A Private History of Happiness (14 page)

Karl August Varnhagen von Ense, diplomat and author, writing in his journal

BERLIN
• JULY 1806

The company [at Rahel Levin’s salon] was extremely lively; each one with all ease and freedom contributed his part; artifice or hypocrisy had no chance of success. The unconstrained cheerfulness of Rahel, her spirit of truth and straightforwardness, reigned supreme. I was permitted with youthful extravagance to excite myself against the French; another to air his theatrical information; the Frenchman received facetious advice concerning his love affairs; while Schack [army officer] himself listened to the democratic outpourings of Vetter.

All went smoothly on; undue seriousness was lightened by wit and pleasantry, which in its turn was followed by sensible conversation, and so all was well balanced and full of animation. The open pianoforte invited to an occasional strain of music
—Rahel herself being an accomplished and enthusiastic mistress of the art—and thus perfected the whole. We separated in good time in a mood of elevated thought, which I indulged for some time, out alone in the starlight, while I vainly scanned my past life for the memory of such another evening. My impatience would only allow a few days to elapse before repeating my visit.

Karl August Varnhagen von Ense was twenty-one and a serious young man. He was in Berlin officially to study medicine at the university, but he was spending most of his time reading literature and enjoying the cultural life of the city. That was why he had come to Rahel Levin’s salon, for it was one of the most famous literary circles of its time. Here he was hoping to meet writers and poets, musicians and artists. He was not disappointed—but what impressed him even more was the hostess herself.

Levin was in her thirties, a German-Jewish woman from a comfortable background on the edges of the aristocratic circles. She had created this salon as her contribution to the cultural life of the time. In fact, this was its final year, since she was about to leave Berlin for
Paris. Although he did not realize it, the young man was witnessing an intellectual and artistic world that would soon lose its momentum.

He loved everything about the salon that July evening. Though he was probably younger than most of the other guests, and also less knowledgeable and experienced, they allowed him to have his own say, without making him feel ridiculous. He let off steam about the French—these were the years of the Napoleonic Wars—just as others had their opening to talk about whatever concerned them. This was a precious public-private space where people were free to speak as they wished.

The conversation was like an art form: harmonious and spontaneous, full of wit and yet with serious contributions as well. It was like a communal work of literature written in the air, just for that evening. These were people improvising on themes of which they never tired, in which they always found more depth and beauty. It was talk as art, but shared and tolerant rather than a matter of display or competition.

Then Varnhagen von Ense noticed his hostess properly. Her cameo on the piano brought the occasion to its light and fitting climax. It was as if the conversation had been turned into a melody. The whole evening seemed to reflect and express Rahel Levin’s personality. (Some years later, in fact, they married each other.)

He went out and looked at the sky. The stars above Berlin seemed brighter this night. Even the heavens were in tune with this deeply harmonious evening. Thinking over the happiest moments in his life so far, he could find nothing to beat it. Life had shown him the best it had to offer.

Benjamin Silliman, scientist, writing in his journal

LONDON
• JUNE 12, 1805

In the yard before the [British] Museum, beneath temporary sheds [. . .] till they can be removed into a building now erecting for their reception, are the celebrated antiques, taken from General Menou at Alexandria [. . .] Among them are several Roman statues [. . .] an ancient obelisk and several images, supposed to have been intended to represent the Egyptian goddess Isis; but a number of sarcophagi are justly reckoned among the greatest curiosities [. . .]

The largest and most ornamented of these sarcophagi is believed to have been the exterior coffin in which the body of Alexander the Great was deposited. Giving way to the impression which I strongly felt to believe the fact, I was forcibly struck with the humiliating lesson which it reads to human ambition, and especially to the thirst for martial glory [. . .]

With similar emotions I beheld a collection of arms found on the place where the great battle of Cannae [Carthage against Rome, in 216 BCE] was fought, and supposed to have belonged to the parties who contended on that memorable spot. There is also a collection of rings and of other ornaments for the fingers and ears, which are believed to have been worn by the combatants at Cannae. In spite of the disposition which is so naturally felt to ridicule an enthusiastic and extravagant admiration of antiquity, one cannot remain unaffected when he realizes that these rings have been worn on Roman fingers; this helmet covered a Carthaginian head; and that spear was thrown by a Roman hand in the presence of the victorious Hannibal. Similar emotions were excited by the numerous Roman vases; the amphorae in which their wines were kept; and especially by the relics of the unfortunate Herculaneum. These consist of utensils, vases, gods, etc., and among other things are the very hinges of their doors. By the sight of these authentic remnants of this illustrious nation, a powerful impulse is excited towards the study of their antiquities.

