The Manzoni Family (49 page)

From the priest at Casatenovo, don Saulle Miglio, Manzoni received a letter, written and sent to the priest by Emilia, Enrico's wife. It was full of bitter resentment against Pietro. She accused Pietro of living at his ease while they were in abject poverty. She accused him of running them down to his father, and dissuading him from helping them. On the one hand she said she hoped for a reconciliation between the brothers, and on the other hinted at her intention to
make it publicly known how things stood.
Manzoni wrote back sadly to the priest, sending a list in minute detail of the sums sent to Enrico and expenses sustained on his behalf in the course of the year.

Then one of Enrico's daughters, Sofia, became seriously ill. She was fourteen. Enrico wrote to his father:

‘My daughter Sofia needs foods which I unfortunately cannot provide, after exhausting every possible human endeavour on her behalf these last three months; I should therefore like to beg you to send her a morsel of some of the dishes from your table, which would give her so much pleasure. Doctor Garavaglia insists I should take her to the country with the others, who are all more or less unwell all the time, and he wanted me to ask you to let me take them to Brusuglio for a few days, after which Sofia could go for a while to her sister, which is impossible at the moment. I wrote to suggest it to Pietro, so that he could tell me if you were delaying much longer going there, but I had no answer. If this is not possible I should have to find some sort of small house, as it is my sacred duty to provide what is required for Sofia's health.

‘If you could see the poor girl's exhausted condition, it would move you to pity. . . Sofia asked me to write all this to you, which strengthened my courage. She would like a little bar of chocolate, and, if it were possible, perhaps a pullet, such as you used to send some time ago, would be very nice. . .'

It seemed that Sofia got better. But they did not move from Milan; and Enrico gave his father a fairly desolate picture of the family and himself. It was July, and he had to go to the office in his winter clothes: ‘and I assure you I am suffering because there are times when I feel I am stifling.' He had had to borrow money from friends and ask for advances on his salary. ‘My children's health is suffering because for six months and more they have not been able to leave the house as they have neither clothes nor shoes, and I am blamed for this; moreover I will soon have no more indoor clothes for them. . . Your cast-off clothes and linen would do very well for Eugenio and Lodovico. Unfortunately there are eleven of us, and you know how I was without anything from the time I arrived in Milan. . . Now I have to feed Sofia on chicken. . . and I have to make her soups almost like jelly, and your cook will tell you what they cost.

‘Oh Father, please take thought, allow me to trust in your goodness and mercy, as I kiss your hands, with a heart deeply moved. A son implores you at a moment of supreme need.'

His father came to his aid. The family was sent to the country, not to Brusuglio but somewhere else. Enrico remained in Milan; his father sent Filippo to speak to him; he declared to Filippo that he would accept no intermediary in his dealings with his father. Then he told his father he was thinking of moving house; his father found him a place, paid the rent, and arranged to have some of his own furniture sent there. But Enrico left that apartment and took another that he preferred; he moved in with the furniture, and wrote to tell his father the new address when it was a
fait accompli.
His father:

‘You tell me you've found a new place to live, and send me the address as if it were the most natural thing in the world. . . You had asked me for wood, and, as usual, I had given orders that it should be sent to you; but I have cancelled the order, as it cannot be delivered
tq
your home, and I do not wish, by sending it elsewhere, to seem to condone this removal.'

At the same time Sofia, who seemed to be recovering, fell ill again and died. Enrico's oldest daughter and her cousin, the two Enrichettas, came to tell Manzoni. Manzoni sent money.

Enrico:

‘My excellent and sacred Father,

‘God bless you for the benefit brought to a desolate family by your affectionate words and the merciful offerings you sent yesterday by our two Enrichettas.

‘We are all broken by the physical fatigue of caring for the Angel we have lost. . . and I accept, dear Father, your per mission to come to Brusuglio for a few days; but as I do not wish to sadden your heart at the sight of our desolation, I shall be happy if you will allow me two rooms, where I shall remain hidden with my family, to seek the calm and strength I lack today. . .'

