Part 59

A still nobler object, which she proposes to herself from the exercise of this virtue, is that of remaining always mistress of herself, and thereby to accustom her passions to obedience, and to subject her inclinations to rule. This is a new way to be happy; for it is certain that we enjoy nothing with so little inquietude, as what we can part from without pain; and if the philosopher be happy, it is because he is the man from whom fortune can take the least.

But what appears to me the most singular in her moderation, is that she pursues it for the very same reasons which hurry the voluptuous into excess. Life is indeed short, says she, which is a reason for enjoying it to the end, and managing its duration in such a manner as to make the most of it. If one day’s indulgence and satiety deprives us of a whole year’s taste for enjoyment, it is bad philosophy to pursue our desires so far as they may be ready to lead us, without considering whether we may not out-live our faculties, and our hearts be exhausted before our time. I see that your common epicures, in order to let slip no opportunity of enjoyment, lose all; and, perpetually anxious in the midst of pleasures, can find no enjoyment in any. They lavish away the time of which they think they are economists, and ruin themselves, like misers, by not knowing how to give any thing away. For my part, I hold the opposite maxim; and should prefer, in this case, rather too much severity than relaxation. It sometimes happens that I break up a party of pleasure, for no other reason than that it is too agreeable; and, by repeating it another time, have the satisfaction of enjoying it twice.

Upon such principles are the sweets of life, and the pleasures of mere amusement, regulated here. Amidst her various application to the several branches of her domestic employment, Eloisa takes particular care that the kitchen is not neglected. Her table is spread with abundance; but it is not the destructive abundance of fantastic luxury: all the viands are common, but excellent, in their kind; the cookery is simple, but exquisite. All that consists in appearance only, whose nicety depends on the fashion, all your delicate and far- fetched dishes, whose scarcity is their only value, are banished from the table of Eloisa. Among the most delicious also of those which are admitted, they daily abstain from some; which they reserve in order to give an air of festivity to those meals for which they were intended, and which are thereby rendered more agreeable, without being more costly. But of what kind, think you, are these dishes which are so carefully husbanded? Choice game? Sea-fish? Foreign produce? No. Something better than all that. They are perhaps a particular choice salad of the country; fine greens of our own gardens; fish of the lake, dressed in a peculiar manner; cheese from the mountains; a German party, or game caught by some of the domestics. The table is served in a modest and rural but agreeable manner, chearfulness and gratitude crowning the whole. Your gilt covers, round which the guests sit starving with hunger; your pompous glasses, stuck out with flowers for the desert, are never introduced here, to take up the place intended for victuals; we are entirely ignorant of the art of satisfying hunger by the eye. But then no where do they so well know how to add welcome to good chear, to eat a good deal without eating too much, to drink chearfully without intoxication, to sit so long at table without being tired, and to rise from it without disgust. On the first floor there is a little dining room, different from that in which we usually dine, which is on the ground floor. This room is built in the corner of the house, and has windows in two aspects: those on one side over-look the garden, beyond which we have a prospect of the lake between the trees: on the other side, we have a fine view of a spacious vineyard, that begins to display the golden harvest which we shall reap in about two months. This room is small, but ornamented with every thing that can render it pleasant and agreeable. It is here Eloisa gives her little entertainments to her father, to her husband, to her cousin, to me, to herself, and sometimes to her children. When she orders the table to be spread there, we know immediately the design; and Mr. Wolmar has given it the name of the Saloon of Apollo: but this Saloon differs no less from that of Lucullus, in the choice of the persons entertained, than in that of the entertainment. Common guests are not admitted into it; we never dine there, when there are any strangers: it is the inviolable asylum of mutual confidence, friendship and liberty. The society of hearts is there joined to the social bond of the table; the entrance into it is a kind of initiation into the mysteries of a cordial intimacy; nor do any persons ever meet there but such as wish never to be separated. We wait impatiently for you, my Lord, who are to dine the very first day in the Apollo.

