The Manzoni Family (44 page)

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. . .'

‘How can I thank you, dear, good Bista, for your willingness to come and meet me here?

‘But I hold firm to my hope and determination to come there, or wherever you are in September, or after. . . Let Vittoria send the news to Pietro, who will send it straight on to me if I am still here. To you, to her, to our Matilde, one loving embrace from your unworthy but most loving father.'

One of the last exchanges between Rosmini and Manzoni is described thus by someone who was present:

‘The patient, moved by extraordinary affection, squeezed Manzoni's hand more tightly, and pulling him closer, kissed him. Manzoni, surprised and greatly disturbed, bent down at once to kiss the hand of his friend which he was holding; but realizing, as he said then, that this was to do no more than the other had done, he became in some way still more disturbed and confused, and hastened to kiss his feet: the only way (in his words) remaining to him of resuming his position, though Rosmini protested in vain, by word and gesture, saying: – Ah! this time he wins because I have no strength left – And they clasped hands again.'

Tommaseo came to Stresa. He had been almost blind for some time. Teresa to Stefano:

‘It was also a comfort to hear from you that poor Rosmini had the consolation of seeing his childhood friend again! – Tommaseo! – Poor Tommaseo! So poor in his purse! so rich in intellect and in heart!
Blind
as he is, to come from Greece, in order
not to see
his Rosmini! who will perhaps have suffered all the more to see him with his own eyes reduced to that condition. – O, for pity's sake. . . Tommaseo!' In fact, Tommaseo had been back from Greece for a year, and had just come from Turin.

Rosmini died on 1 July. Rossari came to tell Teresa. Teresa to Stefano:

‘Poor dear Stefano! my poor Alessandro! poor me! poor us! poor everyone who loved him! I've known for
three hours
now. . . I don't know where you two dear ones are today – whether still at Stresa – or at Lesa – or on your way in this storm – but the Lord will be with you, because you went for His Saint – and you returned blessed in Heaven by his Saint, for whom there will be such rejoicing in Heaven! . . . But what of us! . . . of .you! . . . of all his people! . . . what a desert! . . . here is Rossari come again from Stefano! Rossari from the Afflicted, – afflicted as he is himself, for the loss, for Alessandro, and for us! and for himself.'

Manzoni to Teresa:

‘O my dear Teresa! this morning I heard in the Gospel for the Mass the words:
It is finished,
which were so close to the terrible feeling that filled my heart, that I was moved to offer it to the source of all consolation.

‘The usual feelings which make me so happy to see you again, are increased by my need to share with you this great grief.'

That summer cholera had spread to various parts of Italy, and still continued in the autumn. Teresa could speak of nothing else in her letters to her son. She wanted to join him at Lesa, but Alessandro was reminded by Lesa and the lake of the happy times he had spent there with Rosmini, so that summer he did not want to leave Milan. But there had been cases of cholera at Brusuglio and also in Milan. Teresa persuaded him to leave, and they set off for Lesa in August. Then Teresa remained alone at Lesa, because he went to the Arconatis in their villa of Cassolnovo, and Stefano went off to Paris with his servant Francesco.

In October Manzoni was still with the Arconatis. They had invited Teresa too, but she would not move from Lesa, as she said she was not strong enough. Manzoni was very happy at Cassolnovo with the Arconatis, and from then on he got in the habit of going there often.

Over the years Teresa had increasingly adopted the habits and attitudes of a sick woman; she had done so all her life, but did so more and more. She dominated those about her with her infirmities. Constantly claiming to be ill, weak, indisposed, bit by bit she really did lose her health. And in the end this constant state of illness must have become tedious to Manzoni. He had supported her for years with extreme patience; he had believed in all those subtle ailments she claimed to feel, or had taught himself to believe them; he was profoundly attached to her, and her infirmities had been at the heart of their emotional relationship. In a sense, he even adopted her infirmities as a shield; they allowed him to isolate himself in a state of permanent apprehension, where any other preoccupations or apprehensions that filtered through seemed to lose their harsh reality and urgency. But bit by bit he had tired of this daily apprehension that had been going on for years, keeping the whole house in a state of alarm. He was beginning to show signs of impatience. From Lesa he fled to Cassolnovo.

Manzoni to Teresa, from Cassolnovo in October:

‘Of the two letters you enclosed. . . one was from Matilde to Pietro. The news of her health would be quite good, if there were not a sad novelty, her cough. She expresses such a longing to see me, and talks in such a way of the grief she felt and tears she shed when she was told my journey would be delayed, that I feel most distressed at the idea of putting it off again until next spring. If the cholera dies out in Tuscany, as it seems to have done in the Genovesato, the approach of winter must not be seen as a sufficient reason to delay. You know how sad I would be to be separated from you for a period that cannot be brief: but it absolutely must be done, sooner or later; and you yourself want this comfort for my daughters and for me. Of course, all this depends on my assumption which, I hope, thank Heaven, is well founded, that your health is, I dare not say flourishing, but at least not a source of anxiety.'

