All language subtitles for Leopardi.2014.ITALIAN.1080p.BluRay.H264.AAC-VXT

After six months of study,
the three Leopardi siblings,

Count Giacomo Taldegardo, age nine,

Count Carlo Orazio, age eight,

Countess Paolina, age seven,

on January 30th, 1808
exhibit themselves

in the following performance,
under the guidance of their father,

Count Monaldo.

Transibulo, age forty,

for a lost bet, must give Tantillo

as many scudi
as he has hourly minutes of time.

How many scudi must he pay?

Twenty-one million...

and twenty-four thousand scudi.

Now let us put to trial the skill
of my first-born, Giacomo

with a difficult exercise.

Pompilio,

for a tribute of 4 thousand 613
scudi, at 5 percent,

is owed arrears for three years,
two months and four days.

What is his due?

Well?

Giacomo...

Forbidden

Thank you.

Why don't you use a knife?

I'm tired of saying it.

Giacomo has written
some beautiful verses.

A lyric poem: "To Italy".

- Will you read it?
- As soon as I'm able.

Giacomo, what's wrong?

Forgive me, I'll resume immediately.

Run for the salts!

I can't do it!

Damn it!

I had to leave the carriage
at Porta Cerasa.

It broke again! How did you fix it?

I told you to wait,
that wood's no good.

- But you took my money!
- I did the work!

Take him away.

- Look at this!
- If I use it, it'll break.

Dad!

- It broke again?
- What's so funny?

I'll be right up
and give you a thrashing.

So, Giacomo is being groomed
for an ecclesiastical career.

It's his destiny.

He's the first-born,
but he's too frail.

His bones are deforming,

I fear he may develop a hump.

He studies too much!

Balloons, handlebars,

tools of every sort, all so useless!

On the other hand, he's made
great progress in philology.

Exceptional progress,
he received plaudits from Akerblad!

You wish him to be a philologist
like that boring Akerblad?

You wish him to spend his days
in the sterile occupation

of commenting ancient authors?

Philology is a valued discipline.

I persist in saying

that all Giacomo knows and will know

must serve not to make
a dreary complier of him,

but to make him a great prelate,
a great cardinal.

Monaldo, you must consent
that he come to Rome.

He will stay with us,

Marianna and I
will invigilate scrupulously

on his behavior.

He'll have the opportunity
to know the world

and be known himself.

His absence would
cause me unspeakable suffering.

As for his own happiness,

you may be sure
it is all in studying

and he can study here
better than elsewhere.

We've spoken little lately.

I seem to bother you!

When I speak to you, you reply
with skimpy, skimpy words.

As if your heart

found some hindrance
in nearing mine.

While it wishes to be seen but once,

for a single instant,

and that would be enough for it.

Father, a letter's come
from Uncle Carlo.

He'd like Giacomo to help him
translate an inscription in Hebrew.

Nothing can be denied
to your mother's brother.

Tell Don Vincenzo
to accompany Giacomo.

May I go with him?

You may.

We'll make up your studies
after dinner.

Wait!

Don't run like that!

You've finished! How did it go?

He translated on the spot,
in a flash.

My Lord Count will be pleased.

- My Lord Uncle...
- Marquise... Let's go.

Come on, come on!

Look.

You said ya'd learn me to read.

You're never around.

I'm extremely busy.

I'm writing a lyric poem
on a monument for Dante

which they're preparing in Florence.

Who knows when they'll build it.

Forgive me.

Let's go.

The night is soft and bright

and without wind,

and the moon hangs still above
the roofs and kitchen gardens,

showing every mountain
clear in the distance.

Oh my lady,

every lane is quiet now,

and night lights glow in the windows
only here and there.

You sleep,

for sleep came easily to you
in your still room.

No worry troubles you,

nor can you imagine
what a wound you opened

in my heart.

Yes, you sleep,

while I come to my window,
to salute this sky

that seems so kind,

and eternal, all-commanding nature,

who created me for suffering.

"I cannot pray you to read my book,
but do not refuse it...

The book itself, revealing
my insignificance, will punish me".

My insignificance?

Wasn't the reaction
to your preface enough?

That was really terrible.

"I kneel before the scholars of Italy
to plead to them..."

Et cetera, et cetera...

In fact, the scholars
reacted with silence.

A certain F. C. did speak up,
he sure did!

Rudely, impolitely.

Will you stop harassing me
and send my letters?

One to Vincenzo Monti, one to
Angelo Mai, one to Pietro Giordani.

But it is for Ulysses, the fearless,

that my heart is torn.

Hapless man...

Who, far from his loved ones,

has long been suffering woes

on an isle...

a wooded,

sea-girt isle,

which... which for the sea,

is the navel.

Giacomo, that's Homer!

Yes Father, but "omphalòs" is navel.

Which for the sea is the navel.

My Lord Count, the post.

But for Ulysses the wise...

There's a new letter
from Pietro Giordani for you.

Hadn't you already replied?

- You won't read it?
- I'll finish this passage first.

When we've finished, I'll read it.

Hapless man...

far from his loved ones...

Far from... his loved ones...

"Most excellent sir...

you shall reach sublime heights...

in 1900 Count Leopardi,
whom I already love,

shall be numbered
among the first who shall,

evil lost, restore honor
to the country...

Giacomo!

Most esteemed and dearest sir,

that I should read Giordani's words,
that he should write me,

that I may I hope to have him
as a teacher from now on,

are things I can scarcely believe.

My dearest Giacomo,
if I speak of our studies,

it will not be as your teacher.

I believe to be a writer, one
must translate before composing,

as in painting one copies
the drawings of masters

and then compose in prose
before composing in verse.

But when I translate, I get
a violent craving to compose,

my soul greatly swells
in all its parts and I tell myself:

"This is poetry,

to express what I feel
takes verses, not prose!"

And so I get right down
to writing verses.