For my part, I was not at first admitted to that honour, which was reserved for me till after my return from Mrs. Orbe’s. Not that I imagined they could add any thing to the obliging reception I met with on my arrival; but the supper, made for me there, gave me other ideas. It is impossible to describe the delightful mixture of familiarity, chearfulness, and social ease, which I then experienced, and had never before tasted in my whole life. I found myself more at liberty without being told to assume it, and we seemed even to understand one another much better than before. The absence of the domestics, who were dismissed from their attendance, removed that reserve which I still felt at heart; and it was then that I first, at the instance of Eloisa, resumed the custom I had laid aside for many years, of drinking wine after meals.

I was enraptured at this repast, and wished that all our meals might have been made in the same manner. I knew nothing of this delightful room, said I to Mrs. Wolmar; why don’t you always eat here? See, replied she, how pretty it is! Would it not be a pity to spoil it? This answer seemed too much out of character for me not to suspect she had some farther meaning. But why, added I, have you not the same conveniences below, that the servants might be sent away, and leave us to talk more at liberty? That, replied she, would be too agreeable, and the trouble of being always at ease is the greatest in the world. I immediately comprehended her system by this, and concluded that her art of managing her pleasures consisted in being sparing of them.

I think she dresses herself with more care than formerly; the only piece of vanity I ever reproached her for, being that of neglecting her dress. The haughty fair one had her reasons, and left me no pretext to disown her power. But, do all she could, my enchantment was too strong for me to think it natural; I was too obstinate in attributing her negligence to art. Not that the power of her charms is diminished; but she now disdains to exert it; and I should be apt to say, she affected a greater neatness in her dress that she might appear only a pretty woman, had I not discovered the reason for her present solicitude in this point. During the first two or three days I was mistaken; for, not reflecting that she was dressed in the same manner at my arrival, which was unexpected, I thought she had done it out of respect to me. I was undeceived, however, in the absence of Mr. Wolmar. For the next day she was not attired with that elegance, which so eminently distinguished her the preceding evening, nor with that affecting and voluptuous simplicity which formerly enchanted me; but with a certain modesty that speaks through the eyes to the heart, that inspires respect only, and to which beauty itself but gives additional authority. The dignity of wife and mother appeared in all her charms; the timid and affectionate looks she cast on me, were now mixed with an air of gravity and grandeur, which seemed to cast a veil over her features. In the mean time, she betrayed not the least alteration in her behaviour; her equality of temper, her candor knew nothing of affectation. She practiced only a talent natural to her sex, to change sometimes our sentiments and ideas of them, by a different dress, by a cap of this form, or a gown of that colour. The day on which she expected her husband’s return, she again found the art of adorning her natural charms without hiding them; she came from her toilet indeed a dazzling beauty, and I saw she was not less capable to outshine the most splendid dress, than to adorn the most simple. I could not help being vexed, when I reflected on the cause of her preparation.

This taste for ornament extends itself, from the mistress of the house, through all the family. The master, the children, the servants, the equipage, the building, the garden, the furniture, are all set off and kept in such order as shews what they are capable of, though magnificence is despised:----I do not mean true magnificence, and which consists less in the expense, than in the good order and noble disposition of things. [76]

For my own part, I must confess it appears to me a more grand and noble sight, to see a small number of people happy in themselves and in each other, in a plain modest family, than to see the most splendid palace filled with tumult and discord, and every one of its inhabitants taking advantage of the general disorder, and building up their own fortunes and happiness on the ruin of another. A well- governed private family forms a single object, agreeable and delightful to contemplate; whereas, in a riotous palace, we see only a confused assemblage of various objects, whose connection and dependence are merely apparent. At first sight, indeed, they seem operating to one end; but in examining them nearer, we are soon undeceived.

