POEMS OF LEOPARDI

Translated from the Italian

BY

FRANCIS HENRY CLIFFE.

REMINGTON AND CO., LIMITED,

LONDON AND SYDNEY.

MDCCCXCIII.

List of poems

LIFE OF LEOPARDI.

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[Pg 2] 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[Pg 3] 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;[Pg 4] 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,[Pg 5] 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[Pg 6] 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[Pg 7] 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[Pg 8] 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[Pg 9] 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.

[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.[Pg 10] 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:

[Pg 11]

"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!"