Giacomo Leopardi, the greatest Italian poet of the Nineteenth
Century, was, born at Recanati, a town of the March of Ancona, on the
twenty-ninth of June, 1798; the eldest son of Count Monaldo Leopardi,
and Adelaide, his wife, daughter of the Marquis Antici. He had four
brothers and one sister--Paolina. His father possessed a splendid
library, and was a man of learning and literary tastes, appearing
himself as an author in prose and verse.
Recanati is situated on an eminence in the Appenines, not far from
Ancona and the celebrated shrine of Loreto; and as a biographer of our
poet says: "Its natural beauties are superb, and the genius of its
great son has made them incomparable." Up to the age of twenty-four
Leopardi did not leave his native place. The constant sight of
so lovely a landscape, bordered in the distance by the Adriatic,
contributed in no slight measure to give him that exquisite taste and
sympathy for nature, for which he is unique among the poets of his
country.
He, very early, gave proofs of extraordinary ability. Of modern
languages, he knew--besides his own--English, French, German, and
Spanish. His knowledge of Greek and Latin is proved by his philological
works; and at the age of fourteen, his intimate acquaintance with
Rabbinical literature astonished some learned Jews of Ancona. But his
industry was fatal to himself. As a child he seems to have enjoyed good
health; but from the age of sixteen to twenty-one his form became bent
and his constitution weaker and weaker; and from the latter date, his
life was one series of infirmities.
The deepest melancholy took possession of his mind. His imagination was
of intense strength, but it served only to conjure up the gloomiest
visions. He conceived a morbid hatred of Recanati, hatred uttered in
immortal verse in the "Ricordanze." Though surrounded by those he
loved, and living in a handsome style in his father's house, life
became unendurable to him. He conceived a wild idea of flight, and
actually wrote a letter to his father, explaining his motives for so
doing. But happily the scheme was abandoned, and the letter never
delivered, although it was preserved by his brother Carlo and published
some years ago. This letter was written in July, 1819. He complains of
the little liberty that was allowed him; of the dreadful monotony of
life at I Recanati, of the little opportunity he had of exercising his
N talents to his future advantage; and of the sufferings inflicted upon
him by his "strange imagination" in the absence of all pleasure and
recreation.
This last complaint was certainly well-founded. If ever man required
distraction and amusement, it was Leopardi. With his self-harassing
mind, his melancholy, his delicacy of health, solitude was to him the
worst of evils. Change might have done him some good, but change was
not to come for another three years, and when it came, it was too late.
In the course of 1819, to his other miseries was added that of failing
sight, in consequence of overstudy. He was obliged to pass nearly
twelve months without reading or writing; and during this period he
began to meditate on the problems of life, laying the foundation of the
gloomy philosophy which was to inspire all his future productions.
Two years previously he had begun to correspond with the celebrated
writer, Pietro Giordani, a man of brilliant intellect and generous
character, who became immediately his intense admirer and devoted
friend; and who spoke and wrote of him in terms that might then have
seemed extravagant, but which were fully justified by the event. Our
poet published, among other works of less importance, translations of
passages from the "Odyssey," and an essay on the "Popular Errors of the
Ancients."
But works of greater value, though of smaller dimensions, were soon
to follow. At the age of twenty he published the "Ode to Italy" and
the "Poem on the Monument of Dante;" and, two years later, one of his
masterpieces, the "Ode to Angelo Mai." It is sad to relate that Mai in
later years, instead of being grateful to the poet for addressing him
in sublime verse, depreciated his learning, and coolly appropriated the
emendations to an ancient Greek author, which had been communicated to
him by the too-confiding Leopardi. Indeed, our poet showed himself in
Greek more than a match for that celebrated scholar.
The winter at Recanati being cold and windy, his parents were at last
persuaded to give him leave to go to Rome in November, 1822, hoping the
milder climate would produce a beneficial effect.
On arriving in Rome, he wrote to his brother Carlo, confessing that
all the marvels of that city had already palled upon him, and that
his melancholy, instead of diminishing, was increasing. Nor did this
impression vanish with time. He tells his sister Paolina that the
most stupid person in Recanati had more sense than the wisest Roman.
The frivolity of society disgusted him, and even the grandeur of
the public buildings wrought a disagreeable effect upon his mind.