To consult only our most natural impressions, it should seem that, to despise luxury and parade, we need less of moderation than of taste. Symmetry and regularity are pleasing to every one. The picture of ease and happiness must affect every heart; but a vain pomp, which relates neither to regularity nor happiness, and has only the desire of making a figure in the eyes of others for its object, however favourable an idea it may excite in us of the person who displays it, can give little pleasure to the spectator. But what is taste? Does not a hundred times more taste appear in the order and construction of plain and simple things, than in those which are over-loaded with finery? What is convenience? Is any thing in the world more inconvenient than pomp and pageantry? [77] What is grandeur? It is precisely the contrary. When I see the intention of an architect to build a large palace, I immediately ask myself why it is not larger? Why does not the man, who keeps fifty servants, if he aims at grandeur, keep an hundred? That fine silver plate, why is it not gold? The man who gilds his chariot, why does he not also gild the ceiling of his apartment? If his ceilings are gilt, why does not gild the roof too? He, who was desirous of building an high tower, was right in his intention to raise it up to heaven; otherwise it was to no purpose to build, as the point where he might at last stop, would only serve to shew, at the greater distance, his want of ability. O man! vain and feeble creature! Shew me thy power, and I will shew thee thy misery!

A regularity in the disposal of things, every one of which is of real use, and all confined to the necessaries of life, not only presents an agreeable prospect but as it pleases the eye, at the same time gives content to the heart. For a man views them always in a pleasing light, as relating to and sufficient for himself. The picture of his own wants or weakness does not appear, nor does the chearful prospect affect him with sorrowful reflections. I defy any sensible man to contemplate, for an hour, the palace of a prince, and the pomp which reigns there, without falling into melancholy reflections, and bemoaning the lot of humanity. On the contrary, the prospect of this house, with the uniform and simple life of its inhabitants, diffuse over the mind of the spectator a secret pleasure, which is perpetually increasing. A small number of good-natured people, united by their mutual wants and reciprocal benevolence, concur by their different employments in promoting the same end; every one, finding in his situation all that is requisite to contentment, and not desiring to change it, applies himself as if he thought to stay here all his life; the only ambition among them being that of properly discharging their respective duties. There is so much moderation in those who command, and so much zeal in those who obey, that equals might agree to distribute the same employments among them, without any one having reason to complain of his lot. No one envies that of another; no one thinks of augmenting his fortune, but by adding to the common good: the master and mistress estimating their own happiness by that of their domestics and the people about them. One finds here nothing to add or diminish, because here is nothing, but what is useful, and that indeed is all that is to be found; insomuch that nothing is wanted which may not be had, and of that there is always a sufficiency. Suppose, now, to all this were added, lace, pictures, lustres, gilding; in a moment you would impoverish the scene. In seeing so much abundance in things necessary, and no mark of superfluity, one is now apt to think, that if those things were the objects of choice, which are not here, they would be had in the same abundance. In seeing also so plentiful a provision made for the poor, one is led to say, This house cannot contain its wealth. This seems to me to be true magnificence.

Such marks of opulence, however, surprized me, when I first heard what fortune must support it. You are ruining yourselves, said I to Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar; it is impossible so moderate a revenue can supply so much expense. They laughed at me, and soon convinced me, that, without retrenching any of their family expenses, they could, if they pleased, lay up money and increase their estate, instead of diminishing it. Our grand secret, to grow rich, said they, is to have as little to do with money as possible, and to avoid, as much as may be, those intermediate exchanges, which are made between the harvest and the consumption. None of those exchanges are made without some loss; and such losses, if multiplied, would reduce a very good estate to little or nothing, as by means of brokerage a valuable gold box may fetch in a sale the price only of a trifling toy. The expense of transporting our produce is avoided, by making use of some part on the spot, and that of exchange, by using others in their natural state. And as for the indispensable necessity of converting those in which we abound for such as we want, instead of making pecuniary bargains, we endeavour to make real exchanges, in which the convenience of both parties supplies the place of profit.

I conceive, answered I, the advantages of this method; but it does not appear to me without inconvenience. For, besides the trouble to which it must subject you, the profit must be rather apparent than real, and what you lose in the management of your own estate, probably over- balances the profits the farmers would make of you. The peasants are better economists, both in the expenses of cultivation, and in gathering their produce, than you can be. That, replied, Mr. Wolmar, is a mistake; the peasant thinks less of augmenting the produce than of sparing his expenses, because the cost is more difficult for him to raise than the profits are useful. The tenant’s view is not so much to increase the value of the land, as to lay out but little on it; and if he depends on any certain gain, it is less by improving the soil, than exhausting it. The best that can happen, is, that instead of exhausting, he quite neglects it. Thus, for the sake of a little ready money, gathered in with ease, an indolent proprietor prepares for himself, or his children, great losses, much trouble, and sometimes the ruin of his patrimony.