In the New Year of 1866 news reached Milan that Massimo d'Azeglio was very ill. He was in Turin, and Provost Ratti set out to go there. Rossari informed Stefano, who was at Morosolo; then the news appeared in the paper
La Perseveranza.
Stefano wrote to Rossari: ‘I can't get used to the idea of not seeing Massimo again, after I've known him for thirty-two years and had such a special affection for him! All my castles in the air that one year I could show him I was a worthy pupil, have vanished! . . . And he is hardly sixty-seven! ... I should like to go and see him, as so many others are doing. . . but what then? would Massimo have confidence in me as a nurse? . . . would I be in the way or welcome at such a time? I really don't know what to think. . .' Rossari sent him the text of a telegram which had come to Provost Ratti's house: ‘The Marchese's condition is still grave though better than yesterday. – His wife arrived in Turin yesterday. – The patient received last communion. – They are expecting Ambassador d'Azeglio tomorrow' [Emanuel, his nephew].

When he saw his wife before him, Massimo said to her: ‘As usual, as you are coming, I am going.'

He died on 15 January.

Manzoni to Bista:

‘You can imagine how heartfelt are the thanks I send you on my own behalf and on behalf of everyone here for the rather better news you give of our poor dear Vittoria. Let us hope soon to have
much
better,
and before long really good news. Your own feelings will tell you what a blow the death of poor Massimo has been to us. It is some consolation, especially for those who had strong loving bonds with him, to see how he is universally lamented; and rightly so because the fact that one did not agree in every point with a man who did so much of great value and distinction does not mean that his passing is not regarded as a public tragedy. . .'

Vittoria had become our poor dear Vittoria', this was how her father referred to her in his letters; he was in the habit of writing not to her but to Bista, with whom he had a cheerful relationship that grew closer with the years. He was one of the people he most enjoyed talking and writing to. He had Pietro; but Pietro was essentially a prop, the shoulder he lent on, or his faithful shadow as he walked. But Bista moved in a different world: he was close to him, yet different from him. He sent Bista little notes almost every day with persistent questions on points of language:

‘Which is the common or prevalent term in Florence,
Orologiere, Orologiaro
or
Oriolaio?'

At the bottom of every letter he wrote greetings for ‘poor dear Vittoria' and the hope that she was a bit better. But he had detached himself from her by now; perhaps he was too old and too tired to take another illness to his heart.

Vittoria and Bista came to Brusuglio with the children in that summer of 1866. Bista had given up his teaching post.

In the autumn they took a house in Florence. ‘Babbo' Gaetano came to live with them. Matildina was sent to the Conservatorio di Sant' Anna in Pisa, because her mother could not take charge of her. Giorgino was sent to the Military Academy in Milan.

In the summer of 1867 Manzoni made a will, annulling a previous one. He would have liked to disinherit Enrico and Filippo in favour of their children, but the law no longer allowed this.

In his will he favoured Pietro, and absolved him of any obligation to account to the other heirs. ‘My son Pier Luigi shall be protected against any loss or damage he may incur in the realization and effective obtaining of credits as a result of advances already made to his brothers which were in no way imputable to him. . . . Whereas the management of my affairs by my son Pier Luigi was never authorized by power of attorney, but was founded entirely on mutual trust and good faith. . . it is my intention that the said Pier Luigi shall not be molested by my heirs, nor required to account for any actions whatsoever taken in the course of his aforesaid management.' Furniture and furnishings and linen at Brusuglio and via del Morone were left to Pietro, since Enrico and Filippo had already been given furniture, furnishings and linen.

In a letter to his father Filippo spoke of his children. Giulio was a soldier. Massimiliano and Cristina were away at school. He said nothing about the youngest or about his wife.

Filippo died in February 1868 of the kidney trouble he had contracted years before. Enrico wrote asking his father for money to buy a black coat to attend the funeral.

Tommaseo wrote of Filippo: ‘They say he married a lady of low life.' Because of this reputation, poor Erminia Catena had never been received in the family.