He made, however, some pleasant and agreeable acquaintances, among
others, the historian Niebuhr, at that time Prussian Ambassador
to the Vatican. Niebuhr conceived the highest admiration for his
talents, and spoke of him in terms of the warmest eulogy to Cardinal
Consalvi, Secretary of State to Pius VII. The Cardinal offered him
rapid promotion on condition of his entering the priesthood; but
not feeling the vocation, Leopardi was too conscientious to do so.
For his own prosperity this refusal was unfortunate; but we must
approve the motives that prompted it, and, indeed, we could scarcely
picture to ourselves the author of "Amore e Morte" in the garb of a
Monsignor. Pius VII. died a few months later, and Consalvi retired
from the direction of public affairs. So favourable an opportunity
never returned. Niebuhr offered our poet an appointment in Prussia;
but he declined it, dreading the long journey and the rigorous climate
of Berlin. His greatest pleasure consisted in receiving letters from
home, and when his health permitted, in pursuing his studies in the
Vatican library. The literary society of Rome was not congenial, its
exclusive devotion to antiquarian minutiae seemed to him both tedious
and trifling.
In May, 1823, he returned to Recanati as ailing as when he left it,
and life appeared to him more "weary, stale, flat and unprofitable"
than before. He had hoped, as he says in the "Ricordanze," that beyond
the "azure mountains" bounding his native horizon, a world of unknown
felicity extended; he had explored it, and found nothing but vanity and
affliction of spirit.
But as years advanced, his genius was becoming more mature, his
thoughts more profound, his style more beautiful. In 1824 he published,
at Bologna, the first edition of his "Canti," containing the three
poems already mentioned, and seven others, of which the last is that
entitled "Alla Sua Donna," which is, in the present arrangement of
his poems, the eighteenth, its former place being now occupied by
the "Primo Amore." These splendid verses show his genius in its full
meridian.
Two years had elapsed since his return from Rome when he received an
offer from the Milanese publisher, Stella, to undertake an edition of
the complete works of Cicero, and to reside with him whilst engaged on
this task. He accepted the invitation readily, and started in July,
1825, staying at Bologna for a month on the way, during the great
heat. Bologna he liked more than any other town he had yet seen, and he
had some agreeable friends, amongst others, the devoted Giordani. When
he arrived in Milan there were too many gaieties to please him, and he
longed to return to Bologna. He did so towards the end of September,
and stayed in Bologna until November of the following year, excepting
a short trip to Ravenna. During this period, he was occupied with
the edition of Cicero, translations from the Greek, and a commentary
on Petrarch. But the pleasure he took in Bologna did not last long;
the cold winter tried him, and he began to regret the liveliness and
hospitality of Milan.
Always wretched at Recanati, he still, by an amiable contradiction of
sentiment, when absent, pined for home; and in November, 1826, his
family had him again in their midst, although he was so enfeebled that
he was obliged to make the journey by short stages. It would appear
that during his sojourn at Bologna he had not been insensible to the
attractions of love, but love could be for him nothing but a source of
torment; and, as his first return home was signalised by the wreck of
hope, so was his second by the blighting of affection. He seemed like
the hero of the "Pilgrim's Progress," to be writhing in the grasp of
Giant Despair; and from the day of his arrival, till his departure in
the following April, he was not once seen in the streets of Recanati.
He sought a remedy for his sorrows by returning to Bologna, but in
vain; and, on the twentieth of June, 1827, he removed to Florence,
where he enjoyed the society of Giordani; but an acute inflammation
of the eyes confined him to the house, and long prevented him from
inspecting the treasures of art that overflow the Tuscan city. At this
epoch he published his "Operette Morali," a series of dialogues and
essays, offering, according to the best critics of his country, the
most perfect specimen of prose in the Italian language.
In the autumn he somewhat recovered, and wishing to continue the
improvement, he avoided the cold of Florence by wintering at Pisa.
Florence, as a residence, he did not like, but with Pisa he was
enchanted. The improvement, however, was but slight, and his nerves
were in such a weak state that any sort of application or study was out
of the question. In April, 1828, he was able to apply himself again to
composition and seemed to revive; when the death of one of his brothers
afflicted him profoundly. From June to November he was again in
Florence, but his yearning for home made itself felt after the recent
bereavement.
He started on the twelfth of November for Recanati, in the company of
a young man, who was afterwards known to fame as Vincenzo Gioberti. He
found his birthplace darkened by the shadow of death, that seemed to
him the herald of his own. His former gloom returned, but in a more
terrible; he saw only annihilation before him, and took the last glance
of life in his superb "Ricordanze," the most richly coloured, the most
deeply pathetic, the most unfathomably profound of all his poems.
