A Private History of Happiness (7 page)

Two thousand years ago, the poet Horace wrote this letter in verse, inviting his friend Manlius Torquatus, a distinguished lawyer, to a leisurely dinner party at his farm outside Rome. Horace was a man in middle age, a famous poet, whose patron, Maecenas, was a close advisor to the emperor Augustus (Caesar in this poem). The origins of Horace were far from grand, his father having been a slave who purchased his freedom and provided for his son’s education, which laid the foundation of his career as a writer. The farm was a gift from Maecenas (whose name has become synonymous with patronage of the arts) in recognition of several volumes of poetry that were highly regarded at court.

Torquatus was a Roman aristocrat, as were the other guests that evening. Horace invited him to come and sit “upon a paltry seat.” The occasion would still be exclusive and carefully arranged, but not as grand as their usual banquets. The wine would be “common,” no luxury vintage. “Minturnian” was a brand of everyday Roman wine, harvested about six years earlier, when Taurus was consul. If he wanted better, Torquatus would have to bring his own.

Horace was preparing, in his own way, to have his idea of a perfect night. Though simple, everything would be clean and neat. The food (salad!) would not be fancy but tasty and well-presented. It would be a truly hospitable get-together.

The occasion was to celebrate the birthday of Augustus. The next day was a Roman holiday, so there would be no work to make them get up. Leave your usual business, the poet advised his friend, in the law courts and high finance (Torquatus had defended a man named Moschus against a charge of poisoning)—now seize the moment of conviviality.

Then he drew a picture of real happiness. Since they could sleep in the next morning, this night would give “release to cares,” freedom from the usual concerns. They could stay up and chat (“merry talk”) into the small hours. For Horace, being able to invite his friends to such an occasion was already giving him a moment of happiness. There was a warm feeling of satisfaction in the letter itself. Just a casual dinner and the chance to talk as long as they wanted: giving such an invitation was the height of worldly pleasure to him.

Robert Schumann, student and future composer, writing a letter to a friend

ZWICKAU, GERMANY
• DECEMBER 1, 1827

On Saturday last I went with Walther and Rescher to Schneeberg [a mountain town in Saxony]. On Sunday, at about four, we started to come back, and came in for the most abominable weather. The snow was a yard deep, and no track had as yet been trodden out; one after the other we fell into the ditch by the roadside, which could hardly be distinguished from the road itself. When we arrived at Haslau [outside Zwickau], shivering and frozen, of course we first of all consumed some roast pork and pickled cucumber. We had a little money left, so we each of us ordered a large tumbler of grog; then we got excited, had a drinking bout of three, and sang student songs. The room was full of peasants [. . .] At last Walther told the peasants that I played the piano very well, etc.
—in short, we gave a regular musico-dramatic soiree. I improvised freely upon “Fridolin.” The rustics sat open-mouthed, when I was flourishing about on the keys in such a crazy manner. This over, a jolly little dance was got up, and we whirled the peasant girls about in rare style [. . .] We arrived at Zwickau after 12, still reeling and tottering about. It was indeed a most jovial evening, worthy of a Van Dyck!!

Robert Schumann, who became one of the great Romantic composers, was born in 1810 in Zwickau (Saxony). In 1827, he was still attending school at the Zwickau Gymnasium. His father had noticed and encouraged his musical talent, but when he left school the following year it was to study law in Leipzig. His school friends, though, were already proud of his great talent as a performer on the piano. They helped him become a musician simply through their enjoyment of his gift.

He had been away with two of these friends, Walther and Rescher, for a hiking weekend to the town of Schneeberg, south of Zwickau. On the Sunday evening, as they were returning home, the weather worsened and they got caught in snow. Struggling on, they were wet
and cold by the time they reached an inn at Haslau, outside Zwickau. They restored their sprits with a pleasant meal, and then they found they could still afford a drink of “grog.” Soon they were in uproarious good humor, singing student songs together like a much larger company. Their friendship naturally found expression in a shared enjoyment of music.

The inn was “full of peasants”—this was evidently a place well favored by the locals. Robert’s friend Walther could not resist telling the crowd that his companion “played the piano very well.” Here was a young man who, one day, would command the great concert halls of Europe both with his compositions and as a soloist. Walther was proud of his friend, and this pride was a natural part of their mutual enjoyment of both life and music.