Benjamin Silliman was twenty-five when he came to Britain to further his education. He had been a law tutor at Yale University (his alma
mater), but Yale’s president at the time, Timothy Dwight, wanted him to requalify to teach science. Silliman first studied science in Philadelphia, and then sought out scientists in England and Scotland. He did, on returning to Yale, teach chemistry, helped found Yale Medical School, and launched the
American Journal of Science
.

On this June day, he visited the British Museum in London. The museum was then half a century old, but its collection had just grown as a result of many valuable objects—particularly Egyptian mummies—acquired by the British after the surrender of the French general Menou at Alexandria in 1801. Rebuilding was going on to add exhibition space, and so the treasures were stored in makeshift sheds, “constructed to defend them from the weather, till they can be removed into a building.”

Benjamin Silliman cast a detached eye over the sarcophagi. But gradually, something began to stir in him. He thought first of Alexander the Great (this was not, in fact, his coffin), and then he began to imagine the soldiers who had carried these weapons and worn these rings and helmets during the Battle of Cannae. He looked at the rings and ornaments, reflecting how “one cannot remain unaffected when he realizes that these rings have been worn on Roman fingers.” They must have been prized possessions. And he could feel what it was like to have the weight of a helmet on one’s head, or a spear in one’s hand.

His sense of excitement deepened. He loved the small things, like the vases and amphorae, and “the very hinges of their doors” from tragic Herculaneum. What had seemed mere objects now came to life in his imagination, things that people had handled in centuries long past. He was not looking only with his head but also with his heart, and so “emotions were excited by the numerous Roman vases,” and he was happy to be in the presence of the amphorae because these were the very jars “in which their wines were kept.” He felt a burst of joy at sensing the sheer life of the past.

Emma Willard, educator, writing a letter to her sister

PARIS
• DECEMBER 18, 1830

When I tell you that I devoted this morning to viewing the pictures in the gallery of the Louvre, you will probably expect me to come out in quite a rhapsody, as you know my great fondness for paintings. I was indeed quite rapt, as I walked slowly up the long gallery, and got into the spirit of the different feelings, which the whole scene is calculated to inspire: admiration
—loathing—pity—disgust—veneration—and the spirit of laughter [. . .]—and besides this, the spirit of severe reprehension; all these feelings rose by turns, or mingled together in my mind [. . .] Yet I dare say, I shall go often to the gallery, but I shall learn to do by these pictures, as I do by Paris generally [. . .] I control my eyes, and my mind; and look at what I like, and pass over the rest as if it were not.

There are two comparatively small apartments [in the Louvre], filled with paintings before you enter the grand gallery. Among these my attention was particularly fixed by one landscape. It had, upon the grass and shrubs which skirted its living waters, the fresh dew of morning when the sun’s first rays give to it its sparkling brightness.

Emma Willard was a pioneer of women’s education in America. After founding an academy for young women in Middlebury, Vermont, she started the Troy Female Seminary in upstate New York in 1821. Its curriculum was revolutionary at the time, offering young women a varied education with a distinctive emphasis on self-expression and the attainment equal to that of male students. Willard’s approach was distinctive, with a strong emphasis on culture and creativity unusual at a time when rote learning was more common.

In 1830, she was in her forties. She had lost her husband five years ago, and now she was coming to Europe to meet other educators and see the great museums. She arrived at the famous Louvre thinking of herself as someone who loved art, and she remarked to her sister, “you will probably expect me to come out in quite a rhapsody.” She expected this herself. She was certainly gripped when she looked
around the great collection: “I was indeed quite rapt, as I walked slowly up the long gallery.”

But she was awash with a tide of conflicting emotions. She disliked the mixture of sacred and secular images, she was appalled by some of the paintings, and others struck her as absurd. She decided to learn to practice selective viewing.

Then her gaze settled on one painting, in a smaller room of the Louvre. “My attention was particularly fixed by one landscape.” By “landscape” she meant both a genre of painting and also the view itself. Stillness came over Emma Willard as she entered this painted world of a quiet dawn.

She forgot about her surroundings, her moral judgments, and simply let her imagination loose. Details of the landscape came to life when she noticed
“upon the grass and shrubs which skirted its living waters, the fresh dew of morning.” She felt the sun rising and the rays giving to the scene
“its sparkling brightness.”
Delayed by indignation and distraction, her happiness was all the greater when it came. The “waters” in the painting were “living” for her because of their illusion of movement. They also felt like a spiritual current, carrying energy and renewal into the heart of the rapt viewer.