In 1830, his Florentine friends, wishing to have him once more in
their midst, urged his return to their city. Accordingly, in May, he
took leave of his family, little thinking he should never see them
again. It would be curious to enquire what made him so wretched when
at home, and yet, when absent, always longing to be there. His brother
Carlo said many years later to Prospero Viani, the editor of his
correspondence, that none of his poems written elsewhere had the beauty
of those composed at Recanati; and when Viani mentioned the "Ginestra,"
Carlo replied that even the "Ginestra" was conceived at Recanati. Some
biographers say the "Risorgimento" was written at Pisa, but Ranieri,
who was probably well informed, says it was written at, Recanati, and
this assertion is, I think, borne out by internal evidence. The "Canto
Notturno" seems also to have been written in his birthplace. Thus
Carlo's statement would be correct. It is observable that the poems
subsequent to the "Canto Notturno," with the exception of "Aspasia"
and the little poem "To Himself," have an air of languor foreign to
his earlier productions. This languor is perceptible even in the
sublime "Ginestra," and it is not absent in passages of the "Pensiero
Dominante," "Amore e Morte," and the long mock-heroic "Paralipomeni."
The repose, sepulchral as it may have seemed to him, of Recanati,
and the exquisite beauty of its scenery, were conducive to the
exercise of the imagination. Nor must we forget that he spoke of other
places--except Pisa and Bologna--with equal bitterness. The climate
seems really to have worked havoc on his delicate frame. He allowed its
inhabitants only one merit, that of speaking Italian with purity and
elegance.
His stay in Florence, which extended from May, 1830, to October of
the following year, was made memorable by the publication of another
edition of his "Canti," with many poems added to the former ten, and
with a dedicatory epistle to his "Tuscan friends." At this period he
made the acquaintance of Ranieri, a Neapolitan with literary talents,
who was to be his intimate friend and future biographer.
In October, 1831, he suddenly vanished from Florence and appeared
in Rome; why, none could tell. He wrote to his brother Carlo on the
subject, begging him not to ask for the details of a long romance, full
of pain and anguish. It is conjectured that he fixed his affections
on an unworthy object and was bitterly undeceived. Whatever the
circumstances may have been, it is certain that in Rome his mental
misery, always great, rose to an intolerable height, and, sad to
relate, he for a time harboured thoughts of self-destruction But the
strength of his character overcame the strength of his affliction, and
he gradually softened to a serener mood. At this time, the Florentine
Academia della Crusea elected him a member--a worthy tribute to his
genius and eloquence. After five months sojourn in Rome he returned to
Florence, where he fell so dangerously ill that the rumour was spread
of his decease. The doctors urged him to try a milder climate, and in
September, 1833, he set out for Naples, accompanied by Ranieri.
In Naples and its vicinity the remainder of his life was to be passed.
The natural beauties of the surrounding country were delightful to
one so appreciative of their charm. His health improved after a time,
and he was able to display the riches of his intellect by writing the
"Paralipomeni," many detached thoughts in prose like the "Pensées"
of Pascal and the Maxims of La Rochefoucauld; and, above all, his
philosophic and immortal poem, the "Ginestra," of which it may be said
that, had he written nothing else, his fame would be perpetuated by
this production alone.
In March, 1836, he who had formerly sighed so deeply for death, and
who had invoked it in such exquisite verse, felt so greatly improved
in health that he imagined he had many years before him. But this was
only the last flickering of the flame before it went out for ever.
The cholera was raging in 1837, and the prospect of falling a victim
to a mysterious and terrible disease filled him with horror. His
strange aversion to the places where he lived revived with unreasonable
violence. He wrote of Naples as a den of barbarous African savagery.
He yearned for home, and pined for his family, and the last letter
he wrote to his father--three weeks before his decease--was full of
plans for returning to Recanati, as soon as his infirmities and the
Quarantine would allow. But his earthly sorrows were drawing to a
close, and he died suddenly at Capo di Monte, when preparing to go
out for a drive, at five o'clock in the afternoon, on the fourteenth
of June, 1837, aged thirty-eight years, eleven months and sixteen
days.[1] "His body," says Ranieri, "saved as by a miracle from the
common and confused burial-place, enforced by the Cholera Regulations,
was interred in the suburban Church of San Vitale, on the road of
Pozzuoli, where a plain slab indicates his memory to the visitor." He
was slight and short of stature, somewhat bent, and very pale, with a
large forehead and blue eyes, an aquiline nose and refined features, a
soft voice, and a most attractive smile.
