ve been in bed 75 days today! I get up every other day to have my bed made and I sit for half an hour in an armchair that they bring up to the bed, all wrapped up in a woollen blanket; but if I stay any longer than the half-hour, I start to feel exhausted, and I go pale as if I were going to be ill. When I’ve been back in bed a few minutes I begin to feel better. But everyone keeps encouraging me, and even the Doctor assures me he can find nothing in my condition to arouse serious apprehension, and that I’ll be better when the warm weather returns; and Bista, who was so kind as to come and see me at Carnival, thought I was looking no worse than last time. So let’s hope they’re right, and that I can really get better soon! I have had moments of deep depression, I confess, I was really discouraged, and my thoughts were so sad that I kept finding my face covered with tears. I thought so often: when I’m worse, I’ll write and beg Papa to come, I really can’t die without seeing him again and without the comfort of his words and his blessing! . . . Truly, dear Papa, if I were very bad you would come? Oh! but I don’t think like that now! I hope I will see you again soon, but that we’ll all be happy and I’ll be able to run to meet you! . . . Aunt has shown me great kindness and concern, but I confess I miss Vittoria, Bista and the dear little ones so much that I long for the summer which I hope will allow us to go back to them. You can’t imagine the love and affection they show me; they write me such long, detailed, affectionate letters every day that I really feel I am with them as I read them. They tell me even Giorgino is always talking of auntie Tide, and he often takes a piece of paper and a pencil and makes lots of strokes on it, saying he’s sending kisses to auntie. The other day her Daddy brought me a lovely little straw basket from Luisina, bought with her own pennies. — Poor little pets, I always tell Vittoria and Bista I love them as much as they could do! – Vittoria will come to see me now in Lent, and Bista will come again in the Easter holiday. I see “Babbo” now and again because he spends part of his time in Florence and part in Montignoso, and he stops here on the way through. When he’s here, he keeps me company for a long time and shows me such affection; he always tells me he loves me as if I were his own daughter. Poor “Babbo” and I love him so very much, too; tomorrow is the anniversary of poor Nonno’s death! . . . Sbragia comes to see me every day, and sends me everything he thinks I might like; when I was worse he stayed here for hours and has always done all he could for me. Dear Papa, when you write, do include a message for him. As for expenses, out of the 30 coins you sent me in addition to my half-year allowance, up to now I have spent 22, paying the apothecary for Nov. and Dec, and paying the servant every 8 or 10 days for various little daily expenses like milk, ice, candles, post, and lots of other little things, of which I can send you a detailed account at the end of my illness, if you want. So I have only 8 coins in hand. There will be the apothecary to pay for Jan. and Feb., and they’ve given me such a lot of medicines! If you think best, the Doctor need not be paid until I’m leaving Pisa. What seems most urgent to me at the moment, and I want to speak frankly to you about it, would be to think what I owe Aunt. I kept hoping Signor Finzi would come, but in vain. From all that Aunt says I can see she is not too well placed, a few days ago she even said quite clearly that she is going through a difficult spell and is really short, and I feel as if I could die when she talks like this and I think I am causing her extra expense. Poor Papa, have patience! it costs me dearly to talk of these things and to have to be asking you for money all the time! if only I could say that all these expenses had brought back my health! but God’s will be done! . . . Give my love to Mama and please tell me how you are. – Remember me to my brothers when you see them, Aunt sends you her regards, and please forgive this dreadful letter written in bits and pieces, as I’ve had to break off all the time from fatigue! Accept my warmest love, and send your blessing to your poor Matilde.’

  At the foot of this letter Teresa wrote: Letter which Alessandro let me have, or gave me ‘à’ regret’, because of the great interest he could see I felt for poor dear Matilde.

  Manzoni wrote to tante Louise. He told her he had sent her money on account for the expenses she had incurred; and said that the summer, and ‘above all God’s goodness’, which he never stopped imploring Tor the health of that ever-beloved creature’ led him confidently to expect ‘more comforting news’. ‘Unfortunately there is no improvement in Teresa’s health either; but I think one can attribute the cause, at least in part, to this dreadful winter; which keeps me in hope that I shall have the double consolation of seeing her looking better soon, and of being able to carry out, in the spring or early summer, the plans so dear to the hearts of Matilde, Pietro and myself, and likewise to you, first because you are united to us by so many bonds, and then because you are you.’

  And in a letter to Massimo d’Azeglio about the same time he wrote:

  ‘I have at least had the consolation of receiving good news, which promises even better things for the future, about our poor Matilde. Luisa is a sister, friend and matchless mother to her.’

