A Private History of Happiness (13 page)

VIENNA
• JANUARY 2, 1717

One of the most accomplished men I have seen at Vienna is the young Count Tarrocco, who accompanies the amiable Prince of Portugal. I am almost in love with them both, and wonder to see such elegant manners, and such free and generous sentiments in two young men that have hitherto seen nothing but their own country. The Count [. . .] succeeds greatly with the devout beauties here; his first overtures in gallantry are disguised under the luscious strains of spiritual love [. . .]

Count Tarrocco is just come in
—He is the only person I have excepted this morning in my general order to receive no company—I think I see you smile—but I am not so far gone as to stand in need of absolution; tho’ as the human heart is deceitful, and the Count very agreeable, you may think that even tho’ I should not want an absolution, I would nevertheless be glad to have an indulgence—No such thing—However, as I am a heretic, and you no confessor, I shall make no declarations on this head—The design [purpose] of the Count’s visit is a ball—more pleasure—I shall be surfeited.

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, the wife of the courtier and diplomat Edward Wortley Montagu, had been one of the beauties and sparkling wits of the British court after their marriage in 1712. She counted among her friends many of the foremost writers of the time, including the poet Alexander Pope and the dramatist John Gay.

In August 1716, she and Edward set off together to travel to Constantinople, where he had been appointed the British ambassador. She had survived a serious smallpox infection two years previously. It had left its mark, and she now needed all her courage and willpower to plunge back into the sort of social life she had previously cherished. She wrote home to her sister and to her literary friends, describing her travels. This particular account was sent to the Abbé Antonio Conti, a Catholic priest who was a distinguished natural philosopher
and mathematician and a member of the British Royal Society. She shared with Conti, a man with a more flexible ethical code than might have been expected, an intimate moment from her time in the Austrian capital.

In Vienna, the young Count Tarrocco appealed to her; she appreciated his charm and freshness. She also liked the prince, his companion. As a woman of the world, a veteran of London high life, she was intrigued by their sophistication, since in her view their background was a bit provincial. All of this was fascinating. It was like being inside a novel.

Then the novel came to life as she was writing to the abbé. The young count appeared in her apartments, with a heroic flourish. She was flustered. Her poise was shaken, and for a moment she felt a flush of the recent anxiety but also excitement, the thrill of intrigue and desire: “Count Tarrocco is just come in.” So he was interested in her—that was a boost to her self-esteem and confidence.

The count departed, and she continued her letter in slightly coded terms to her confidant, playing with his power as a priest to grant absolution to the confessed sins of his flock. She almost made a confession. But then she just held back—teasing him with the idea of her being in need of an indulgence, and at the same time playing with the other meaning of indulgence.

The slightly frantic word play was part of her state of mind. Then she revealed the real cause of her excitement: the count had asked her to a ball. It was his “design,” as she put it. Playfully she made the encounter sound full of intrigue and even danger.

The happiness of it all burst into bloom that she noted down quickly in the exclamation, “more pleasure.” Then she hinted at further drama to follow, in a mocking parody of world-weary experience: “I shall be surfeited.” Everything was exciting. She was truly alive in that moment.

Ouyang Xiu, poet and provincial governor, composing a poetic essay

CHUZHOU, CHINA
• CA. 1045

A cast in the stream, and a fine fish taken from some spot where the eddying pools begin to deepen; a draught of cool wine from the fountain; and a few such dishes of meats and fruits as the hills are able to provide; these, nicely spread out beforehand, constitute the Governor’s feast. And in the revelry of the banquet hour there is no thought of toil or trouble. Every archer hits his mark, and every player wins his prize; goblets flash from hand to hand, and a buzz of conversation is heard as the guests move unconstrainedly about. Among them is an old man with white hair, bald at the top of his head. This is the drunken Governor who, when the evening sun kisses the tips of the hills and the falling shadows are drawn out and blurred, bends his steps homewards in company with his friends. Then in the growing darkness are heard sounds above and sounds below: the beasts of the field and the birds of the air are rejoicing at the departure of man. They, too, can rejoice in hills and in trees, but they cannot rejoice as man rejoices. So also the Governor’s friends. They rejoice with him, though they know not at what it is that he rejoices. Drunk, he can rejoice with them; sober, he can discourse with them; such is the Governor. And should you ask who is the Governor, I reply, “Ouyang Xiu of Lu-ling.”

Ouyang Xiu was the outstanding scholar and writer of his generation in China, and his work continued to be revered long after his death. He also had a controversial career in politics and administration. This particular passage comes from a brief poetic essay called “The Old Drunkard’s Pavilion” that he wrote while he was exiled from court and installed as a governor in Anhui province. He was around forty, and his demotion from court occurred in a conflict between different factions over attempted reforms. But even his enemies, who were many, agreed that Ouyang Xiu was the supreme author of the day. Later, he was recalled to the capital and was given control of the entire civil service examination system.