[Footnote 1: His father survived him ten years; his sister, Paolina,
thirty-two years; and his brother Carlo nearly forty-one years.]
From the annals of his life we proceed to the chronicle of his glory.
But to understand the poet we must have a knowledge of the man. Homer,
Shakespeare, and Ariosto can be appreciated without any acquaintance
with their lives and characters. It is not so with poets whose works
give utterance to their subjective feelings. Even Dante requires some
biographical elucidation. How much more is this the case with a writer
whose originality is so pronounced, and whose views are so coloured by
his own nature as to appear surprising, and at first alarming, to the
reader!
If Aristotle be right in his opinion that all great geniuses are
inclined to melancholy, Leopardi ought surely to be considered the
greatest genius that ever lived. His gloomy view of life is expressed
in every line he wrote. It draws a dark veil across the gorgeous
verses to Angelo Mai; it fills the cadences of the "Ricordanze" with
mysterious melody; and it appears in august repose in the meditations
of the "Ginestra." Not content with giving it utterance in verse, he
is sedulous to support it by reason and disquisition in prose. That
there was something morbid and diseased in it can hardly be denied,
even after we have made full allowances for the fact that his gloom is
metaphysical and transcendental, and not strictly applied, or meant to
apply to the every-day occurrences of life. But we must go further and
enquire how it came that a man of such powers of intellect yielded to
this tendency.
I think several explanations offer themselves, without recurring to
his physical infirmities, a solution of the problem which always gave
him the deepest offence. In the first place, we must bear in mind the
singular training, or, rather, absence of training, he experienced.
From the age of ten he had no instructors except himself. His father's
vast library quenched his thirst for knowledge; but knowledge so
acquired must necessarily be, in important respects, uncertain and
fragmentary. His ideas, never being contradicted, never influenced, and
never softened, must gradually have obtained such a hold on his mind as
to establish an eternal tyranny. An imagination of marvellous vividness
and richness was fostered by the exquisite scenery of his birthplace,
and allowed to prey upon itself in the undisturbed retirement of the
parental abode. He informs us that in his childhood he enjoyed the most
delicious visions of coming happiness. But in time the dreams were
dispelled, and truth alone remained. We all have our illusions, from
which we must sooner or later awake, but few of us take their loss so
deeply to heart as Leopardi. And this consideration makes us aware
of the fact that all his thoughts and feelings were of preternatural
depth. Others might allow themselves to be diverted from the stern
reality of things by trifles; but he stood face to face with Nature,
and saw the revelation of all her Gorgon terrors:
"Natura, illaüdabil maraviglia,
Che per uccider partorisci e nutrì!"
"Nature, thou marvel that I cannot praise,
Who givest life in order to destroy!"
Others might allow themselves to be consoled for the loss of love
by frivolous considerations; but he never overcame the longing for
affection that was denied him, and his misery was unvisited by comfort:
"Giacqui: insensato, attonito,
Non dimandai conforto;
Quasi perduto e morto
Il cor s' abbandonò."
And when the bitterness of spiritual desolation rose to such a height
that further endurance was impossible, his only prayer was for death:
"E tu, cui già dal cominciar del 'anni
Sempre onorata invoco,
Bella Morte, pietosa
Tu sola al mondo dei terreni affanni:
Se celebrata mai
Fosti da me, s'al tuo divino stato
L'onte del volgo ingrato
Ricompensar tentai:
Non tardar più, t'inchina
A disusati preghi:
Chiudi alla luce ornai
Questi occhi tristi, o dell 'età reina!"
The finest passages in his poems were inspired by the deepest anguish
of his heart. Ill-health and deformity he felt as evils, chiefly
because they prevented him from appeasing his ardent yearning for love.
This yearning was the result of the sweetness of his disposition.
Notwithstanding his melancholy, he seems never to have been morose or
disagreeable. His heart was unblemished by spite or malignity, and he
was, by universal testimony of those who knew him, singularly moral
and upright in all relations of life. Ranieri, in his "Sette Anni di
Sodalizio," published some years ago, tries to show his faults, but the
worst he can say of him is that he was excessively choice in his diet.
This little weakness he had in common with Alexander Pope, a poet in
whom the unkindness of nature produced very different effects. Pope's
omniverous vanity could derive nourishment even from his deformities:
"There are who to my person pay their court:
I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short;
Great Ammon's son one shoulder had too high;
Such Ovid's nose, and 'Sir, you have an eye!'"
