F.—Just a life, that's all,—such as God would grant me, without any other conditions.
P.—A life left to accident, of which nothing would be known in advance,—a life such as the coming year brings?
F.—Exactly.
P.—That's what I, too, would desire, if I had my life to live over again,—what I and everybody else would wish for. But that means that fate, up to this very day, has treated us badly. And it is rather easy to see that the common opinion is, that in the past evil has triumphed greatly over good, since nobody, if he had to go over the same road again, would consent to be reborn. That life which is good is not the life we know, but the life we do not know,—the life ahead of us. Beginning with the new year, fate is going to deal kindly with us,—with you and me and everybody,—and we are going to be happy.
V.—Let us hope so.
P.—Well, let me see your handsomest almanac.
V.—Here you are, sir. It costs thirty cents.
P.—Here's your money.
V.—Thanks, sir. See you again. Almanacs! New almanacs! New calendars!
There is, perhaps, a slight error in Leopardi's reasoning. It is not because our life has been bad that it would be a burden to begin it all over again. Even a happy life lived twice would scarcely possess any greater pleasures. The element of curiosity must be taken into account. There is no human being, however resigned to the monotony of a becalmed existence, who does not in the bottom of his heart hope for some unforeseen event.