If you love poetry more, so be it!

The more you write me, the more
reason I have to love and admire you.

Who in Italy today
could jest like you?

Greek hymns and Anacreontic odes.

And who, among the erudite,
could philosophize with such nuance?

Your words inflame and flatter me,

but let it be known
that what I've written thus far,

I've condemned to darkness.

It's really going to pour tonight!
Look at the sky!

It's as black as your hat.

Oh, look?

Where's this firefly from?

Dunno, it's the first one I've seen.

My dearest young Count,
the canticle you sent

is not to burn,
but it unsettled a fear.

It is in the philosopher not to love
life and have a just fear of death,

but to be obsessed
by a continuous thought of death

shouldn't prevail
in the young man you are,

to whom nature has consented
to live yet at length.

My beloved Giordani,

I have a great, perhaps immoderate
and insolent desire for glory,

but I believe I'm incapable
of overcoming my nature.

My health is extremely frail

and affected by the labors
I made it suffer for many years

of mad, desperate study.

My young Count,
then moderate your studies.

If your body goes to ruin,
how will you continue?

Invigorate the body:

take walks, ride, dance!

Your land
is a pleasant, healthy place.

Don't speak to me of Recanati!

It is so dear to me
as to develop ideas

for a treatise of hatred
for the fatherland.

My fatherland is Italy,

its language, its literature.

If this sacred thought were in many,
we'd already have Italy:

a lady of provinces
and not a brothel female.

It is worthwhile to the wise
to love his native place.

Within the home
are comforts for study

that are not found
in any other place.

Who'd have thought Giordani
would have defended Recanati!

Here, my very dear sir,

all is death,

all is absence of wit and stupidity.

Do you believe that a great talent
would be appreciated here?

I tell you without hauteur

that here they consider me a boy

and most add appellatives
such as know-it-all, philosopher,

hermit and what-all.

The air in this city
is extremely changeable,

damp, brackish, cruel to the nerves.

And to all this, add the obstinate,

black, horrible, brutal melancholy

that erodes and devours me.

What pastimes do you mean?

The only pastimes here are studies,

the only pastime
is that which is killing me,

all the rest is boredom.

Fernando!

What's he doing?

Inspecting the letters.

And he makes
those from Giordani vanish.

Are you sure?

I haven't received any for days,

it's impossible he hasn't written.

In his last, he asked me
to come to him in Milan.

If only I were mine, I'd fly to him!

My dearest Giacomo...

I'd fly!

I must go to Rome, I won't take
the shorter route through Tuscany,

but the route through Loreto,
to visit you.

Giacomino my friend,

I showed your poems to intelligent
friends who don't praise easily

and they became enthused
with so much praise

and you were admired
with such veneration,

that Dante couldn't have had more.

Your lyric poems are going around
like electric fire,

everyone is possessed by them.

You are exclaimed as a miracle.

I await you with such impatience,
Giordani my friend,

devoured by melancholy

and seething with desires.

Bored, angry,

drinking these bitter days
that haven't the slightest sweetness.

Having waited so long for your visit,
now that it nears...

every passing day
seems like a century

and not knowing how to fill it,

I grind my heart till bursting it.

Giacomo!

Come!

Monaldo Leopardi.

- Welcome, Mr. Giordani!
- Thank you.

My son Carlo.

How could he race off like that...
so fast!

Without waiting for you.

He's never been out alone.

Giordani's visit to our son
is a great honor for us.

Ave Maria,
gratia plena, Dominus tecum...

Girls, say hello
to His Lordship the Count.

Good day, Your Lordship.

Where's the carriage?

The young Counts took it,
with that gentleman.

To go where?

Nearby, Loreto,
Macerata, I don't know!

Is this coach free?

And so, due to the magic
of these great arts,

the walls of the churches
and buildings became...

talking stories.

The eye,

admiring these object at length,

examples of virtue and courage,

sculpts similar feelings within us

and little by little
our determination

is formed to act, fight.

Touch it.

Touch it!

You too.

In churches like this,
one does not come only to pray.

And so sir, you leave us
after a mere five days.

We are saddened.

My children have certainly
received extraordinary benefits

from your valued conversations

and they will miss you.

I can only thank you deeply
for your coming.

It is I who thanks you, Monaldo.

May I call you that?

Your children are immensely fortunate

to develop in a library
such as the one you created.

Works like these are
immortal benefits for our country,

they set an extraordinary example.

Think what a fine revolution
it would be, if our youth

duplicated them... multiplied them!

I fully share your conviction,

with one exception regarding the word

"revolution", which you
certainly used as a metaphor,

but which I prefer to avoid,

never having been seduced
by its flattery.

One can be free, in truth,

one must be, if he's not cowardly,

but the basis and frontiers
of true freedom

are the faith in Jesus Christ and
fidelity to the legitimate Sovereign.

Outside these confines,

one is not a free man,
but a dissolute.

Naturally!

Not reading to me anymore?

I'm a little jealous of all
the things that stay in your head.

I start so many projects,

four lives wouldn't be enough
to do them all.

I feel them coming,
I can't stop them,

each has its own reason,

sometimes even contrary
to what I'd started to sketch

then my mind
starts talking to itself...

jabbering.

- And your "Zibaldone"?
- It's proceeding.

How can anyone ever read all these
thoughts, one after the other?

You'd never understand anything.

There's an order,

it's a system.

I know: it's a system that introduces

a skepticism which
is reasoned and demonstrated.

And such that,
despite any possible progress,

human reason can never
strip itself of it,

because it contains the truth.

What does the truth consist of?

It consists in doubt.

Human reason cannot find the truth
without doubting,

it distances itself every time
it judges with certainty.

He who doubts, knows,
he knows the most of all.

Couldn't do a thing!

She was so beautiful, so good...

so young!

Raimondo, try to find peace,

age doesn't matter, the way does.

Did she receive the last rites?

