Halls hung in damask, vast mirrors
in carven frames, and stately furniture of antique form attested
throughout the palace "the splendor of a race which, if its fortunes
had somewhat declined, still knew how to maintain its ancient state."
In this home passed the youth and early manhood of a poet who no
sooner began to think for himself than he began to think things most
discordant with his father's principles and ideas. He believed in
neither the religion nor the politics of his race; he cherished with
the desire of literary achievement that vague faith in humanity, in
freedom, in the future, against which the Count Monaldo had so
sternly set his face; he chafed under the restraints of his father's
authority, and longed for some escape into the world. The Italians
sometimes write of Leopardi's unhappiness with passionate condemnation
of his father; but neither was Count Monaldo's part an enviable one,
and it was certainly not at this period that he had all the wrong in
his differences with his son. Nevertheless, it is pathetic to read how
the heartsick, frail, ambitious boy, when he found some article in a
newspaper that greatly pleased him, would write to the author and ask
his friendship. When these journalists, who were possibly not always
the wisest publicists of their time, so far responded to the young
scholar's advances as to give him their personal acquaintance as well
as their friendship, the old count received them with a courteous
tolerance, which had no kindness in it for their progressive ideas.
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