A Private History of Happiness (30 page)

He was unhappily married, and so these words were not written to his wife but to a woman he called Clara; her true name is unknown. The poem as a whole was published in a posthumous collection, but it had been written as if it were personally addressed to Clara—even if it was never to be presented to her. These four lines were the vividly imagined and deeply felt opening of the entire poem.

His words expressed the memory of a happy moment, revived in a difficult situation. He was now far from home and finding himself a soldier once more, after he had finally been able to retire and settle down. He was in danger again, involved in an armed conflict. He must have sensed this destiny wrapping round his life in Aberdeen, a granite city on a stormy sea. He was too old for this now and so, turning his mind back, he longed for the good days when he had been at peace.

One of the best moments must have been “when first I saw you.” Now, talking to Clara in his imagination, made the original scene as immediate as it had once been.

It was more of a vision than a simple memory, as if Clara were right in front of him: her graceful form, her “bending Head” resting on her arm. As he imagined to write to her now, the feeling of that first glimpse returned, with all the original charm of the casual gesture of her head “on your Arm reclin’d.” She had been relaxed yet beautifully balanced, like a classical sculpture.

Then there had been her “down-cast Look.” She was not meeting his eyes and perhaps she was a little somber or just serious. She might have been shy and yet her presence was overwhelming. Now he felt again the upsurge of joy when he had first sensed her “superior Grace” and seen her “matchless Face.”

He was not really a poet, but he had skill enough to convey the feeling of that moment when life felt worthwhile because of the sight of Clara’s peerless face. It was an instant when the world revealed what beauty it had to show.

Now, in this faraway, northern city and drawn into a fight that would soon lead to his death, the moment floated into Richardson Pack’s thought like a warm breeze from another world.

Mary Wollstonecraft, novelist and philosopher, writing a letter to her lover

PARIS
• DECEMBER 1793

Recollection now makes my heart bound to thee; but, it is not to thy money-getting face, though I cannot be seriously displeased with the exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is what I should have expected from thy character.
—No; I have thy honest countenance before me—Pop—relaxed by tenderness; a little—little wounded by my whims; and thy eyes glistening with sympathy.—Thy lips then feel softer than soft—and I rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world.—I have not left the hue of love out of the picture—the rosy glow; and fancy has spread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I feel them burning, whilst a delicious tear trembles in my eye, that would be all your own, if a grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature, who has made me thus alive to happiness, did not give more warmth to the sentiment it divides—I must pause a moment.

Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing thus?

Mary Wollstonecraft was in her mid-thirties when she came from London to live in the revolutionary Paris of the early 1790s. It was an extraordinary place, where the greatest monarchy of eighteenth-century Europe had been overthrown by an uprising that was itself increasingly divided and uneasy. In this ferment, she had written a book that soon made her a notable author: a radical argument entitled
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

Moving in circles frequented by supporters of the Girondists (the more moderate revolutionary faction), she had met the American Gilbert Imlay. He had been a soldier in the American Revolution and had now come to Europe, attracted partly by the upheaval and also by the hope of making his fortune. Imlay was handsome, charming—and untrustworthy. Their relationship was not destined to be lasting or happy. In 1794, she gave birth to their daughter, but as relations broke down, she attempted suicide in 1795. Nevertheless, it was (on
its own terms) a passionate time, and it revealed new horizons in life for Wollstonecraft.

In this letter, written while Imlay was away on business, she tried to express the essence of this experience. She focused her mind on his presence. His face was more vividly impressed on her consciousness than an ordinary memory: it was a moment of immediate connection, as if her love was there, right then. This “makes my heart bound to thee,” she wrote. She felt very close to him, as if locked in an embrace that would never be broken.

He was away working on another scheme to make money, and Wollstonecraft drew a slightly sharp contrast between his worldly self and his “honest countenance.” She knew he was not really someone to be trusted. A current of anxiety was already here, but that other face, the loving expression, was stronger for now—it was as if he were gazing back at her, as if he were present.

His image had entered her thoughts with a soft and sudden “Pop,” as if by magic. This little flash of humor seemed to set her at ease as she wrote. She saw him “relaxed by tenderness”—no doubt, he, too, was in love. She set aside her knowledge of his “money-getting face,” feeling his more generous self emerge in her thoughts.

The moment was not perfect because there was still a shadow. She was aware that he was hurt by some conflict, which she tactfully saw now as caused by her own “whims.” But all was set right by the look of his eyes, “glistening with sympathy.” That was the source of her joy: the light in Gilbert Imlay’s eyes, a glowing look of love.

All of her emotions became one united instant in the kiss, the sensation of his lips, the touch both then and renewed in recollection. She was absorbed by the pleasure of this softness. There was also in this kiss the promise that they would once again be together.

