Still, the source of this strange lamentation Umbra. But soon in my bosom this sorrow, Nor spoke to me then pallid Autumn In vain might fair Hesperus lead Through the silence that circled me round; In vain would the valley resound To the chant of the lone nightingale. And you, tender glances, so shyly That start on soft errands, that rove Thou too, little hand lightly laid, Of misery gloomed from my brow." With fervency then had I longed for The courage to wish left me now. "T was decrepitude, age without years, Thus our springtime ineffable languished, Those moments so fleeting and few! Emergence. † From this heaviness, heedless and dumb, To my heart your incitements benign? That encompassed my spirit so long? * This sounds anti-Byronic. Byron was not a favourite with our author It is curious that, with a similar theme, Leopardi should have chosen a measure similar to that employed by Byron in the following: 'I am ashes where once I was fire, And my heart is as grey as my head.' The poet here sings his revival, his reawakening, from the death-like leep into which he had fallen for many years. After long experience of odious reality, the illusions of early youth are recognised as such. The vanity of his former hopes is evident-and of all human hopes. He knows, moreover, that imagination and sentiment are unable to sustain in him the wish for, or delusion of, future happiness. He knows therefore that, recovering, he awakens to a life of sorrow. But is not pain better than tedium or insensibility? And the consciousness of having been made capable of this is a cause of pleasure to him,'-Alfredo Straccali, Notes to the 'Canti.' Some sorrow or joy I discern ; The woodland, once more, and the highland Who quells this cold cureless obstruction; But annulled not; unvanquished by Fate, I shrank not nor quailed in the sight, Unmindful of happiness she, Her care but to keep us alive; She preserves us to suffer and strive And to nought but existence gives heed. I know, among men, that compassion For misery rarely is found, That the wretch to his wretchedness bound That the wise and the good are ignored, Virtue the scorn of our age, Genius denied his poor wage, The laurel long vigils have bought. And you, trembling glances, once more, In vain you resplendently shine; No sparkle of love have you caught. And yet he was able to write : 'Buoni amici e cordiali si trovano veramente nel mondo, e non sono rari.' No inward affection, no kindness, That white bosom has never a share Still, revived and apparent within me, Solely from thee will arise. Not to a spirit thus chastened, Clear and pure, is the world, I well know; And Beauty, now only a pain. But if thou, O sad one, yet livest, To thy part in affliction resigned, Need I think her still cruel and unkind, † Of the similar crisis in his own mental history, John Stuart Mill gives an account in his Autobiography (cap. v), as follows. ... 'It was in the autumn of 1826. I was in a dull state of nerves the state, I should think, in which converts to Methodism usually are, when smitten by their first "conviction of sin." In this frame of mind it occurred to me to put the question directly to myself: "Suppose that all your objects in life were realised; that all the changes in institutions and opinions which you are looking forward to could be completely effected at this very instant; would this be a great joy and happiness to you?" And an irrepressible self-consciousness distinctly answered, "No!" At this my heart sank * See the letter printed above. Fate. Probably his most conciliatory reference to this Power. It is interesting to note that a very similar crisis occurred in the life of Tolstoi, after a long period of production, when he was about fifty years old. He says in his 'Confession' that, when he found himself suffering from this mortal depression, he asked himself questions very similar to that within me; the whole foundation on which my life was constructed fell down. All my happiness was to have been found in the continual pursuit of this end. The end had ceased to charm, and how could there ever again be any interest in the means? I seemed to have nothing left to live for . . . and I became persuaded that my love of mankind and of excellence for its own sake had worn itself out. I sought no comfort by speaking to others of what I felt. . . .* 'I frequently asked if I could or if I was bound to go on living when life must be passed in this manner. I generally answered to myself that I did not think I could possibly bear it beyond a year. When, however, not more than half that duration of time had elapsed, a small ray of light broke in upon my gloom. I was reading accidentally Marmontel's Memoirs, and came to the passage which relates his father's death, the distressed position of the family, and the sudden inspiration by which he, then a mere boy, felt and made them feel that he would be everything to them. A vivid conception of the scene and its feelings came over me and I was moved to tears. From this moment my burden grew lighter. The oppression of the thought that all feeling was dead within met was gone. 1. Relieved from my ever-present sense of irremediable wretchedness, I gradually found that the ordinary incidents of life could give me some pleasure, that I could again find enjoyment, not intense, but sufficient for cheerfulness, in sunshine and sky, ‡ in books, in conversation, in public affairs. Thus the cloud gradually drew off, and, though I had several relapses, I never again was as miserable as I had been.'' The first fruit of this mental rejuvenescence was the poem to Silvia, a cottage maiden in whom Leopardi discovered, after her death, a symbol of all that was fairest and happiest in his own life, the youthful hopes, dreams and aspirations, prematurely blighted, towards which he ever turns with regretful longing. What was the precise nature of his affection for her, or hers for him, is difficult asked by Mill, e.g., 'Suppose you are more famous than Shakespeare or Molière-what does it lead to? And I could find no reply at all.' He continues, 'I felt that what I had been standing on had broken down, and that I had nothing left under my feet. What I had lived by no longer existed, and I had nothing left to live by.' * Cf. Comfort I sought not nor found' ('Risorgimento'). † Cf. All feeling within me was dead' ('Risorgimento'). Cf. In the sky, in the rivulet's margin Some sorrow or joy I discern' ('Risorgimento '). |