The Leopard by Giuseppe di Lampedusa: Review

This is one of the must-reads that I came across in my days of post-college malaise, when I figured that the only thing that could give my life meaning would be to continue my Great Books education and read every obscure classic that I could get my hands on. Luckily I decided to continue my education more officially soon thereafter and thus was spared too many more angsty moments, but I'm pleased that one result of those wrought days spent reading book reviews and then browsing used books stores is that I heard about The Leopard by Giuseppe di Lampedusa. The book is translated from the Italian and was published posthumously in 1958. It tells the story of Don Fabrizio Corbera, Prince of Salina at the time of the Risorgimento, or Italian unification. Lampedusa was himself a titled aristocrat, and resigned wistfulness seems to be a predominant theme of the book.

I was watching the PBS miniseries Downton Abbey right at the time when I picked up The Leopard. Both the show and the novel depict societies on the brink of major, perhaps inevitable, upheaval: England just prior to World War I, and Italy in the 1860s. While Downton Abbey gives a fascinating picture of life both above and below stairs and the anxieties and hopes faced by all parties, The Leopard primarily explores the complex emotions of those at the top.

Don Fabrizio, though, seems more accepting of the change he sees coming with the landing of Garibaldi. This acceptance (which is arguably more like resignation), seems to come from a conversation he has with his nephew, Tancredi. Tancredi is both a force of change and also a sign of the limits of transformation. Though an aristocrat, has chosen to join Garibaldi's forces. His decision initially shocks and upsets the Prince, but Tancredi responds, "They will foist a republic on us. If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change."

This very pragmatic approach to revolution ferments in the Prince's mind, and he begins to dwell on the certain sameness that underlies all human interaction and politics. Later, at his estate in Donnafugata, he thinks, in depression:

All this shouldn't last; but it will, always; the human 'always,' of course, a century, two centuries...and after that it will be different, but worse. We were the Leopards, the Lions; those who take our place will be little jackals, hyenas; and the whole lot of us, Leopards, jackals, and sheep, we'll all go on thinking ourselves the salt of the earth.

What seems unique is his willingness to admit that the way of the Leopard and the Lion is no more right or justified than the way of the hyena and jackal, and he undermines his very assertion that things will be "worse" by assuring us in the next line that every last being will go on thinking that their way is the best.

I have had a long standing argument with my husband and father-in-law about whether the state of man and the world is constantly improving or simply cycling through highs and lows. I tend to believe the latter, which might be part of why this book appealed to me. The thing is, someone's high is usually someone else's low (from the personal to the global scale). Don Fabrizio is prescient because he realizes that his loss of power is simply someone else's gain. Of course happiness is not necessarily a zero-sum game, but many of the things that people think accompany or support happiness sometimes are--power, money, prestige, resources, etc.

I'm probably making this book sound a little more grim than it actually is. But though this story isn't about the promise of change, it's also not about it's devastation--it's more the often humerous exploration of the realities of transition, often so very mundane. The author, himself the last Prince of Lampedusa, must have understood this particularly well.