Yes.

And did she show Christian
resignation during her illness?

- She couldn't even speak!
- Don't cry anymore.

The day God calls one of His souls
to Himself is a happy day.

What are you doing, My Lord Count?

Carlo?

Want me to open the window a bit?

No, the pain in my eyes
never ceases.

Go back to studying.

Thank you.

Here's your passport.

Coming to me was a good idea

and I'm very pleased
that the Count, my cousin,

decided to give you
the opportunity to see the world.

I'll write him

to congratulate him, wishing him

all good things for your journey.

Don't disturb yourself, please.

My father sends his affectionate
greetings and thanks you through me.

He's quite occupied
with the drafting of a treatise

and every letter, even as welcome
as yours, would seem a bother to him.

Actually he delegated me to tell you
he'll write you himself...

as soon as he's able.

As you like.

Thank you.

That's enough, it won't hold it.

You keep them all

and defend them,
I have nothing more precious.

Don't go.

Never tire of loving me.

Go...

Go!

We can go!

Here's the amount we said.

Pietro Giordani.

He was the ill omen of our family,

his coming was the moment

my children
changed thought and conduct,

and perhaps the moment
I lost them forever.

Until that day,
never, literally never,

had they been out of my sight
or that of their mother!

That scoundrel

excited in them sentiments
which are contrary to their duties.

That's not true.

Then, he was incautious,
fueling you with his talk...

and cruel to me,

while keeping
the most rigorous silence.

Giordani put Giacomo in contact
with various scholars.

There are dangerous, restless souls
among these people,

who invite him to share their ideas,

to make him the primary supporter
of their subversive designs.

What do you have to say?

My father blames scholars
whom I barely know...

without realizing
I'd made the decision to flee

since I realized my condition...

and your...

immutable principles,

in other words, since forever.

Father, I love you as tenderly

as a son can love his father.

If you will procure for me
the means to go out,

I shall be grateful and respectful.

If not, what should have occurred
but did not,

is merely postponed.

I don't want to live in Recanati!

I never believed I was to live
and die like our forefathers.

I beseech you...

I beseech you...

You hate me,

you depict me
in your crooked imagination

as an inexorable tyrant.

The fact is, your nature changed
with the arrival of Giordani.

It wouldn't surprise me
if that miserable renegade

also instilled a lack of religious
belief in you.

What are you saying!

May a similar blasphemy
never reach Adelaide's ears.

My dear nephew,

you aspire to literary fame,

but you have contracted
a pernicious moral disease.

I have no ambition.

I hate this vile prudence

that petrifies us, binds us.

I hate, I hate this prudence,

this vile prudence

that petrifies us,

it binds us!

It renders every grand action
impossible, father!

It reduces us to animals

attending only to the preservation
of their own lives,

miserable, with no other thought!

...with no other thought.

Do you really
think you know philosophy?

Do you think you've read the
greatest French and English writers?

No, let me speak with frankness.

It was not the merit of your poems,

but their objectives which received
the praise of so many liberals.

Your father has the obligation
to open your eyes

and make you realize
that your God-given talents

must be used to contrast
rampant abject materialism,

to fight the revolutionary ideas
plaguing Italy,

to go from belles-lettres
to good literature,

because the responsibility
will be his, if your talents

are not directed to this end.

Put off that brooding face,

lift that curved head,

open that mouth
so persistently closed

when you are with your family
and not talking of literature.

And especially, repent,

repent for making
your parents suffer so!

My beloved Giordani,

since March I have been plagued by
an obstinate frailty of ocular nerves

which impedes not only all reading,

but every contention of the mind.

As for the rest, I'm well in body

and in soul, as ardent
and desperate as ever,

so much so,
I'd eat the paper I write on.

Will I never do anything great?

Not even now that I slam against
this cage like a bear,

in this land of friars
and in this damned house,

where they'd pay a fortune
were I to become a friar too,

while, willing or not,
they make me live like a friar.

And with this heart of mine,

be sure that
very shortly I will escape...

unless from friar, I convert to
apostle and flee, begging alms,

as the thing
will most certainly end up.

This lonely hill
was always dear to me,

and this hedgerow,

which cuts off the view
of so much of the last horizon.

But sitting here

and gazing,

I can see beyond, in my mind's eye,
unending spaces,

and superhuman silences,

and depthless calm,

till what I feel is almost fear.

And when I hear
the wind stir in these branches,

I begin comparing that endless
stillness with this noise:

and the eternal comes to mind,

and the dead seasons,

and the present living one,

and how it sounds.

So my mind sinks in this immensity:

and foundering is sweet
in such a sea.

Since the evolution and the habits

and the events
and the places of this my life

are still infantile,

I grasp onto these last scraps
with both hands

and these shadows
of that adored and blessed time

where I hoped and dreamed happiness.

And hoping and dreaming,
I delighted in it.

It is past, nor will it return.

Of course, never again.

Seeing with excessive terror
that with childhood

the world and life also ended for me

and for all who think and feel.

Therefore,
there is no living until death

except for the many who remain
children all their lives.

ten years later

- What time is it?
- It's past midday.

I went out to get you some pastries.

I'd give my eyes for you,
if they were still worth anything.

How are you?

I managed to write,

laboriously...

May I?

You'll spoil me!

Have you unhooked the sky?

Come in, Lenina is always
happy to see you.

- Congratulations.
- It's an honor, coming from you.

"...the heavens reserve a cruel joy
to she who is wife to a Frenchman".

"Or a cruel regret"?

Marvelous verses!

You were sublime, as always.

Florence is at your feet,
did you hear the applause?

The script is good, it's moving,
but the part is secondary.

You were sublime even in silences.

Who knows why soliloquies
are so loved in theater!

Man, when taken with his passions,
says nothing within himself.

- Sirs...
- Niccolini... Wonderful!

My compliments.

Thank you, Maddalena.

