A Private History of Happiness (17 page)

He also recalled a more recent voice, that of his friend Kyohaku, who had wished Basho well when he set off on the journey. In the form of a haiku, he had emphasized that Basho should see this pine tree at Takekuma. Now that wish was fulfilled. Basho acknowledged it in his reply to Kyohaku.

For Basho, the happiness of being in the presence of nature was common ground across the millennia. When he stood in front of a majestic pine tree like this one, he was in communion both with the natural world and with his human ancestors. Joy in nature was a thread connecting different lives. Indeed, this sense of interconnec-tedness was perhaps an essential part of the feeling itself.

John Goldie, botanist, writing in his diary

NEAR LAKE ONTARIO, ONTARIO
• JULY 8, 1819

The country through which I passed today was generally well settled and of rather good quality, but all inclining to sand. This day I crossed three considerable creeks which run very much below the level of the adjacent land; their banks are both high and very steep, so that it must have been with a good deal of difficulty that a road has been made across them. The road is mostly composed of wood which forms a barrier to the earth that is cut from the bank. After travelling about twenty-eight miles I came alongside the west corner of Lake Ontario, where the first object that I noticed was what appeared to me to be a great body of smoke on the opposite side of the lake; but you may guess my incredulous surprise and pleased astonishment when I was informed that that was the spray of the Great Falls. It appeared very distinctly and as if at no great distance; and in the calm mornings and evenings the sound of the Falls is distinctly heard at this place which is thirty miles distant in a direct line.

John Goldie was in his late twenties when he had this extraordinary day near Niagara Falls. He had grown up in a small village in rural Ayrshire in Scotland. But instead of following his forebears into the old life of small farmers, he had trained as a botanist and gardener at the Glasgow Botanic Gardens. This won him sufficient support to finance the beginning of a trip to study the plants and geology of North America. He was ultimately successful and sent specimens to the famous collection first established by Sir Joseph Banks at Kew Gardens near London. But initially it had been something of a struggle.

He had sailed for North America in June 1817. He landed at Halifax, Nova Scotia, and then made the journey to Quebec, where he began his botanical survey. For a while he taught at a school and now, in the summer of 1819, he was exploring along the route from Montreal to Pittsburgh. Here he had more success than before and found many rare plants.

It was still a difficult place as far as Goldie was concerned. He was now on the western shore of Lake Ontario. He had passed another “disagreeable night,” plagued by mosquitoes and unhappy with the inn in general. Not only that, but when the day began he had all the troubles of the journey again. (He was walking, after all, and carrying a heavy load with his belongings and equipment.) He responded by being meticulous and carefully recording the land in scientific and botanical terms. Being practical, he noted that it was “inclining to sand” and that the deep creeks made it difficult to construct a good road. His mood subtly improved at this point. He was full of admiration for human willpower and ingenuity overcoming the hostile environment. He was a man with the future in his eyes.

But it was still so far only an “ordinary” botanist’s day, until John Goldie suddenly noticed “a great body of smoke on the opposite side of the lake.” Could there be a huge wildfire?

Then uncertainty gave way to “incredulous surprise and pleased astonishment”—these were the majestic Niagara Falls. He had begun the day quite lugubriously, and now he felt a rare upsurge of pleasure. In one moment he had left all the annoyances behind and entered instead a magic land where a cloud of smoke turned to mist and fire to water. He was glad to be there now.

The falls themselves remained hidden over the horizon. Only the cloud of mist revealed their power, and then he also became aware of their sound, like perpetual thunder. The wonder of things, the joy of nature, came not easy to him, a man who was usually sealed off from such reactions by a scientific calm. In future years, he was to travel as far as Russia on other botanical quests, but eventually he returned to western Ontario with his family to settle. The “Great Falls” had entranced him for life.

Hattori Ransetsu, courtier and poet, composing a haiku

KYOTO, JAPAN
• CA. 1700

New Year’s Day, ah yes!

With the skies clear

And sparrows’ conversation.

Around the year 1700 in Japan, Hattori Ransetsu was a leading poet of haiku, writing about places and trees, the changing sky and passing experiences. Though little is known of his life, it is documented that his work was admired by his renowned teacher, Basho.

Ransetsu wrote this haiku to record a Japanese New Year’s Day. He was a man about fifty, and had in fact only a few more years to live. But in these words he expressed his positive feeling of the coming of another year. Since the days were slowly getting longer again, he was responding to the rebirth of the natural world as well as to an annual communal celebration of new beginnings.

First he recorded just the simplest fact of the day, the date in the calendar, official timing. It was a joyful day, as he had celebrated it many times before.