But Leopardi wrote the "Last Song of Sappho:
"Placida notte, e verecondo raggio
Della cadente Luna," etc.
Vanity seems to have entered in no way into his composition. Nor had
he any of that ferocious vindictiveness which inspires many verses of
Pope with the venom of the deadliest vipers, though he also had his
libellers and his rivals. We know what revenge Pope took on the women
who slighted him, and with what unspeakable ribaldry he defiled them.
But Leopardi, in a similar position, wrote his incomparable "Aspasia,"
not even revealing the real name of her to whom he alludes. The most
striking instance, however, of their dissimilarity, is the difference
in their philosophy. Pope's self-complacency allowed him to indulge
in optimism, with which, however, many of his finest passages are at
variance. His intellect had sudden flashes of intense truth, but he was
not a systematic or profound thinker, and when he wanted a system of
philosophy as theme to his brilliant verse, he took that most in vogue
in his time.
Widely different was the development of Leopardi. He is the embodiment
in song of the spirit of pessimism, if that disagreeable word is to be
the cosmopolitan representative of what the Germans call "Weltschmerz."
His view of life is not the result of a sourness that would make
everything appear bad and unsatisfactory, but of an overweening
compassion for the sufferings of his fellow creatures. We hear his.
lamentations on the evils of life, but in his pages we see such
visions of beauty, such revelations of love, such exquisite glimpses
of nature that the world appears in his poetry more beautiful, though
more terribly and darkly beautiful, than in reality. If we analyze
a stanza or paragraph of his poems, we find a train of thought that
recurs with curious regularity. It generally opens with the most richly
coloured and delightful scenes; but when the reader is fully impressed
with their loveliness, the clouds gather, and the poet concludes with
the utterance of despair. The ode to Angelo Mai offers the earliest
instances of this in almost every stanza. It is also strikingly
exemplified in the opening paragraph of the "Vita Solitaria." Sometimes
a whole poem evolves in this manner, like the "Primavera," and the
verses to Silvia. Such was, indeed, the progress of his life. It began
with the most radiant and heavenly visions, it was darkened by the
storms of reality, and it concluded in sorrow and in gloom. Although
his sufferings did not originate his view of life, they certainly made
him express it with more poignancy than he would otherwise have done.
The consideration of his philosophy leads us into the sanctuary of his
works. We have to deal exclusively with his poems, and can therefore
only bestow a passing glance on the other performances in which he
displayed the vigour of his mind.
We have already mentioned his classical attainments. They are attested
by a vast quantity of works, most of which were produced when he was in
his teens. Wonderful monuments of industry, they were scarcely worth
the price he paid for them: for it was in their composition that he
ruined his health by over application.
As I have mentioned above, the "Operette Morali" are remarkable for
their surpassing beauties of style, but they are no less so for depth,
energy, and originality of thought.[2] The poet in Leopardi probably
somewhat hampered the philosopher; and the philosopher may, now and
then, have prevented the poet from revelling in the flights of fancy.
Though not offering a new system of philosophy, his prose works are
well worthy of study; but were I to express my candid opinion, I
should say that the gloom which gives such tragic grandeur to his
lyrics, is somewhat out of place in essays and dialogues, and is only
redeemed by the perfection of the style. Indeed, if a foreigner may
judge, his prose is almost too perfect, its extreme finish depriving
it occasionally of energy. But no praise could be high enough for the
beautiful manner in which his phrases are balanced, for their varied
construction and noble harmony.
[Footnote 2: There is an excellent translation of Leopardi's Prose
Works, by Charles Edwardes, in Trubner's Philosophical Series.]
His poem entitled "Paralipomeni della Batracomiomachia," is, as the
name indicates, a sort of continuation of the Greek mock-heroic poem,
describing the "War of the Frogs and Rats." The subject is not very
happily chosen, and it is obvious that the narrative serves only to
introduce the digressions, and it is in these digressions that the
poet's brilliant imagination and felicity of style are displayed.
Certainly, since the days of Ariosto, stanzas of equal beauty had not
been produced in Italy. Still, the poem as a whole is not interesting,
although it possesses an air of gaiety and vivacity, wonderful when we
consider his habitual gloom.
But Leopardi's universal renown is founded on the forty-one poems and
fragments of poems, published under the collective title of "Canti;"
and it is from that collection, exclusively, that the poems in this
volume are translated.