As Robert sat down at the inn’s piano, a well-known tune ran through his head and he “improvised freely upon ‘Fridolin.’” His fingers changed the melody, no doubt upside down, faster, slower, and every way. The other guests “sat open-mouthed,” and he must have realized that, away from the strict world of school and home, he had found a real audience. It had taken a weekend away with friends to make this island of freedom and self-expression possible.

His astonishing performance finished, he was again able to be one of three student friends enjoying themselves on a winter evening in a warm inn. He, too, danced with the girls, presumably to the music played by the locals. Companionship gave him the confidence to explore his genius and then also welcomed him back into the simple, shared world of being young. They had arrived cold and weary; they departed for Zwickau very late, having had “a most jovial evening” together.

Tao Yuanming, poet and retired official, composing a memoir

XUNYANG, CHINA
• CA. 405 CE

Homewards I bend my steps. My fields, my gardens, are choked with weeds: should I not go? My soul has led a bondsman’s life: why should I remain to pine? But I will waste no grief upon the past: I will devote my energies to the future. I have not wandered far astray. I feel that I am on the right track once again.

Lightly, lightly, speeds my boat along, my garments fluttering to the gentle breeze. I enquire my route as I go. I grudge the slowness of the dawning day. From afar I descry my old home, and joyfully press onwards in my haste. The servants rush forth to meet me; my children cluster at the gate. The place is a wilderness; but there is the old pine tree and my chrysanthemums. I take the little ones by the hand, and pass in. Wine is brought in full bottles, and I pour out in brimming cups. I gaze out at my favourite branches. I loll against the window in my newfound freedom. I look at the sweet children on my knee.

And now I take my pleasure in my garden. There is a gate, but it is rarely opened. I lean on my staff as I wander about or sit down to rest. I raise my head and contemplate the lovely scene. Clouds rise, unwilling, from the bottom of the hills: the weary bird seeks its nest again. Shadows vanish, but still I linger round my lonely pine. Home once more!

Tao Yuanming was forty years old when he decided to abandon his moderately successful career as a minor provincial official and retire to his country home. He stayed there for the remainder of his days, more than twenty years. But Tao Yuanming was no mere bureaucrat. He was also a distinguished poet, whose work greatly gained in reputation over the centuries after his obscure life. This passage records the moment when he returned to the countryside, and it is typical of his unusually open and personal style.

His family had once been powerful and rich. But that had been two generations ago. He had inherited little, and he was returning that
day to a simple home that was not in good shape. Early on, he felt this condition by lamenting the weeds covering the land.

But Tao Yuanming’s mood soon brightened. His boat was almost home. He felt the breeze and sensed a fresh dawn. He glimpsed the old place, and then the household came rushing out to greet him. The sight of his children warmed him back to full life.

His garden was indeed neglected and overgrown. Yet he loved this place, which carried so many memories. There was the old pine tree, and also his chrysanthemums. The plants and the children went together in his sensibility, growing up in this safe and remote home, far from the corruption of court and bureaucracy.

The returned exile called for wine, and then he took in the garden scene, contemplating the many details—not just branches, for instance, but his “favourite branches.”

Eventually the moment comes when he steps into his garden, to wander here and there among his many favored spots. He is completely at ease now, dwelling in his personal haven until the “shadows vanish.”

There would be hard times ahead. Tao Yuanming knew that he was far from the wealth and comfort of the courts. Even a minor functionary in a city would have had an easier life than a farmer on a small country estate like this one. But that did not disturb the deep peace of the garden as it soaked into his soul.

After all the excitement of the return, he sat alone near his beloved pine tree, as if he was being welcomed back by the branches, the smells and sounds.

Thomas Gray, poet and scholar, writing in his journal

CAMBRIDGE, CAMBRIDGESHIRE
• MARCH 10, 1755

Wind S.W. Brisk, sunshine warm. Warm, hazy air all day till sunset. Mezereons bloom. Gooseberry and Elder put out their leaves. Apricots just show their blossom buds. Lesser Tortoiseshell Butterfly appears. Single Hepaticas in full bloom. First Violets blow, and Single Daffodils and Persian Iris.

Thomas Gray lived alone in some rooms in Peterhouse, a Cambridge college. He was a shy man, nearly forty years old, who had begun to achieve fame as a poet, especially for his popular “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,” a sadly reflective and beautiful poem about the shortness of life. He was a scholar of Latin and Greek who spent much of his time reading. He loved the college garden, and knew every bit of it.