The soft meeting of lips made for Mary Wollstonecraft a moment of love that was outside the passing of time. The kiss, in her present imagination and as experienced in the past, subsided gently into the peace of simply being together with “my cheek on thine.” She was grateful both to him and to the divine power in life itself, even if she could not forget the tensions in their relationship. She embraced the kiss and rejoiced in being “alive to happiness.”

Claire de Rémusat, companion to Empress Josephine, writing a letter to her husband

PARIS
• APRIL 1810

I am vexed at the length of your absence. Three weeks more before I shall see you! This is a long and wearisome separation. You cannot picture to yourself how I grieve about it. It was long since we had been parted, and the delightful habit of being with you had regained its old influence over me. Each day I feel your companionship more necessary. I think that our minds are more than ever in unison, that our opinions are more often the same, and that we know all the charm of union. In youth, a diversity of tastes and opinions, which at that time is more strongly felt, does no harm to love, and indeed contributes to it, by affording opportunities of self-sacrifice; but when years have crept upon us, quieter and safer joys become preferable, and harmony and unity are then our best happiness.

You will admit, this time, that I am writing for the pleasure of writing, and truly there is nothing in Paris for me to tell you, not even in my own little circle. I am lazily lying in bed; the weather is cold; I have not the least inclination to go out, and find myself very comfortable, with my desk on my knees, writing to you all that comes into my head, or rather my heart.

Claire de Rémusat was thirty years old, married for more than a decade to her husband, Auguste, and the mother of two children. Both husband and wife were close to the center of the court of the French emperor Napoleon. She was a friend of the Empress Josephine. He was a close adviser to the emperor. Their lives had recently been made difficult by the divorce of Napoleon and Josephine, which was followed swiftly by the emperor’s remarriage. The Rémusats, after a long time together, were kept apart temporarily while he was in Fontainebleau, at the new court that was growing up around the emperor and his second wife, Marie-Louise of Austria. Despite this separation, the divisions between Napoleon and Josephine served to make Claire de
Rémusat more conscious of the harmony between herself and her absent husband.

At present, though, life with the now divorced empress was gloomy. Claire de Rémusat told Auguste in another letter how “all is very sad, as you may suppose. The empress is greatly cast down; she weeps incessantly, and it is really painful to see her.” Together with the constant threat of war, this made the times difficult.

She began her current letter by complaining: “I am vexed at the length of your absence.” It was as if she was affected by the sadness around her. Yet soon she felt, in contrast, the richness that their relationship had brought to them.

When they first met “in youth,” they must have enjoyed the crackle of discovering “a diversity of tastes and opinions.” Now that they had been married for years, their relationship had become naturally a more balanced togetherness based upon “harmony and unity.” Love changed and developed over time. A stable attachment was also always growing and further deepening. Claire de Rémusat must have been especially aware of the harmony of their present-day situation given the conflict that continued between Josephine and Napoleon. She was not inclined to undervalue their “quieter and safer joys.”

A peaceful mood settled over her and she confessed with humor how she was “writing for the pleasure of writing.” She did not need the excuse of news to write to her husband. It was an obvious way of being together at a distance. She shared intimate details of the moment: “I am lazily lying in bed; the weather is cold; I have not the least inclination to go out, and find myself very comfortable.” She had a little writing desk on her knees, and shared with Auguste “all that comes into my head, or rather my heart.” She had shaken off the surrounding gloom.

In that moment of amused self-awareness, as she saw herself writing so freely to her husband, lying at ease in the warmth, she was able to let go of all other concerns and be happy as if they were together—as truly they were.

Benjamin Haydon, artist, writing a letter to a friend

WINDSOR, BERKSHIRE
• OCTOBER 20, 1819

Here I am, my dear Miss Mitford, sitting by my dearest Mary with all the complacency of a well-behaved husband, writing to you while she is working quietly on some unintelligible part of a lady’s costume. The day is beautiful, cool, sunny, and genial, fit for the beauty and gentle looks of such a creature as my wife. You do not know how proud I am of saying: my wife. I never felt half so proud of
Solomon
or
Macbeth
[his paintings] as I am of being the husband of this little tender bit of lovely humanity.

It rained the whole day yesterday; was dark, dingy, dreary and dull out of doors, but within there was a sunbeam gleaming about that made me forget the wind and rain. Mary smiles and says you must not believe one half of what I write now. You must believe all. My understanding never loses its perspicacity, however agitated are my feelings, or tenderly disposed is my heart; therefore you will believe it, I feel sure. People are very curious to see my wife, as everyone seems surprised. “You are a man,” wrote a friend, “who I should have thought would have married some young girl at first sight instead of selecting a widow lady.” Ha! Ha! I suppose they imagine some old widow, whose face presageth snow instead of rich and rosy youthful beauty. I shall return to town next week and commence my studies. Accept my and my dearest Mary’s thanks for your kind congratulations. I hope you will allow me to send you a large bit of wedding cake, and you shall have some to give to every sweet darling you know in your neighborhood, with my best wishes for their happiness.