You alone could play Imelda
with such exquisite intensity.

It's your verses that are compelling.

What does the audience say?
What will happen to the performance?

The audience loved it, but censorship
prevents us from continuing.

That's terrible,
I'm distressed for you.

We're all distressed,
not just for you.

I too am in exile
due to the hatred of tyrants

like the lead character
of your tragedy.

- I received the news.
- I'm sorry, Ferdinando.

You were extremely generous
to organize the staging,

you and your wife,

now all we can do
is close the theater.

Allow me to say how much
I liked your interpretation.

Thank you, Mr. Ranieri.

Alright, we'll be going.

- Farewell!
- Farewell.

I'm going as well.

Prepare everything, Madame,
we leave tomorrow, on tour.

Bologna!

- Go away!
- Be careful, Giacomo!

Get away, damned dog!

Let go!

Look!

She said

she'd leave her husband...

her children!

That she couldn't live without me.

I race to her

and it's not true at all!

I know well what melancholy is,

but you must make every effort
to repel this feeling.

You're young, you have
a long future before you,

don't embitter yourself
with sad ideas.

Perhaps these words displease you.

No,

on the contrary,

your words and your voice
are a balm to me.

You're fortunate in having
the friendship of Leopardi.

He incites me to speak to you
with my heart.

Have you seen
that beautiful young girl

of about fourteen or fifteen?

She looks made to be contemplated.

No.

Is she the daughter
of one of the guests?

I'd have sworn her to be Canova's
daughter, but her father is another.

Come with me!

Look!

This Psyche is not a statue,

she is alive, alive!

One of the most tender, graceful
little angels there are.

She loved with closed eyes,
not seeing who her beloved was.

There's no tale more beautiful
than Love and Psyche.

Oh, beautiful and miraculous Psyche!

This is a map I drew with Rosellini

after our journey,
actually, during the journey.

We pushed on quite far,
along the Nile...

I read your "Small Moral Works".

A wistful book, as is your way.

Yes, as is my way.

Wistful, disconsolate, despairing...

this life must seem
a horrible thing to you.

What can I say?

The madness that human life
is bleak, was my mania.

Because now you hold
a different opinion?

Most certainly...

With more profound studying,

I realize that happiness of life

is one of the great discoveries
of our century.

Would you excuse me?

Giacomo, I finally see you!

I was grieved by what you wrote me.

I believe your competitor
for the annual award is Botta,

not Manzoni,
who's not in the running.

Do you really believe the Academy
intends to violate the rules?

I can try to inquire, but...

No, good heavens!
Manzoni has nothing to do with it,

he is such a dear man, a lovely soul,
worthy of his reputation.

It is merely a suspicion,
my dear Vieusseux,

but no word of this to anyone,
I pray.

Please excuse me.

Giacomino, what's the matter?

Aren't you well?
Would you like some water?

No, I'm fine.

Where is Ranieri?

He's with Fanny.

Your designs worked well,
my dear Leporello!

He'll finally forget
that unbearable actress.

Why don't we leave?

Should we call a carriage?

Why not walk, I need some air.

- Can you manage?
- Yes.

How I adored your first poems,
reading them again!

And these last as well.

How marvelous is "Night Song
of a Wandering Shepherd of Asia"...

"What are you doing,
moon up, in the sky;

What are you doing,
tell me, silent moon?"

Giordani my friend,
it is so good to have you back!

Florence is mournful without you.

I have no need of esteem or glory
or other such things,

I have need of love,

of enthusiasm, of fire, of life.

Then listen well to me,
know that I love you,

sincerely, with all my heart,

and I'm pleased you find diversion
occasionally, like this evening,

despite the bitter outcome
of the evening.

What, you deride me was well?

No!

Remember instead to deliver
that famous article to Vieusseux.

What annoyance!

You asked to write it.

Very well, I'll write it tomorrow
and deliver it to him,

if, however, you come with me

to chat with our academic friends.

"None else but genius is fury,

from study, the only inspiration".

Well said.

I heard the government prevented the
printing of The Florentine Spectator,

a nice name for a newspaper.

It was Ranieri's idea.

I'd have preferred... Le Flâneur.

With all the newspapers
so useful to progress,

ours wouldn't have been at all.

What do you mean?

Our aim was not to increase industry
or benefit the world,

just amuse the one who read it,
to laugh.

Please forgive me
if I seize this occasion,

you know all the most famous men
of our times.

Would you lighten yourself of a few
letters from illustrious persons?

Yes... Of course!

- For Count Leopardi...
- Yes.

It would be in behalf
of a gracious and beautiful lady

who implores me to procure
autographs for her collection.

I see!

Here's your suit! It's like new.

See what long lapels.

Just as fashion commands!

- What do I owe you?
- Two francesconi.

The warbling of your songbird
sounds like a laugh.

Birds are the happiest creatures
in the world,

they seem to laugh, as men do.

Isn't it admirable that man
is able to laugh, being so unhappy?

Fortunately, men can forget
themselves sometimes.

Rosina, wrap this suit
for this gentleman.

- Good day, Fanny.
- Good day, my friend.

I was just reading
the book you recommended.

Come, sit here.

How are you today? You look well.

Yes...

It must be this nice, mild weather.

Look what I've brought for you.

This is an autograph of Alfieri!

How did you come by it?

I requested it for you.

It comes from Switzerland.

It's of great value!
I don't know how to thank you.

I should thank you...
for talking with Antonio,

you did very well.

- Have you seen him since that night?
- No.

But we all will meet again
on Saturday at Charlotte Bonaparte's.

I know she overturned Florence
to have you as her guest.

Maybe... I'll come.

Why shouldn't you?

Because my life has always been,

and will perpetually be,
a solitary one.

Besides in conversation I am...

"absent", to use the English word,

more than a man who is blind or deaf.

It is an incorrigible,
desperate vice.