After Filippo's death, Erminia Catena wrote to Manzoni every New Year; she sent her best wishes, and thanked him ‘for all the kindness and help which, in your exquisite goodness, you continue to show towards the children of the lamented Filippo.'

Enrico lost his job. It was not his fault, he wrote to his father, others had been dismissed, too, for economic reasons. He had the idea of sending an appeal to Prince Umberto. Prince Umberto replied, ‘expressing his regret', but it was impossible for him to do anything. His wife than asked for an audience with the prince, which was granted. She obtained nothing. They asked Manzoni to write to the director of the Savings Bank. Manzoni refused. Now Enrico's wife, Emilia Redaelli, was also writing to him. She would ask for clothes for Eugenio or Lodovico. ‘My revered father-in-law. . .'

At last Enrico got a small job as an assistant at the Braidense library. But other misfortunes befell him. He had a bad hand. It was ‘a carcinoma on the middle finger'. He wrote to his father:

‘From my earliest years I was taught it is our duty to preserve our life until it pleases God to take it from us. . . It is my sacred duty to continue to appeal to you. To whom could I appeal for help to cure an ill I bear from birth, if not to you, Father? Besides, you never refused anything to Filippo or to Pietro, and I too am your son, and child of my poor mother, like the others.'

He asked for money to go to Salsomaggiore to take the waters. He got the money. He sent his son Alessandro asking for more money and swearing it would be his very last request. Shortly after, he asked again.

In the summer of 1870 his father wrote to him:

‘Enrico!

‘After so many years of sacrifice and pain on my part, and of promises not kept and repeated with the same persistence on yours; and after a recent more considerable sacrifice and a new, more solemn assurance given to me on that occasion, I should not have had to expect another request from you.

‘What I give you annually, arising from your receipts, would, in the opinion of any honest, practical person, suffice for the decent upkeep of a family, even a bigger family than yours, if properly managed. . .

‘I am eighty-five; and you should be content to compensate, by allowing me die in peace, for not allowing me to live in peace for so many years, not only by the distresses which came from you directly, but also by the many, many people you have brought down upon me, who have been one of the most painful experiences of my life.

‘Any speech with you can only serve to recall and repeat for me so many painful things; your letters have already hurt me so much that I have had to declare, over and over again, that I would not receive any more, unless you had something new to say: a proposition I mean at last to carry out.

‘I do what I can and more; you should do what any honourable feelings dictate. And I pray God, from the bottom of my heart, to grant you all the blessings I could desire for myself.'

Non è ver che sia Pierino
Il peggior die miei ragazzi,
Tutti e sette sono pazzi,
Dalla Giulia al Filippino.

[It is not true that Pierino / Is the worst of my brood, / All seven of them are mad, / From Giulia to Filippino.]

This was a jingle Manzoni had written years and year ago, when Matilde was not yet born. How far away the jingle must have seemed, if he still remembered it, if it still danced in his memory! That was a time when he was still under the illusion that parenthood was a cheerful, easy affair. Only a few years later he knew this was not so; on the contrary, for him it was a very difficult area to cope with. Now it was a deserted landscape where his gaze no longer ventured. It was true he had Pietro and his family: but all the other tempests and losses made that family group seem less solid and secure: and in this winter landscape he was like a solitary tree buffetted by the north winds.

There is a studio photograph of Manzoni, sitting, with Pietro's family around him. He is there, small, bent, shrunken, solitary. Behind him stands Pietro, in profile, serious. Women and girls fill the space, parading their satisfied expressions, pleased to find themselves assembled to pose for a portrait. He is shrinking there, shut away in his thoughts as in a shell, exiled in a world with which he no longer had anything in common.

He must have asked himself endlessly in his old age for reasons and explanations. He must have wondered why, when Matilde was calling him and dying, he did not move. And why those two, Enrico and Filippo, limpid and gentle in childhood, had became two such strange, querulous, unfortunate men, full of subterfuge and lies, and if the cause was in their natures, or some fault of his, or a hostile fate. Perhaps he would have thought he had been somehow to blame, at some remote point in his life: but what and where was too difficult now to establish, and futile.