In the time of Leopardi, Italian poetry had sunk to a very low ebb.
The leading poets of whom Italy could boast, were more remarkable for
graceful fancy and lively wit, than for sublimity and originality.
Parini and Alfieri alone exhibited striking intellectual qualities,
but they died when our poet was in his infancy. Parini, in whose
elegant satire all the refined frivolity of the eighteenth century
is reflected, had no great richness of invention; and Alfieri, than
whom no poet could boast of more boldness and energy of thought, was
deficient in imagination. The tuneful verse of Metastasio enchanted
Europe for fifty years; but the sweetness of his expression could not
disguise the trifling prettiness of his thoughts. Casti had vigour and
raciness enough to have made him a great satirist if he had chosen
fitter subjects for his undoubted genius than tedious apologues,
and lively, but licentious, tales. These poets were all dead before
Leopardi rose on the literary horizon, and the only established
poetical reputation he had to encounter, was that of Vincenzo Monti,
to whom he dedicated his first two Odes. If we examine the works of
Monti merely for the style, we shall find much to admire; but in
truth, nature, depth, and emotion, he was utterly deficient. The only
contemporary poets who at all approached Leopardi in intellect, were
Foscolo and Manzoni; but Foscolo, besides the disadvantage of living
in exile, frittered away his great powers on learned trifles; and
Manzoni soon deserted poetry for the more popular field of romance.
Thus it will be seen, that none of these poets were, in every respect,
admirable, nor did they, with the exception of Alfieri and Parini,
strike out new paths.
How necessary was an original and soaring spirit to infuse life into
the poetry of Italy! At last the poet arose whose gifts were exactly
adapted to the arduous task. That Leopardi fulfilled his mission with
brilliant success, is proved by the ever increasing influence of his
genius. During his life-time he was known only to the master-spirits
of his age, but since his death, his works have become the property
of the nation at large. His greatness is acknowledged daily more and
more, and volumes are written on his life and writings, illustrating
and examining them from every point of view, and the more his poems are
studied, the more are their beauties revealed.
As Carlyle said of Dante: "He is great, not because he is world-wide,
but because he is world-deep." This depth, so unfathomable, and yet so
remote from obscurity, is the first and greatest of his intellectual
qualities. Closely allied to it is his amazing originality of thought
and style. He deserted the hackneyed vehicles of expression current
in his day, the minute Sonnet and the elaborate Petrarchan Canzone.
His thoughts, for the most part, flow in an easy and pellucid style
through an alternation of rhymed and unrhymed verses. He knew, what
so few poets of modern times even suspect, the value of economy. What
he can say in one line, he does not dilute into five, If one simile
suffices for his purpose, he does not regale the reader with ten.
Bombast and grandiloquence he shunned, nay, he rather courted the
other extreme of severe simplicity. Though a man of vast learning,
he seldom indulged in allusions. In reading his poems we are brought
into direct contact with Nature, and with her alone, so perfectly does
he divest himself of every thought foreign to his present subject.
His verses seem the inspiration of the moment, and not the result of
elaborate study. We see him in the "Ricordanze," surveying the objects
that revive the memories of the past; we see him in the little poem to
the Moon, ascending the hill to behold the familiar radiance; we see
him in the "Ginestra," gazing on the sparkling heavens and the fiery
crater of Vesuvius, until we quite lose the sense of perusing a written
performance.
And yet we know that he bestowed elaborate care on his works. He says
himself that he had an ideal of unattainable perfection in his mind,
which deterred him from writing works of great extent, whether in prose
or verse. But that ideal I think he really has attained in some of
his finest poems. The merit of his works, not only in degree, but in
kind, is so immeasurably superior to that of his contemporaries, that
we cannot find a standard for judging it without going back to the
greatest masters of the art of poetry. I have no hesitation in placing
him immediately after Dante and Ariosto for strength of poetical
genius. He surpasses Petrarch in variety and comprehensiveness of mind,
although he may not always equal him in richness of style. For genuine
poetical inspiration in the purely lyrical sphere he has no rivals in
modern times except Shelley, Keats, and Goethe. To prove that this
eulogy is not exaggerated, we will now examine the "Canti" in the order
of their arrangement.