You're simply little willing to talk.

But no one says
more interesting things than you.

Thank you!

When a loving feeling is newborn
deep within the heart,

at the same time
a languid and exhausted

wish to die arrives,

I don't know why;

but this is the first effect
of true and potent love.

Maybe this desert
terrifies the eyes then...

This?

Desert.

Don't you want to give me a kiss?

One kiss in an entire life?

You can't deny
a dying man's last favor.

I didn't live in vain...

I was allowed to put my mouth
on yours.

Indeed, I think my fate is happy.

There are two fair things
in this world:

love and death.

Good morning, My Lord Count.

- Is the lady at home?
- She just left with the family.

Goodbye.

You know how
I've exerted myself for him.

We were able to obtain an allowance
for him for a full year!

I've read his work again

and liked nothing of it.

The same, eternal,

unbearable melancholy.

The same themes,

no new idea, no new concept.

Of course, the style is beautiful!

- But, really...
- He's coming.

My good friend,

we have nothing very consoling to say

regarding the award.

It was granted to Botta.

Your "Small Moral Works" was defended

by Capponi and by Niccolini.

You should know,
although Colletta did not expect it,

even Zanoni was fair in your regard.

But what hope from all the priests
who made the rest of the council?

Could they ever appreciate

the value of your writings?

Priests!

Priests are the cause of every evil!

They should all be
chased out with stones.

At least from the literary juries.

Leave priests alone,

the matter is another, it regards us
and our liberal ideas.

Giacomo, I speak to you
in friendship,

in these times
it is extremely detrimental

to display a desperation
such as yours.

Our century has taught us
that the human condition

can greatly improve from what it is,

just as it has already unspeakably
improved from what it was.

That's correct...

My friends, forget it.

My book... burn it,
it's for the best.

Or if not, save it
as a book of poetic dreams,

of inventions, of mournful whims,

as the expression
of the unhappiness of its author.

Because, in confidence,

my dear friend,

I believe you and all the others
to be happy,

but as for me, by your leave
and by that of the century,

I am extremely unhappy

and believe myself as such.

And all the papers of the two worlds

will never persuade me
of the contrary.

What arrogant mediocrity!

Come on, Tommaseo,
Leopardi is not what we believed,

but you exaggerate.

You say?

In 1900 not even his hump
will remain!

My dear mother, I never write you

and I regret having to do so now
for a plea.

Time ago I wrote father

to beg him to grant me
a monthly sum of twelve francesconi,

with which I would
stingily manage to eke along.

Father replied
I should write to you directly.

Today finally,
able to defer no longer,

I am reduced to this step,
which costs me dearly,

and I address you
with the same plea.

Who are you?

I'm a poor Icelander

and am fleeing Nature.

I am she from whom you're fleeing.

Nature?

I am smitten with anguish!

You are the manifest enemy of men,

and of the other animals
and your own creatures.

Now you ensnare us,
now you threaten us,

now you attack us, now you strike us,
now you rend us,

and you always
offend or persecute us!

Did you think by any chance that
the world was made for you alone?

My purpose was not, and is not,

the happiness or unhappiness of men.

When I harm you in any way, and with
whatever means, I don't notice it;

I don't know
whether I please or help you.

Even if I happened
to wipe out your entire species,

I wouldn't notice it.

my songbird flits here and there
totin' my word

and comes back
with what it can bring.

Listen here, lovely bird,

right there facin',

is a house, and a girl is within,

you can go to her now if you hasten,

she's the fairest
a girl's ever been...

Let's go.

I agree too.

Let's go.

You've decided!

Good.

But maybe we can't go at the moment.

I'm having ferocious arguments.

They say they welcomed me
in Tuscany like a brother,

that it doesn't matter
if my exile has been revoked,

that the political situation here
is difficult, understand?

And now that I can go to Naples,

where you and I could live
in comfort, without a cent,

what do these scoundrels do?

They accuse me of cowardice.

Your political friends...

who talk so much about
the happiness of the masses.

My tiny brain can't conceive

of happy masses
composed of unhappy individuals.

Do you really want us
to go to Naples?

I desire nothing more
than to do like the Orientals,

who are satisfied
to sit all day on their legs

stupidly watching
our ridiculous existence.

Naples will do you good,
the air is wonderful.

I'm sure it will help
withstand your pains better.

I am sure it will be like that.

I came to say goodbye.

And Giacomo?

He wasn't able to come.

He didn't want to come.

I've fallen in disfavor
with Leopardi.

- That is not so.
- Yes, it is!

If you knew how often it happens
with my string of adorers.

But you know well, I gave not
the least flattery to that poor man.

No one is more dear to me
than him, you know.

I appreciate and highly value

your friendship
with the excellent Leopardi,

but I believe he will be
a hindrance to you,

his health and style of living

contrast too greatly
with your strength and youth.

That is enough!

Yes...

Enough.

I don't wish you to think me cruel.

It is my true, sincere sentiment
for you that makes me talk like this.

Write to me when you are in Naples.

I will not forget you.

Farewell.

Your father?

He has no intention
of sending me money,

he insists on giving it to me
in Naples, in person,

so as to humiliate me to my face.

In the meantime, I will try signing
another promissory note.

We will together,

I'll ask my father to guarantee.

Furthermore, here in Rome
I am again a subject of the Pope,

as I was in Recanati.

It is fair I should
humiliate myself as well.

Can you make the stairs?

I'll try...

Wait!

Come here.

I could not live without you!

By now we are a single thing.

- So, where are these sheep?
- They stayed there!

How are you? We've not seen you
in Rome for a long time.

Fine, fine...

My uncle, the Marquise, is not in?

He left early this morning
for the Holy See,

extremely important obligations.

He ask me to extend his apologizes
for the delay.

He shall return
as quickly as possible.

- May I take your overcoat?
- No, I'm fine, thank you.

