Palinodia. To The Marquis Gino Capponi.

by Giacomo Leopardi

　　

---

I was mistaken, my dear Gino. LongAnd greatly have I erred. I fancied lifeA vain and wretched thing, and this, our age,Now passing, vainest, silliest of all.Intolerable seemed, and was, such talkUnto the happy race of mortals, if,Indeed, man ought or could be mortal called.'Twixt anger and surprise, the lofty creatures laughedForth from the fragrant Eden where they dwell;Neglected, or unfortunate, they called me;Of joy incapable, or ignorant,To think my lot the common lot of all,Mankind, the partner in my misery.At length, amid the odor of cigars,The crackling sound of dainty pastry, andThe orders loud for ices and for drinks,'Midst clinking glasses, and 'midst brandished spoons,The daily light of the gazettes flashed fullOn my dim eyes. I saw and recognizedThe public joy, and the felicityOf human destiny. The lofty stateI saw, and value of all human things;Our mortal pathway strewed with flowers; I sawHow naught displeasing here below endures.Nor less I saw the studies and the worksStupendous, wisdom, virtue, knowledge deepOf this our age. From far Morocco toCathay, and from the Poles unto the Nile,From Boston unto Goa, on the trackOf flying Fortune, emulously panting,The empires, kingdoms, dukedoms of the earthI saw, now clinging to her waving locks,Now to the end of her encircling boa.Beholding this, and o'er the ample sheetsProfoundly meditating, I becameOf my sad blunder, and myself, ashamed.The age of gold the spindles of the Fates,O Gino, are evolving. Every sheet,In each variety of speech and type,The splendid promise to the world proclaims,From every quarter. Universal love,And iron roads, and commerce manifold,Steam, types, and cholera, remotest lands,Most distant nations will together bind;Nor need we wonder if the pine or oakYield milk and honey, or together danceUnto the music of the waltz. So muchThe force already hath increased, both ofAlembics, and retorts, and of machines,That vie with heaven in working miracles,And will increase, in times that are to come:For, evermore, from better unto best,Without a pause, as in the past, the raceOf Shem, and Ham, and Japhet will progress.And yet, on acorns men will never feed,Unless compelled by hunger; never willHard iron lay aside. Full oft, indeed,They gold and silver will despise, bills ofExchange preferring. Often, too, the raceIts generous hands with brothers' blood will stain,With fields of carnage filling Europe, andThe other shore of the Atlantic sea,The new world, that the old still nourishes,As often as it sends its rival bandsOf armed adventurers, in eager questOf pepper, cinnamon, or other spice,Or sugar-cane, aught that ministersUnto the universal thirst for gold.True worth and virtue, modesty and faith,And love of justice, in whatever land,From public business will be still estranged,Or utterly humiliated andO'erthrown; condemned by Nature still,To sink unto the bottom. InsolenceAnd fraud, with mediocrity combined,Will to the surface ever rise, and reign.Authority and strength, howe'er diffused,However concentrated, will be stillAbused, beneath whatever name concealed,By him who wields them; this the law by FateAnd nature written first, in adamant:Nor can a Volta with his lightnings, norA Davy cancel it, nor England withHer vast machinery, nor this our ageWith all its floods of Leading Articles.The good man ever will be sad, the wretchWill keep perpetual holiday; againstAll lofty souls both worlds will still be armedConspirators; true honor be assailedBy calumny, and hate, and envy; stillThe weak will be the victim of the strong;The hungry man upon the rich will fawn,Beneath whatever form of government,Alike at the Equator and the Poles;So will it be, while man on earth abides,And while the sun still lights him on his way.These signs and tokens of the ages pastMust of necessity their impress leaveUpon our brightly dawning age of gold:Because society from Nature stillReceives a thousand principles and aims,Diverse, discordant; which to reconcile,No wit or power of man hath yet availed,Since first our race, illustrious, was born;Nor will avail, or treaty or gazette,In any age, however wise or strong.But in things more important, how complete,Ne'er seen, till now, will be our happiness!More soft, from day to day, our garments willBecome, of woollen or of silk. Their roughAttire the husbandman and smith will castAside, will swathe in cotton their rough hides,And with the skins of beavers warm their backs.More serviceable, more attractive, too,Will be our carpets and our counterpanes,Our curtains, sofas, tables, and our chairs;Our beds, and their attendant furniture,Will a new grace unto our chambers lend;And dainty forms of kettles and of pans,On our dark kitchens will their lustre shed.From Paris unto Calais, and from thereTo London, and from there to Liverpool,More rapid than imagination canConceive, will be the journey, nay the flight;While underneath the ample bed of Thames,A highway will be made, immortal work,That should have been completed, years ago.Far better lighted, and perhaps as safe,At night, as now they are, will be the lanesAnd unfrequented streets of Capitals;Perhaps, the main streets of the smaller towns.Such privileges, such a happy lot,Kind heaven reserves unto the coming race.How fortunate are they, whom, as I write,Naked and whimpering, in her arms receivesThe midwife! They those longed-for days may hopeTo see, when, after careful studies weShall know, and every nursling shall imbibeThat knowledge with the milk of the dear nurse,How many hundred-weight of salt, and howMuch