But this passage is not about power or disappointment, rivalry or ambition during the Sung dynasty. Instead, Ouyang Xiu wrote about a traditional wooden pavilion in the countryside that he used for his own entertainments.

He began by telling the story of this pavilion, which had been erected by a Buddhist monk called Deathless Wisdom. It was already known locally because of the antics of a previous governor who visited there and frequently took too much wine. In the course of the essay, though, this previous governor was replaced by Ouyang Xiu himself as the drunken governor in the pavilion. This gives a fine shape to the vivid little picture of the occasion of his own “Governor’s feast.”

He described particular sounds and sights. A fishing line was cast in the river and a fish was caught. There was such peace that this little moment stood out clearly, as if it was the only important thing happening in the whole world.

The meal was fresh and local, and the wine was cool. There was no display and no competition. Even the games were devoid of real rivalry or strain. Everybody took the prize and the conversation also was open to all, easy and natural.

Ouyang Xiu loved the way people came together, making a kind of music out of their different voices. He was happy creating this moment in a small corner of the vast empire, under the shadow of the mountains. It hinted at how a good society might develop if fostered by such care and calm. Out of ordinary happiness and carefree community, another possible society, a different way of life, could be formed.

As the evening came, other sounds drifted into the pavilion, sounds of the birds and animals reclaiming their world. The human beings were leaving. Nature, too, was happy.

But his own satisfaction was something deeper, thought the drunken governor, as he enjoyed his friends’ company. He felt a double happiness—he knew that he had entertained his guests well, just as he himself had enjoyed the conversations and the wine.

Mary Berry, author, writing in her travel journal

NAPLES
• FEBRUARY 25, 1784

Set out at 8.30 a.m. for Vesuvius, with Mr. Musgrave, Mr. Coussmaker, and Mr. Clerk [. . .]

Arrived at the top [of Vesuvius], we were most amply repaid for any trouble the ascent had cost. We were two hours at the edge of the crater. During the whole of that time it threw up red-hot stones and scoriae [chunks of lava], and the wind for the most part blowing the smoke the other way, we saw continual volumes of flame, and looked quite down to the mouth of the crater. The surface of the present cone of Vesuvius is entirely the production of the last eruption: it is full of large cracks, out of all of which issues continued smoke. We crossed several of them in walking round the edge of the crater to that part where the last eruption broke through.

We dined upon the very edge of the crater, where we could look down into the fiery gulf and enjoy the noble fireworks with which it continued to treat us. The smoke which the wind every now and then brought over to our side was so full of sand that it much incommoded our eyes, and was so impregnated with sulphur that it made us all cough.

I descended from the crater to where our mules awaited us on foot, in, I believe, half an hour’s time. The descent is most rapid, but, as the material on which one treads is soft, with the help of a stick or taking hold of an arm, one can jump forward without much fatigue.

Mary Berry was born in 1763 in Yorkshire. A year later arrived her sister, Agnes, with whom she was always very close. Their mother died not long after, and the sisters were brought up by their father and grandmother, first in Yorkshire and then in London.

In May 1783, their father, Robert, a wealthy merchant, took the two young women with him on a long tour of Europe, through Holland and Belgium, then along the Rhine. By February 25, 1784, they were in southern Italy, about to climb the volcano Vesuvius outside Naples.

Italy was a favorite destination for many such Grand Tour travelers, and Mount Vesuvius was one of the regular places to visit there. The idea of ladies taking such rough and risky journeys, however, was rather new. But Mary Berry was no demure and passive gentlewoman. She was someone who saw the world in her own independent way. She was also a writer already, and as they passed the sites at the foot of the volcano, she was storing the images away for her travel journal. She was not so impressed by the ruins of Roman Herculaneum, destroyed in the great eruption of Vesuvius in 79 CE that had also buried Pompeii. “It is all buried seventy-five feet in a solid body of tufa [volcanic ash],” she wrote. The excavations had only begun in the 1700s, and in her view, it was all rather messy.

The English sisters were each carried in a chair by four locals as they got higher. Then they walked the last part. Mary Berry relished the effort and freedom, and then there was the wonderful moment when they reached the summit. It had only been a few years since the last big eruption, and Vesuvius was extremely active throughout the last decades of the eighteenth century. Nothing deterred the two sisters, not even the fact that “the whole of that time it threw up red-hot stones.” A dangerous place.

But this was exactly where Mary Berry experienced a moment of most intense happiness. The views of Naples and its surroundings from the summit were grand. They went “walking round the edge” of the crater, and then they “dined upon the very edge” of it—a perfect spot, because they “could look down the fiery gulf.” She felt she was in the audience for a personal performance of “the noble fireworks with which it continued to treat us.” On top of it there was the pleasure of dining with such a spectacular view. Perfect bliss.