I. "All 'Italia." This poem, written at the age of twenty, though
appearing first in the collection, was not by any means a first attempt
at poetry. Leopardi had, it is true, up to this time devoted his
attention chiefly to learned subjects, but he had written as well a
considerable amount of verse, one of his earliest productions being a
tragedy in three acts, "Pompeo in Egitto," which shows great command of
language for the age of thirteen, at which it was written. We find,
therefore, in this first poem of the celebrated series, full mastery
over the mechanism of verse and fine flashes in the three opening
stanzas, but the introduction of Simonides is not a happy fiction. He
should have confined himself to the history of his own country, which
offers more striking themes than this classical reminiscence.
II. "Sopra il Monumento di Dante." The tyranny of Napoleon I., that
weighed so heavily on Italy in the early part of this century, is most
forcibly described, especially in the wonderful stanzas narrating
the death of the Italian troops in the Russian campaign of 1812. How
sublime are the opening lines of the tenth stanza:
"Di lor querela il boreal deserto,
E conscie fur le sibilanti selve."
The apostrophe to Dante in the fifth stanza is full of fervour; but,
perhaps the only instance of bombast to be found in our poet is the
preceding address to the sculptors.
III. "Ad Angelo Mai." I have mentioned above that I consider this Ode
to Angelo Mai on his discovery of Cicero's "Republic," one of our
poet's three great masterpieces. I was confirmed in this opinion by
Johannes Scherr, who, in his "Allgemeine Literaturgeschichte," extols
it as one of the sublimest Odes in any language. How great, therefore,
was my surprise on perusing Montefredini's Life of Leopardi, to find
that the author has nothing but blame and ridicule for this poem. He,
though so ardent an admirer of Leopardi, cannot find words strong
enough to express his contempt for such rubbish. We may, indeed,
agree with him, that the discovery of an old manuscript by a monk
is scarcely an event of sufficient importance to warrant poetical
raptures. But if we condemn all poems that take their starting point
from a slight occurrence, we must begin by denying merit to Pindar,
for what can be more intrinsically trivial than the foundation on
which he builds his lofty fabrics? It is further a mystery to me how
Montefredini can understand the eighth stanza to allude to Tasso, when
it is obvious that it applies to no one but Ariosto, and is a most
exquisite description of the effect produced by that poet on the mind,
offering, perhaps, the finest passage in a poem replete with beauties.
How sublime are the verses on Columbus, and how picturesque is the
lamentation on the decline of the imaginative powers!
IV. "Nelle Nozze della Sorella Paolina." This poem on a marriage
that never took place, but was only projected, is not equal to its
predecessors, but it is nevertheless original, and in parts forcible,
and full of patriotic inspiration. His sister was the only member of
his family whom he has immortalized in verse.
V. "A un Vincitore nel Pallone." I did not think it necessary to
translate this ode, as it only repeats feebly what its predecessors
uttered energetically. These five poems form a distinct class, the
patriotic, in our poet's works. Henceforth his horizon becomes wider,
and he laments, not only the sorrows of Italy, but those of all mankind.
VI. "Bruto Minore." In the foregoing poems Leopardi plays, as it were,
a prelude; but now the curtain rises on the tragedy of his life. To
avoid justifying his despair, he puts his soliloquy into the mouth
of Brutus, after the disaster of Phillipi. There are flashes in the
poem that seem to illuminate an abyss of misery and gloom, and here he
first gives utterance to one of those piercing laments which make his
subsequent poems so impressive:
"O casi! O gener vano! Abbietta parte
Siam delle cose."
He himself looked upon this as one of his most remarkable poems, but
I cannot consider it one of the most beautiful; the thoughts are not
always presented with all possible force, and the odd idea of animals
committing suicide is rather ludicrous. But the poem is full of
significance. Montefredini observes very justly: "It is the first
wail of his tortured soul, the first malediction against the cruelty
of Nature. The sentiment is powerful, and rushes forth furiously. So
young, he is utterly miserable, and his opinions of life and the world
are already full of despair. Even the calm aspect of nature wounds
him as though it were an insult to his sorrow, a cruel mocking of
the tempest of the soul.... The physical and mental life of Leopardi
assumed too soon a fatal bent. As in his youth his bodily sufferings
were excessive, so are his early poems finally and immensely sad. No
other youthful poems contain so much despair or proceed from such
a bleeding heart. Leopardi buries himself in his immense sorrow,
deserting the region of airy fancy in which young poets delight....
This tumult of emotion proves that he had not yet resigned himself to
his fate. He was not born for such bitter utterance, nor are these the
fit inspirations of early poetry. Instead of the beautiful themes of
joy, hope and fond desire, our poet can only sing of his despair."
