This summer, I had the privilege of finding a used copy of Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa's The Leopard in a Tallinn bookshop. Having already seen the film and being as a general rule enamoured with all things Sicilian, I simply had to have it. Now I've read the novel and I have some thoughts on it. I won't be calling this piece a review because it is nowhere nearly as structured as it should be. Rather, it represents a smattering of thoughts and emotions about the work.
The backdrop of the novel is the Expedition of the Thousand and the Risorgimento more generally, when the Kingdom of Piedmont absorbed the other Italian states to become the Kingdom of Italy. There is the attendant theme of power passing from the aristocracy to the bourgeoisie as well. The specific setting is Sicily, the main character is Don Fabrizio, the Prince of Salina. Don Fabrizio is himself a liminal figure, being first and foremost German on his mother's side and therefore already half-a-foreigner by temperament. Furthermore, and likely as a result of this foreign temperament, he is also an accomplished and respected astronomer, which has earned him a medal at the Sorbonne, but also the perplexity of his fellow aristocrats who consider anything resembling work, even of the mind, to be demeaning.
He is, however, in every other respect an aristocrat. Leonine of temperament, indifferent to matters of money, a keen shooter, rider and hunter, a patron of the Church as well as a great womaniser. This dual, liminal nature allows him to be the only character who can mourn the old world's passing whilst accepting that it ought have passed. As a result of this, he is a moderating influence between conservative Sicilians and modernising Piedmontese. Whilst not at all pleased with the antics by which the bourgeoisie ensconce themselves in power at the expense of the nobility, he nevertheless has the foresight to recognise that this is inevitable and that he possesses something of value, which may be traded away in order to preserve his family's prominence, his prestige. The rising bourgeoisie, personified in the figure of Don Calogero Sedàra are parvenus, lacking legitimacy and the ineffability of the nobility. The changing times, however, means they can obtain this legitimacy by marrying into the noble families. Don Fabrizio, therefore, gives assent to the marriage of his nephew Tancredi Falconeri to the beautiful Angelica Sedára, thus dashing the hopes of his own daughter, Concetta, of marrying the handsome yet impoverished Tancredi.
But as I keep finding in other media as well, the tempest of political change can often be drowned out by the din of personal tragedy, folly and the all-too familiar foibles of the human condition. Don Fabrizio fails in his political manoeuvres because he makes an error in judgement. He mistakes Tancredi for a true scion of Salina, only seeing that it is daughter Concetta that is the true Leopard on his deathbed. By then it is too late. Concetta is a spinster and will remain so for the rest of her life. Concetta too is blind to Tancredi's genuine love for her, mostly out of leonine pride. Tancredi too suffers a personal tragedy, even though he is very successful in his political career, his marriage to Angelica is miserable and marred with unfaithfulness on both sides.
Indeed, the much anticipated political change resulting from Garibaldi's Expedition of the Thousand is slowly absorbed by the Sicilian landscape itself. In his missive where he refuses an invitation to become a Senator of the newly formed Kingdom of Italy, Don Fabrizio explains to the Northern dignitary the nature of Sicily itself. It is impossibly old, resistant to all change by the Piedmontese, whom it perceives as just another colonial force, no different than the Bourbons, Spanish, Moors, Byzantines or even Romans and Carthaginians. The land's true lord is the Sun who wreaks unspeakable tyranny on it for six months of the year. The island is resistant to change in a unique way, at least that's what Don Fabrizio believes. It was difficult to read these words in our recent heatwave, especially when reflecting on my own homeland's resistance to reform of any kind.
Here we come to the problem of The Leopard. At its publication, the book was hated by every political faction and loved in equal measure. The left hated it for portraying the aristocracy in a sympathetic manner. The aristocrats hated it for portraying them frankly, as they were, in their sad, degenerated state. The Italian nationalists and patriots hated it for its frank portrayal of how the Savoyard sausage was made. It is the closest thing the Sicilian people have to a national novel, but it is completely bereft of any romantic idealisation for Sicily and Sicilians. Tomasi di Lampedusa did not see his work published, and maybe it was better that this reserved, shy man did witness the ire his magnum opus inspired.
In my own reading of the work, I've found the political aspect interesting, but ultimately secondary to the human drama unfolding. The rich tapestry of people and landscape presented by Sicily in both Palermo and Donnafugata is the main draw of the novel. In Don Fabrizio, we don't admire so much the political animal, but rather the personal. His true self is revealed in his shooting expeditions, his fondness for Bendico the hunting dog, his sincere friendships with Don Ciccio Tumeo the church organist who is a fellow hunter, and Father Pirrone who shares his interest in astronomy. The Prince is a great practitioner of the art of people-watching, and we're treated to a festival of humanity through his observant, scientific eyes. That, and the sensuous tumult that is Sicily is what forms the meat of the work. It therefore uses the political but doesn't ultimately needed, because it is a true work of art, and true works of art, in the words of Emerson, have as much reason for existing as the Earth and the Sun.