Matilde to her father in October:

‘I put off writing to you until today in the hope of receiving an answer from Pietro or a letter from you any day, but unfortunately I've waited quite a time and I am too eager to hear about you and my brothers to delay any longer asking you for news,
in all charity.
I wrote to Pietro on the 25th of last month, and we've been anxiously awaiting an answer, especially since Pietro spoke of some cases at Brusuglio where people have been suddenly stricken, which naturally rather alarmed us. . . I was encouraged by Pietro to speak to him of things that are on my mind. In these days when one can't help feeling rather agitated, it really is distressing never to have news of one's dearest relatives far away, having no letters from you after thinking for months we were to see you again! Forgive me, dear Papa, I'm afraid it is wrong of me to lament like this, I'm afraid of being tedious, but not of seeming demanding. . . do you know you haven't written to me for months, and can you not imagine what a line from you means to me? Every morning I wait for the post like one obsessed, saying to myself, I'll surely have a letter today, and every day there's nothing! . . .'

Manzoni to Matilde, still from Cassolnovo, still in October:

‘Pietro sent on to me here the letter you wrote to him, and I've read it and re-read it with feelings I cannot express. My poor, dear Matilde! So the improvement, which certainly had taken place, in your tormented health, was not maintained in the way expected? But the fact that other distressing problems have at least diminished, even if they have not gone completely, gives hope that the new enemy, the cough, with the treatment you are receiving and all the care shown to you, and above all by God's mercy, may also give way gradually. May your sweet resignation, your tender, humble desire to perfect it, and the prayers of those who love you so dearly, obtain grace with Him!

‘What can I say of the desire to see us again, expressed in your letter with words that are fixed in my heart. I think every day, many times a day, of your weeping at the Magazzino de' Marmi. Oh, why can I not tell you certainly that we will come before the winter? But since I was with you, I feel more strongly how the years have taken their toll, and I am no longer so hardened against the vicissitudes of the atmosphere. Last winter, as you know, I had one of those nasty inflammations to which I have been subject for some time. . .

‘Enough, at the end of the month, or at the beginning of the next, I shall be in Milan, and there I'll make up my mind, according to the doctor's opinion, and how I feel. I hope to find a letter from you there which will reassure me about your health, and tell me that, if this plan so dear to our hearts has to be put off till the spring, you will not be too upset, my dear, good Matilde. . .'

In the letter Matilde had written to Pietro, which Pietro had sent on to their father, she said she had wept ‘at the Magazzino de' Marmi', the name given then to the Forte dei Marmi, where the Giorginis had a house, and where they had gone with Matilde in September to escape from the cholera.

Back in Milan that autumn of 1855, Manzoni became aware of the disarray of Enrico's financial entanglements and general situation. The fact was that his affairs had never prospered, but there had been times when they seemed not to be going too badly. In December 1854 Manzoni had written to Vittoria:

‘Enrico often comes to Milan about his silkworm contracts. His speculations in seed are very active this year, and would be much more so if he had capital, but I hope that this will come, even if he proceeds slowly, and then this speculation could be of real benefit to him. . .'

Next year Enrico was besieged by creditors. Obtaining nothing from him, they turned to his father. In December 1855, that is, exactly a year after that rosy forecast about Enrico's affairs, Manzoni wrote Vittoria a long letter, enclosing what he called the ‘little promissory note', that is, the order for Matilde's half year allowance and the interest on the holdings, and telling her about his own anxieties and preoccupations: he begged her to destroy the letter, and she did so. But Matilde had read it. It had caught her eye when Vittoria was out, and seeing her father's writing, she had opened it: she had been appalled and had called Bista to explain some terms she found obscure. When Vittoria read the letter, she too was horrified. She wrote to her father on 13 December:

‘My dear father!

‘I am assailed by such a variety of emotions that I really don't know where to put my head, or what to say to you, dear Papa! The joy of seeing a longed-for letter from you! . . . and the painful news you are obliged to give us in it. . . the gratitude for what you have chosen to do for us, poor Papa! . . . and the bitterness of knowing that your situation perhaps makes a sacrifice of what you have done so generously [sending the allowance and interest]. Which all combines to embitter the comfort the Lord had sent us in the shape of your letter, and to add a painful sense of mortification and sadness to our gratitude which is so sincere and which I cannot find words to express! . . . Poor, poor Papa! what worries and griefs you have to bear! You can imagine that this has been a grief to us too, for although far from you, our hearts are always with you, and we live in heart and mind with our poor, much afflicted family! . . . Enrico's situation causes us grave anxiety and distress! . . .'

Her father answered on 18 December:

‘I must say at once I was wrong to upset you all to no purpose by that outburst about my present circumstances. But I can also say at once in excuse that it never occurred to me you might see a “sacrifice”. . . oh my Vittoria, thank Heaven I shall have enough for our necessities this year, while hoping for better things next year; and is not what you call a sacrifice a sacred part of these necessities?

‘You must not expect news of Enrico's affairs, at least for some time. Trustees have been appointed for him and for his wife, but there is a chaos to be disentangled. I know they are both quite calm: an excellent sign if. . . it means they have good reason to think there will be enough to settle their debts and still live decently, until they have what sadly little I shall leave him. . .'