  Matilde to her father, in March:

  ‘They had to bleed me a little Monday evening because I coughed blood five or six times. . . . They treated me with ice and lemon as usual, and thank God, I’ve had no recurrence since then, and I hope it has passed over for this time because things have gone as they expected. Yesterday I was up for an hour, I feel fairly strong, and if it were not for that blessed pain on the right side which won’t go away, I should be quite pleased with myself. Dear Papa, I hope to be able to give you even better news soon! I was so pleased with your letter to Aunt! What a precious hope it gives us! We haven’t the courage to hope too much, because we are too afraid Mama’s health will not allow you to leave her, but who knows if now the winter’s over she won’t be better in the warm weather? God grant it, dear Papa, and that you will be able to leave her with a quiet mind, and come for a while to your children here who so long to see you. Since you wrote such an exciting thing in your letter to Aunt, Vittoria’s and Bista’s letters are ful
l of wonderful plans that cheer me up! . . . Aunt appeared to be quite mortified and astonished at the promissory note you sent her. There was no way of making her take it and I’ve had to keep it here myself. But we’ve agreed to do some reckoning together. . . . Oh, what a lot of money one spends when one has the misfortune to be ill so long. . .’

  Vittoria and Bista had moved house. Their new house was in the centre of Siena, on the Lizza. Matilde hoped to be able to join them there in May. Manzoni to Matilde in April:

  ‘I hope the advance of the fine weather will have advanced your convalescence. My thoughts run to the house overlooking the Lizza, and if they hurry there, they don’t hurry away again. However, I really can’t get there before July, as it is essential that Pietro should stay at Brusuglio until the cocoons are collected. . . . There’s been a real improvement in Teresa’s health. . . After reading your dear letters, one with grief and the other with consolation, she would so much like to write to you, and she is quite upset that she cannot do so yet. I tell her she must be content for now to pray for you, as she is doing.’

  Matilde to him, in April:

  ‘What tremendous pleasure it gave me yesterday evening when they brought me your letter, dear Papa; what a comfort it was to read it and think that in two months we will really and truly have you here with us! . . . Dear Papa, the thought makes me forget my wretched winter and all the troubles that have passed! ... I go out for a little drive every day, so far they haven’t let me try to do the stairs on my own, which depresses me a bit. . . Did you know, father dear, they’ve really fixed the day of my return to Siena, and it’s quite near? On the 30th Aunt will take me to Empoli, where Bista will come from Siena to meet me. . . At last the long months of separation are over; how I long to see Vittoria again, the children who send me the most affectionate messages every day, and Bista. .

  In May Abbé Rosmini became ill with liver trouble. Manzoni wanted his doctor, Pogliaghi, to see him. He and Teresa were in Milan; Manzoni had been slightly unwell. They received news from Abbé Branzini, who was caring for Rosmini, and from Stefano, who had gone back to Lesa at the beginning of the spring.

  Teresa to Stefano:

  ‘Please thank dear, good Abbé Branzini for us. I pray each night with all my heart that the Lord will restore Rosmini to us! . . . May God bless your visit with Doctor Pogliaghi, and illumine the mind of the Doctor, and put trust and obedience in the heart of the Illustrious and Venerable Patient.’

  Doctor Pogliaghi offered no hope. Abbé Branzini to Teresa:

  ‘I feel the greatest grief at the thought that soon the Reverend Father will be with us no more. If D. Alessandro could make the journey without ill effects, he would certainly be doing a charitable deed for he would be so pleased to see him.’

  Manzoni decided to go. Pogliaghi, who had returned to Milan meanwhile, set off again with him. Teresa to Stefano:

  ‘Only Our Lord God can restore him to us. Tomorrow Pogliaghi and Alessandro will be coming direct by mail coach and boat, I repeat, they will travel direct as far as Stresa. . . remember the Boario water, which is there at Lesa. Morelli, whom I saw yesterday as you know, agrees that Recoaro water would not be right just now for poor, precious Rosmini, but that he should try the Boario water that he suggested to you for me, and which saved my life when I was swollen like a balloon on my legs and arms and everywhere, and I couldn’t pass water at all, and when squill and saltpetre did nothing for the urine, but gave me terrible gasping spasms in my stomach. . .’ and a few days later: ‘I wrote you a long letter. . . please note that in it I spoke of the Boario water which iú at Stresa and which might perhaps suit poor Rosmini’s stomach!’ Rosmini’s illness had greatly excited her. As she spent her life thinking of her own illnesses, real and imaginary, when she was confronted with other people’s she was in her element, and got almost intoxicated. Only Matilde’s illness left her strangely silent, she made no suggestions. It aroused no ideas about medicines, journeys, doctors or waters. Stefano to Teresa:

  ‘Pogliaghi doesn’t recommend any ferruginous mineral waters, as he says while there’s no temperature, they might actually do harm. And indeed I think he may well be right, because although iron does not materially strengthen, I did read in Liebig that it increases the vital part of the blood.’ Stefano too, like his mother, loved illnesses; they excited him and roused his curiosity.