What should I do, sit?

Naturally, please take a seat!

- I'll inform the Marchioness.
- No, no... don't trouble yourself!

We exchanged greetings
this morning at Mass.

The Marchioness partook of Mass
in the private chapel.

Then, at the cafe.

Of course... with your permission.

Count, may I? Here also to await
the Marquise is Baron De Corbis,

a High Council magistrate.

What an honor!

But especially what a pleasure
to pass the waiting

in your company, sir.

Giacomo Leopardi.

Count, pray forgive the disturbance,

this man must deliver a crate of wine
to the Marquise.

"Be silent sweet Muse if thou intend

to recount the illustrious virtues
of my lord,

about whose sweet graces
and industrious ways

you spend in vain
your graceful thoughts.

Promptly the goats
and the young lambs, to live

run quickly as lightning bolts,

to which Father Tiber
awakens at the sound.

And with head raised
to the most sublime acme,

aimed so cruelly the fearful lambs,

that Zeus resembled as he,
it is lightning"...

To receive payment for being heard,
that would be a good affair,

since by now everyone writes!

The first hour, one scudo,
the second two, the third four,

the fourth eight and so on.

And double for poetry, double!

And for each passage read,
desiring to return to it,

one lira per verse.

And, heaven forbid,
if the listener should fall asleep,

he should restore to the reader
a third of the established price.

How sarcastic you are!

Monsignor Cupis has always had
words of affection for you,

he showers
a thousand kindnesses on you,

what harm is there
in listening to his verses?

He threatens with thousands:
sonnets, lyric poems and chapters

which he would like me
to revise or polish.

Marianna, he has else to do besides
listening to Monsignor's verses.

He has to flee the police.

Is it true that you were
planning a revolt in Naples?

No.

But it was in a newspaper,
your father nearly had a fit!

It was a French newspaper

and the Leopardi they mention
was a certain Pier Silverio, not me.

In any case...

Associating with this Ranieri
does not benefit your reputation.

Are you certain
you want to move to Naples?

It is a city dominated by nature

and I shall finally
be able to live as it comes.

I ask for nothing more.

You ask money
of your parents, however.

You shall receive their check
through a promissory note in my name.

Be advised that Monaldo,
without a word to your mother,

has included a sum of twenty scudi
for travel expenses.

I am deeply grateful,

to them and to you,
who inconvenience yourself for me.

Indeed, if you would do me
the courtesy of writing my father

and reassuring him,

also on my condition of health.

As you see, my body is so frail
it is unable

to develop a strong disease
that could kill it.

And so, I am living.

I will, but you could write him more,

with more affection, with more...

I would give all my blood for him

and not out of duty, but love.

Giacomo, won't you eat something?

At this hour...

You know I have
quite a complicated digestion.

We know... Remove his plate.

Don't ya see he's right here?

You gotta go, hear me?
I'll grab your hair and drag ya!

Stop!

What is it?

What happened?

The landlady
was rummaging through my things.

- What?
- I saw her.

Relax, it was a dream.

Why is the case open? Bring it here.

Perhaps we left it like that
last night.

Bring it here.

Bring it here.

Is anything missing?

Huh? No!

Who would want to steal
your utensils for hair?

- It could have been for money.
- What are you saying!

She's a very honest woman,
Margaris introduced us.

You know how I trust that old Greek!

I've known him for years,

do you believe he would put us
in the hands of a thief?

That toad's consumptive,

he'll end up infectin' the lot of us.

No, you can rest assured,
he has no infectious disease.

Besides, pardon me: the candle's
never out, the whole night,

I'd love to know
what's goin' on in there!

Daytime we can't go in
'cause toady's asleep,

the maids can't even do the cleanin'.

Why not take him home with ya?

We can't go to my house,
besides we've only just arrived,

I can't exhaust my friend
with a new move.

Madame, I would never have brought
a person less than distinguished.

The Count is a poet

and writes at night.

I don't care if he's a poet,
a Count or a Marquise!

- That man's ill, I want no trouble.
- What trouble?

Do you have faith
in Dr. Nicola Mannella,

physician to His Royal Highness,
the old Prince of Salerno?

Why, you know the court physician?

Well, when Dr. Mannella
has given his word of honor

that he's not consumptive,
we'll talk about it.

What do you usually eat?

Meat.

- Vegetables?
- No.

Very bad!

In your condition, you should eat

principally fish and vegetables.

But, let me remind you,

you must absolutely avoid sweets.

Sweets and ice cream.

And don't live in the dark,
you need air, sun!

Paolina, open the blinds, please.

- Who's that one?
- His sister.

Toady's even got a sister!

She's Ranieri's sister.

- My respects.
- Regards.

Thank you doctor.

Madame, whatever
the nature of his disease,

it is not contagious.

- Good bye.
- Good bye, thank you!

May God
forever protect His Highness!

So, is it alright?

Mr. Margaris...

those two aren't tellin' it straight.

Madame, please,

your generosity
is renown throughout Naples.

One month.

And not a day more!

Now boast, because you can.

Announce that you're the one
of all your sex

who made me bend my proud head,

the one to whom
I freely gave my unvanquished heart.

Say you were the first,

and certainly the last, I hope,

to see me bow to you,

to see me timid,

trembling

(telling it I am burning
in embarrassment and shame),

undone.

And comfort and revenge

is that I can lie here lazy,
lifeless on the grass,

watching the sea and earth and sky,

and smile.

Paolina, you're here!
Where's Giacomo?

I don't know, they said
he went out this morning.

I've been awaiting him for two hours,

he asked if he could dictate
a letter to his sister.

You're an angel.

But return home now,
it will soon be dark.

I'll go look for him.

Damnation, he'll make me crazy!

In Recanati I knew a champion!

Carlo Didimi, maybe you know him.

Sure do! A great player!

He even played for Naples,
remember, Salvatore?

Yeah! But how do you know that?