VII. "Alla Primavera." He was too much of a poet to desert the realms
of fancy without a glance of affectionate regret, and in this poem to
Spring, he conjures up with magic voice the fables of the past. Between
the gloom of Brutus and the radiant loveliness of these visions,
how great is the contrast! This is, in my opinion, one of the most
elaborate and polished of his productions, and I am again obliged to
differ from Montefredini as to the merits of this Ode.
VIII. "Inno ai Patriarchi." This hymn also has the misfortune of
not pleasing Montefredini. Still, it contains passages wonderfully
picturesque, and is a worthy fruit of our poet's intimate acquaintance
with Hebrew literature.
IX. "Ultimo Canto di Saffo." As in the monologue of Brutus, Leopardi
uttered his own views of life; so in the "Last Song of Sappho" he
expresses how keenly he felt his physical afflictions. How august
and calm is the opening, and how beautifully the poet blends his
sorrow with the description of Nature! The third stanza rises to
Æschylean sublimity. Two spirits seem to be battling for mastery
over the poet--the one pronouncing, the other lamenting, his doom.
Most beautiful is the effect achieved by the mysterious pathos of the
conclusion.
X. "Il Primo Amore." After such a poem we almost doubt whether we shall
read further--whether any other poem can be read after that supreme
effort. But the "Primo Amore," though different in kind, is, as poetry,
equally valuable. The former piece astonished us with its sublimity;
this delights us with its delicacy. For depth of feeling and reality of
narration I know no love poem that surpasses it; but here and there we
find some obscurity and flatness in the diction.
XI. "Il Passero Solitario." Not one of the least admirable qualities
of our poet is the great variety of expression he commands. The five
patriotic poems may be considered as producing one effect; but each
of the following is quite distinct from its predecessor, and the
"Passero Solitario" is again quite different from them all. It is also
remarkable as the first poem in his later manner--that of the "Canto
Notturno" and the "Ginestra." It is an idyl such as Theocritus, or,
rather, Wordsworth, might have written. The gloom is past, the despair
at rest, a gentle pensiveness alone remains. The picture of the setting
sun:
"Che tra lontani monti,
Dopo il giorno sereno,
Cadendo si dilegua, e par che dica
Che la beata gioventù vien meno,"
always seemed to me the most perfect instance of subjective colouring
of nature in the whole range of poetry.
XII. "L'Infinito." This little gem concentrates in a few lines the
lustre of the richest poetry. The more we examine it, the more we
admire.
XIII. "La Sera del Dè di Festa." Though not equal to its four immediate
predecessors, I think this poem worthy of high admiration for the
delicacy and rapidity of its transitions. It is wonderful to observe
with what ease the poet rises from simplicity to sublimity, and returns
again to simplicity. What perfection of art and what discrimination of
style!
XIV. "Alla Luna." A more tender sigh was never breathed in song than
here. I wish I could have done justice to the exquisite lines:
"E tu pendevi allor su quella selva
Siccome or fai, che tutta la rischiari."
XV. "Il Sogno" is a very trifling production, with a few lines worthy
of its author, but too insignificant to deserve translation.
XVI. "La Vita Solitaria." The second paragraph contains the finest
poetical illustration I know of what Schopenhauer calls "Willensfreie
Anschauen," and is in our poet's noblest style; the concluding
apostrophe to the Moon is very animated, but the poem is disjointed and
incoherent, and each paragraph would make a separate poem.
XVII. "Consalvo." If we were to judge from internal evidence alone, we
should say that this production was the work of a feeble and unskilful
imitator of our poet; so indifferent in execution as to be almost a
parody on his manner. Hysterical, exaggerated, and heavy, it offers
not one spark of his genius. Here, for once, Montefredini's unsparing
severity is in the right place; I have therefore omitted it in my
translation.
XVIII. "Alla Sua Donna." This poem was the tenth in the first edition
of the "Canti." I do not know, why the poet removed it to its present
place in the edition of 1837. It is eminently beautiful, and written
throughout in the author's happiest style. As the expression of a
yearning towards a superhuman ideal, it is peerless. There is nothing
more sublime in Petrarch.
XIX. "Al Conte Carlo Pepoli." This epistle is somewhat Horation in
diction, with some beautiful thoughts and charming verses, but not so
characteristic of the author as to be essential to a translation. It
might have been written by a less distinguished poet than Leopardi. It
is, however, a proof of his great variety of style.