  The doctors had prescribed certain special foods for Rosmini, as he needed to take nourishment. Stefano wrote to Teresa that he had to have a packet of Racahout des Arabes and a packet of Tapioca del Brasile. ‘The first is a bottle of wrapped crystals, I don’t know about the second. But write the names clearly on a piece of paper, because they aren’t easy to remember. Then get Pugni, the packer, to make a little wooden box to hold the two packets, then send them by the mail-coach. . .’ Teresa sent her chambermaid Laura to the luxury grocer Stefano suggested, and then to Pugni. She also set Jegher, the cook to work. ‘It’s all here, nicely sealed and written out by me and I’m sending Jegher. . . now Jegher’s gone off to the Restellis with the little box, which I hope will arrive tomorrow by the Treasury mail, and which contains the Racahout des Arabes and the Tapioca del Brasile. Poor poor dear Rosmini! O Stefano dear! what a man we are losing! what a saint! what a sage! what a friend to my Stefano, and to all who had need of him! . . . Oh who knows, who can know, if the Lord God, an abyss of mercy, may not restore him to us, after having almost taken him away! . . . who can tell how good and merciful is the Lord God of Abraham, of Jacob, of Isaac, of Tobias! . . . O my Tobiolo Stefano. . .’ Since either Stefano or Manzoni had expressed the fear that she would feel alone and be afraid, she protested: ‘And you two (Alessandro and you, Stefano) whatever has got into your head or heads, that I might get agitated at the news that you are both staying on at the lake. . . both of you! what are you thinking of? I am waited on hand, foot and finger, better than before, because Jegher, Binzaghi, the women, Signora Teresina, are all at my disposal, and never leave the house by day or night. Then there are the Enricos, who are quite a troupe and keep me company, and ensure the house is safe upstairs [apparently Enrico and his family were in Milan at the time, occupying the top floor of the house]: then the Barni ladies, and all the Sogni menfolk, and all the people of all these people and, last but not least, Nanny and the door-porters. But I’ve never felt any fears, or doubts, or need of anyone, day or night.’

  In May Matilde returned to Siena. She was received with great rejoicing; she had, in the house on the Lizza, ‘such a lovely little room, with everything I could possibly need for my comfort. Bista himself saw to it that the furniture chosen for me should look well. . . At Pisa I had lost my appetite altogether, I had to force myself to swallow what little I ate. Now I’m even getting my appetite back. – I’d love to be well when you come, dear Papa, and be able to enjoy your company fully! We talk such a lot about your coming, and we think about it all the time! How lovely it will be to show you Giorgino, and really to have you here with us! . . . Dear Papa, I’ve kept all my accounts carefully. . . Of the 1200 (lire) you sent me, I’ve spent 1125. . . Now there’s still the doctor! . . . For his visits I owe him 45 Francesconi, that is L300, but then there are the bleedings, the leeches, cupping-glasses, the dressings with the vesicants. . . 160 lire in all. I should be very happy if you could send me this, because Bista certainly can’t lend it to me, and he told me only yesterday he was so sorry; and I’m afraid it would be a bit too long to wait until you come. . . Poor Papa! I cost you so much and am no use to you!’

  In June Bista wrote to Manzoni that Matilde was not at all well. He offered to join him at Stresa and take him back to Siena with him.

  Manzoni to Bista, from Stresa:

  ‘The pleasure your kind letter gave me was considerably darkened by the news you gave of Matilde. But I choose to hope it is nothing more than you mention, that is, a slowing down in the progress of her convalescence.’

  Then he gave news of Abbé Rosmini. ‘About the incomparable man I
am with. . . unfortunately the best I can say is that all hope is not lost. In the last few days his pains have diminished, even almost stopped; the dropsy is no worse, the bladder functioning better; but in spite of this partial improvement, the wasting continues, caused by the extreme difficulty or near impossibility of digesting even the blandest of food. . . What does remain constant in his condition, and you know what a lofty condition that is, is his spirit. The resignation, or rather the complete and natural acquiescence in God’s will, the serenity which results from it, all this is apparent in his every word, every act, in the smile unchanged in such a changed appearance. . .’