Recanati is a very small place,

I even dedicated a poem to him.

Let's drink to the game!

Didn't you play?

I was intent on other things

and I was a bit delicate.

Not that I have always been "toady"
as you deride me here!

A toad, sure, but useful:

with that hump,
you can give us numbers.

Yeah, we'll play 'em in the lottery!

Numbers!
Because I bring good luck...

Twenty-four!

Thirty-one!

Forty-nine!

Ninety-four!

There's no ninety-four,
the lottery goes to ninety.

Don Giacomo, ninety: fear!

And the one who gets it,
makes ninety-one!

What are you doing?

I looked everywhere for you,
then they said you were here.

How are you?

I'm fine... I'm fine.

C'mon, let's go.

Stay here a little longer,
drink with us.

Just a drop!

Sit here with friends.

- Here's to health.
- To health.

I've seen marvelous shops, Antonio,

richly-stocked bookshops...

and pastry shops... what a smell!

I want to write the tale of a walk.

Maybe we'll even buy some new ties,
yours are threadbare.

Lady Guacci has invited us
to her home next Saturday,

even Donizetti will be there,

he wants to use several
of your verses in his new opera,

"Lucia di Lammermoor".

I don't want to go
to social gatherings.

We'd best be moving.

What's happening?

- The police have come
to take the sailor. - What sailor?

The one who fled the ship infected
with cholera, to see his family.

He's dead.

Let's go!

Your lovelies, your lovelies...

I want to praise!

No, women no!

My head, farewell!
My head, farewell!

I can't restrain,

my fury swells!

My very hand

will rip apart...

In Rome,

the opera was a flop.

There's no doubt, Rossini draws
inspiration in Naples.

The first act was wonderful!

My ice cream.

You're in a good mood today,

maybe a less afflicted
inspiration for poetry will come.

Look, I have your book here,

Starita, the publisher
gave it to me this morning

and said there were unpublished
poems, I read them immediately.

Well, don Giacomo!

Allow me to speak sincerely,
they are truly woeful,

not from the poetic standpoint,

but especially from the moral one.

- Is it true you are an atheist?
- Would it were atheism!

If you imagine a divinity

you imagine it as evil,
who enjoys tormenting men.

You are quite the pessimist.

What empty words!

Pessimism, optimism...

You must prove

that this world is not
the worst of all possible.

I certainly don't affirm that.

Who knows the limits of possibility?

You must imagine it like the thought

of an ancient Indian philosopher.

In any case, your little poems

were received poorly by everyone.

No, I say this with great regret,

because we had hoped in you,
your fame was great,

we expected a new Manzoni.

Don't you see the suffering
borne by don Giacomo?

How can he not be woeful?

Thus he is irritated
with nature and men.

What of the example of Christ?
Or Socrates?

Also that of Silvio Pellico.

My opinions have nothing to do

with my personal suffering!

Grant me the grace
of not attributing to my state

what is owed only to my intellect!

And if this impassions you,

devote yourselves
to demolishing my reasoning,

rather than accusing my illnesses.

If you will excuse me?

Good bye.

Count...

Would you do me a favor,

if you encounter that lousy Starita,

remind him that he is overdue

by more than ten days
with the payment he owes me.

It shall be done, good bye.

Good bye.

Sit down a moment.

Thank you, dear Margaris,
my good Greek father.

Will you stop that?
If they get broken, I can't cook!

Giacomo!

Look at this table.

We put our manger scenes
on it when I was a boy.

Did you see the mattresses?
Real Tunisian wool!

They're very soft,
Mother treasured them.

I had them brought here
to alleviate the pain in your back.

Thank you!

Have you put Giacomo's papers
in a safe place?

- Certainly, they're in the chest.
- Begin copying them.

We mustn't leave even one out.

"This lonely hill
was always dear to me"...

And with all these Fannys, Tereses,
Tereselles, Gertrudis...

can it be this friend of yours

has never had a screwin'?

I told you, he's a virgin.

Alright...

Have him come here,
we'll take care of him.

Yes, but you have to treat him well

and tell the others too.

He's ill, very ill.

And you mustn't tease him
about his hump, remember.

Don't worry, we know toady,

all the times we've seen him go by!

He's a poet.

And you have to say to him:
"s'agapò".

- S'agapò...
- S'agapò.

It's Greek.

It's late.

Take care.

May the Holy Virgin be with you!

- My Lord Count, Mr. Ranieri!
- Good evening.

Pray, refresh and console,
lovely souls, holy souls,

I am alone, there are many of you...

Dear little head.

It's down there.

Antonio I don't know if...

Don't worry, they know everything.

Go there and choose
the one you like most.

Go!

I'll wait for you around here.

Look where the hunchback's goin'!

Come right in!

Come here, sit down!

Don't go in there!

Come here! Where are you going?

Come here.

"S'agapò"!

I, dear sister, die of melancholy

when I think of all the time passed
without seeing you.

These are things one says in jest

and I, laughing, say them to you.

When you see me again,

there will be no lack
of tales and stories

to keep you cheerful

for many weeks, in the evenings.

Farewell.

Farewell...

Signed,

et cetera.

Would you like
to return to Recanati?

Yes,

I would like

to flee these scoundrels

and Pulcinellas.

Nobles and populace, eh?

All thieves and fucking barons,

quite worthy
of the Spanish and the gallows.

Certainly,

your sister would be
so happy to see you again...

But couldn't she come here?

Poor Paolina,

she never married

and she never went out of Recanati.

We would play, as children.

I was overbearing

and Carlo would become angry,

but she was always on my side.

How strange,
to leave a sister Paolina

in my little backward, native village

and find another sister Paolina,
in this great city of Naples.

Why are you always here?

Don't you tire
of tending to an invalid,

who's also often in a bad mood?

When I hear you talk to my brother

about philosophy, literature,

all those nice, important things,

I am repaid for my effort.