That was followed by an exclamation—“ah yes!”—which feels as if he was grasping the positive aura of this particular New Year’s Day moment. This expression was as fundamental as could have been (a single syllable in Japanese): the purest possible affirmative mood as nature and humankind turned once more toward the next season.

He took stock of the feeling of the day and the world. He absorbed the reverberation of this basic and almost pure “yes” that seemed to be there all around him. Looking up, the sky was “clear.” No clouds, nothing closing the horizon. There was only the open blue of the heavens and the first sunlight of the new year. The cloudless sky was another aspect of this overarching feeling of simplicity and purity. The sky was reduced to its core.

From the tall to the tiny: after the immense vista of the sky, Ransetsu’s attention shifted to the small birds close at hand. They seemed to be rather like people, chattering among themselves in a “sparrows’ conversation.” It was as if they shared in the energy and the enthusiasm of the new year.

There were three parts to this moment for the poet: the huge silent sky, the small chatty sparrows, and he himself, aware of all three. Everything joined together in his observing mind and expressed for him the essence of this festive day.

It is said that Hattori Ransetsu became a Buddhist monk for the last years of his life, perhaps in response to the death of his teacher Basho. If this haiku was written around 1700, then Ransetsu would only enjoy a few more New Year’s Day celebrations—he died in 1707. Here he achieved a clarity of vision that mirrored the clear light of the moment and became the perfect vehicle for a feeling of uncomplicated acceptance, of a happiness pure and simple that arises from the continuing existence of the living world through the cycles of the years and the generations.

Edward Price, artist, writing in his travel journal

KONGSVOLD, NORWAY
• SEPTEMBER 1826

I left Drivstuen early in the morning, and had a saddle-horse to Kongsvold [. . .] The road was for some miles very precipitous. Near Kongsvold the rocky bed of a river, deep, savage, and dark, was indicative of the grand scenery whence it has its source; the rocks were hoary with reindeer moss; and the fir, ever attendant on a Norway river, deepened the gloom of the valley. The country is very wild and rugged between Kongsvold and Jerkin, and the road uphill all the way, till within a short distance of the station. The morning was cloudless and frosty.

When I arrived at Jerkin, I requested that a guide might be ready after breakfast, to accompany me to the summit of Sneehaettan [Snøhetta]; this was immediately complied with, and he waited my pleasure with a pony, and two long sticks, which were to come into use when we reached the snow. It was about ten o’ clock in the morning when we set off, and the distance to the highest point appeared so inconsiderable [short], that I thought to give an hurra on the top, and to return to Jerkin the same day. There was a freshness in the morning which was very exhilarating, and the delicate blue and white of the snow heights were a contrast to peat bogs and brown herbage which occupied the whole of the intervening space.

Edward Price, born in 1801, was an English landscape artist. He had studied with the reputable landscape artist John Glover, and Glover included some of Price’s works in his London exhibitions in 1823/24.

Now Price had had the idea of making small, illustrated books and had come to the picturesque mountainsides of Norway for a first attempt. (He followed this volume of views of Norway with others on the English Lake District and Peak District.) He also recorded how he felt on that particular day in Norway’s Dovrefjell mountains, some two hundred miles north of Oslo.

He started this day’s journey from an ancient mountain inn at Drivstuen and proceeded by way of other inns at Kongsvold and Jerkin. It was a steep and even dangerous road through wilderness,
and he came to the banks of a “savage” river where even the rocks were “hoary with reindeer moss.”
The atmosphere was both menacing and magical, full of romantic allure for a traveler from rather urban and tame England. The morning sky was “cloudless and frosty.”

Then there was breakfast in Jerkin, where he made arrangements for the climb up to the summit of Snøhetta
.
He needed a guide, who was waiting for him when the meal was done. He noted the pony “and two long sticks, which were to come into use when we reached the snow.”
It was all rather fascinating to him.

They set off at “about ten o’clock.” He looked up toward the mountain peak. He knew that it would be a long climb. Then he had a simple, happy moment, which went beyond the ordinary enjoyment of the day. In the bright morning air, the snow-covered mountain seemed up close, “and the distance to the highest point appeared so inconsiderable.” It was as if he could very soon “give an hurra on the top.” He felt as if he could stretch out a hand and touch the summit of the mountain.

It would in fact take several hours to reach the summit that had seemed so close. Trudging through rough scrubland by the side of a river, Price and his guide eventually reached an altitude at which snow became thick and the air grew thinner. The experienced guide pleaded with the traveler to turn back, but the Englishman was not to be deterred. They gained the summit in the evening light and the view was very rewarding as “one illumined snow peak after another sunk into shadow.” Yet the descent proved beyond Price’s strength. He lay down and the guide had to light a fire and build a makeshift camp for the night. In the morning, Price learned that a wolf had been prowling nearby!