flesh, how many bushels, too, of flour,His native town in every month consumes;How many births and deaths in every yearThe parish priest inscribes: when by the aidOf mighty steam, that, every second, printsIts millions, hill and dale, and ocean's vastExpanse, e'en as we see a flock of cranesAërial, that suddenly the day obscure, will with Gazettes be overrun;Gazettes, of the great Universe the lifeAnd soul, sole fount of wisdom and of wit,To this, and unto every coming age!E'en as a child, who carefully constructs,Of little sticks and leaves, an edifice,In form of temple, palace, or of tower;And, soon as he beholds the work complete,The impulse feels, the structure to destroy,Because the self-same sticks and leaves he needs,To carry out some other enterprise;So Nature every work of hers, howeverIt may delight us with its excellence,No sooner sees unto perfection brought,Than she proceeds to pull it all to pieces,For other structures using still the parts.And vainly seeks the human race, itselfOr others from the cruel sport to save,The cause of which is hidden from its sightForever, though a thousand means it tries,With skilful hand devising remedies:For cruel Nature, child invincible,Our efforts laughs to scorn, and still its ownCaprices carries out, without a pause,Destroying and creating, for its sport.And hence, a various, endless familyOf ills incurable and sufferingsOppresses the frail mortal, doomed to deathIrreparably; hence a hostile force,Destructive, smites him from within, without,On every side, perpetual, e'en fromThe day of birth, and wearies and exhausts,Itself untiring, till he drops at last,By the inhuman mother crushed, and killed.Those crowning miseries, O gentle friend,Of this our mortal life, old age and death,E'en then commencing, when the infant lipThe tender breast doth press, that life instils,This happy nineteenth century, I think,Can no more help, than could the ninth, or tenth,Nor will the coming ages, more than this.Indeed, if we may be allowed to callThe truth by its right name, no other thanSupremely wretched must each mortal be,In every age, and under every formOf government, and walk and mode of life;By nature hopelessly incurable,Because a universal law hath soDecreed, which heaven and earth alike obey.And yet the lofty spirits of our ageA new discovery have made, almostDivine; for, though they cannot makeA single person happy on the earth,The man forgetting, they have gone in questOf universal happiness, and this,Forsooth, have found so easily, that outOf many wretched individuals,They can a happy, joyful people make.And at this miracle, not yet explainedBy quarterly reviews, or pamphlets, orGazettes, the common herd in wonder smile.O minds, O wisdom, insight marvellousOf this our passing age! And what profoundPhilosophy, what lessons deep, O Gino,In matters more sublime and recondite,This century of thine and mine will teachTo those that follow! With what constancy,What yesterday it scorned, upon its kneesTo-day it worships, and will overthrowTo-morrow, merely to pick up againThe fragments, to the idol thus restored,To offer incense on the following day!How estimable, how inspiring, too,This unanimity of thought, not ofThe age alone, but of each passing year!How carefully should we, when we our thoughtWith this compare, however differentFrom that of next year it may be, at leastAppearance of diversity avoid!What giant strides, compared with those of old,Our century in wisdom's school has made!One of thy friends, O worthy Gino, once,A master poet, nay, of every Art,And Science, every human faculty,For past, and present, and for future times,A learned expositor, remarked to me:“Of thy own feelings, care to speak no more!Of them, this manly age makes no account,In economic problems quite absorbed,And with an eye for politics alone,Of what avail, thy own heart to explore?Seek not within thyself materialFor song; but sing the needs of this our age,And consummation of its ripening hope!”O memorable words! Whereat I laughedLike chanticleer, the name of hope to hearThus strike upon my ear profane, as ifA jest it were, or prattle of a childJust weaned. But now a different course I take,Convinced by many shining proofs, that heMust not resist or contradict the age,Who seeketh praise or pudding at its hands,But faithfully and servilely obey;And so will find a short and easy roadUnto the stars. And I who long to reachThe stars will not, howe'er, select the needsOf this our age for burden of my song;For these, increasing constantly, are stillBy merchants and by work-shops amply met;But I will sing of hope, of hope whereofThe gods now grant a pledge so palpable.The first-fruits of our new felicityBehold, in the enormous growth of hair,Upon the lip, upon the cheek, of youth!O hail, thou salutary sign, first beamOf light of this our wondrous, rising age!See, how before thee heaven and earth rejoice,How sparkle all the damsels' eyes with joy,How through all banquets and all festivalsThe fame of the young bearded heroes flies!Grow for your country's sake, ye manly youth!Beneath the shadow of your fleecy locks,Will Italy increase, and Europe fromThe mouths of Tagus to the Hellespont,And all the world will taste the sweets of peace.And thou, O tender child, for whom these daysOf gold are yet in store, begin to greetThy bearded father with a smile, nor fearThe harmless blackness of his loving face.Laugh, darling child; for thee are kept the fruitsOf so much dazzling eloquence. Thou shaltBehold joy reign in cities and in towns,Old age and youth alike contented dwell,And undulating beards of two spans long!

---

---