And when Antonio didn't want
to return to Naples, to be with you,

I swore if he brought you here,

I'd have helped him
tend to you my entire life.

You love him that much?

Yes, that much.

Instructions to defend towns
from cholera

C'mon we can make it!

Peppì, we're almost there!

Those with any dead, bring 'em out!

The dead!

Throw the dead out!

May death take you! Go away!

Those with any dead, bring 'em out!

You wait in vain, they're all dead!

Race is lost!

See? No more kingdoms, or empires!

There will be no more war and
the years will all seem the same,

you see, like from egg to egg.

And we won't know
what day of the month it is,

because they won't print any more
almanacs, calendars, moon almanacs.

The moon will certainly not lose her
way because of that!

And so, we'll all pass off
as young people

and when we're really old,

we won't be waiting for death
from one moment to the next!

Take care!

What do you want?

The Count is waiting for me.

Wait out here.

The doctor says to rest, do you think
you should receive visitors?

Antonio I'll see whom I like,

don't interfere in my affairs,
I've said that many times before.

Do as you like.

Come in.

Disinfect your hands.

Are you writing the story
of mice making war on frogs?

Yes... and with crabs!

But do you know who wins?

The king of mice, Ham-Eater,
remember?

He died.

Now the new Prime Minister,
Count Bottom-Licker,

is forced into exile
and turns to the world of the dead

for advice,
to the Underworld of mice.

What do the dead tell him?

They have a big laugh!

When the scourge
was not even manifest,

I told you it was wrath from heaven

and I thus invited you to repent,

inciting you to take refuge
in prayer,

mercy, the only shelter,
the only solution for hope.

Ave, Ave!

Holy Virgin, take me in your arms!

Holy Virgin, grant me grace!

Antonio, it's useless,
he refuses to change.

Don Antonio, I don't know
what saint to pray to.

In your condition, you cannot

wear the same clothing for days.

You must be washed.

I'm unable to, there's too much pain.

Let's leave here.

Our friend Ferrigni has left us
his villa, it's beautiful.

You heard the doctors:
no onion juice, no diuretic

can equal a half a day of air
in Torre del Greco.

I couldn't withstand another move.

We've changed homes too many times.

And besides Torre...
nothing can be done, Torre!

My illness is nerves!

You heard the doctor
with you own ears.

"My Lord Count, the doctor makes
the diagnosis, not the patient!"

He's told you over and over,
it's not a question of nerves!

"You, sir, must go to Torre"
that's what he said.

"If you want, if not,
do as you see fit".

I'll come down with cholera,
if I go out.

Perhaps.

But Mannella was clear,

between the fear of cholera
if you leave

and hydrothorax if you stay,
the first is in doubt,

the second, a certainty.

Don Giacomo, good morning.

- What time is it?
- It's three.

You said you wanted to eat at four

and I thought it was best
to wake up a little earlier.

Thank you, Pasquale.

Good thing he chose only foods
that are right for his health.

Right, that means he wants to live.

I sent him to Naples
for bread and taralli.

That was unwise!
If he'd become infected?

Holy Virgin!

It's useless, he doesn't like
the bread from here

and he ate the little taralli
one after the other.

- He said he also wants ice cream.
- That too!

Fanny wrote me, she says hello.

She sends greetings
from Giordani as well.

Certainly, that woman
often says things that...

She says people are dying in Naples
because of the poverty!

That's what they think of us
in Florence,

they see us as uncivilized.

As if in London or Paris
there were no poor.

The envy of outsiders is only equal

to the idiocy of those who govern us,
that's the truth.

"I see another cat, it seems
the big dipper with the little.

Oh cats, lamp of my study...

Oh beloved cats,

if God saves you from a thrashing,

if the heavens provide you
with meat and milk,

give me light
to write these solemn poems...

Here on the dry flank

of the terrifying mountain,
Vesuvius the destroyer,

which no other
tree or flower brightens,

you spread your solitary thickets,

scented broom,
at home in the desert.

Let him who loves to praise our state
come to these slopes.

Represented on these slopes you see

"the magnificent, progressive
destiny" of humankind.

The noble nature is the one
who dares lift his mortal eyes

to confront our common destiny

and, with honest words that subtract
nothing from the truth,

admits the pain that is our destiny,

and believing
the whole human company

considers all men
allies from the outset

and embraces all of them
with true love,

offering and expecting
real and ready aid

in the alternating dangers
and concerns

of our common struggle.

Often I sit at night
on these deserted slopes,

which the hardened flood clothes
in a black that seems to undulate,

and over the sad plain

I see the stars burning up above
in purest blue,

which the sea reflects
in the far distance

and, twinkling everywhere,

the world glistens in the empty sky.

And once my eyes
have focused on those lights,

which seem a tiny point to them,
though they're enormous,

so that next to these

the earth and sea are in truth
no greater than a speck,

to which not only man
but this globe where man is nothing

is totally unknown;

and when I see

these still more distant nuclei,
it seems, of stars

that look like haze to us,

how do I think of you then,

sons of men?

Extinct Pompei
returns to the celestial light

from her immemorial oblivion
like a buried skeleton.

And in the horror of the hidden
night, in the empty theaters,

the broken temples
and ruined houses,

where the bat
conceals its offspring,

advancing cruelly through vacant
buildings like an evil torch

the gleaming deadly lava flows,

and glows red
among the distant shadows,

dyeing everything around.

And you, too, pliant broom,

adorning this abandoned countryside
with fragrant brushes,

you will soon succumb

to the cruel power
of subterranean fire,

and unresisting

you'll bow your blameless head
under the deadly scythe

subtitles Charlotte Lantery
Ombre Elettriche Digital - Roma

Jonathan Galassi's translation
of the Leopardi verses is in

"Canti / Poems, a bilingual edition",
Farrar, Straus and Giroux 2011