I do not deny, continued Mr. Wolmar, that I am at a much greater expense in the cultivation of my land, than a farmer would be; but then I myself reap the profit of his labour, and the culture being much better than his, my crop is proportionably larger: so that, though I am at a greater expense, I am still, upon the whole, a gainer. Besides, this excess of expense is only apparent, and is, in reality, productive of great economy; for, were we to let out our lands for others to cultivate, we should be ourselves idle: we must live in town, where the necessaries of life are dear; we must have amusements, that would cost us much more than those we take here. The business, which you call a trouble, is at once our duty and our delight; and, thanks to the regulation it is under, is never troublesome: on the contrary, it serves to employ us, instead of those destructive schemes of pleasure, which people in town run into, and which a country life prevents, whilst that which contributes to our happiness becomes our amusement.

Look round you, continued he, and you will see nothing but what is useful; yet all these things cost little, and save a world of unnecessary expense. Our table is furnished with nothing but viands of our own growth; our dress and furniture are almost all composed of the manufactures of the country: nothing is despised with us because it is common, nor held in esteem because it is scarce. As every thing, that comes from abroad, is liable to be disguised and adulterated, we confine ourselves, as well through nicety as moderation, to the choice of the best home commodities, the quality of which is less dubious. Our viands are plain, but choice; and nothing is wanting to make ours a sumptuous table, but the transporting it a hundred leagues off; in which case every thing would be delicate, every thing would be rare, and even our trouts of the lake would be thought infinitely better, were they to be eaten at Paris.

We observe the same rule in the choice of our apparel, which you see is not neglected; but its elegance is the only thing we study, and not its cost, and much less its fashion. There is a wide difference between the price of opinion and real value. The latter, however, is all that Eloisa regards; in choosing a gown, she enquires not so much whether the pattern be old or new, as whether the stuff be good and becoming. The novelty of it is even sometimes the cause of her rejecting it, especially when it enhances the price, by giving it an imaginary value.

You should further consider, that the effect of every thing here arises less from itself than from its use, and its dependencies; insomuch that out of parts of little value, Eloisa has compounded a whole of great value. Taste delights in creating and stamping upon things a value of its own: as the laws of fashion are inconstant and destructive, hers is economical and lasting.

What true taste once approves must be always good, and though it be seldom in the mode, it is, on the other hand, never improper. Thus, in her modest simplicity, she deduces, from the use and fitness of things, such sure and unalterable rules, as will stand their ground when the vanity of fashions is no more. The abundance of mere necessaries can never degenerate into abuse; for what is necessary has its natural bounds, and our real wants know no excess. One may lay out the price of twenty suits of cloaths in buying one, and eat up at a meal the income of a whole year; but we cannot wear two suits at one time, nor dine twice the same day. Thus the caprice of opinion is boundless, whereas nature confines us on all sides; and he, who, with a moderate fortune, contents himself with living well, will run no risk of ruin.

Hence, you see, continued the prudent Wolmar, in what manner a little economy and industry may lift us out of the reach of fortune. It depends only on ourselves to increase ours, without changing our manner of living; for we advance nothing but with a view of profit, and whatever we expend puts us soon in a condition to expend much more.

And yet, my Lord, nothing of all this appears at first sight: the general air of affluence, and profusion, hides that order and regularity to which it is owing. One must be here some time to perceive those sumptuary laws, which are productive of so much ease and pleasure; and it is with difficulty that one at first comprehends how they enjoy what they spare. On reflection, however, one’s satisfaction increases, because it is plain that the source is inexhaustible, and that the art of enjoying life serves at the same time to prolong it. How can any one be weary of a state so conformable to that of nature? How can he waste his inheritance by improving it every day? How ruin his fortune, by spending only his income? When one year provides for the next, what can disturb the peace of the present? The fruits of their past labour support their present abundance, and those of their present labour provide a future plenty: they enjoy at once what is expended and what is received, and both past and future times unite in the security of the present.