Part 65

As she was unwilling Eloisa should hear the rattling of her coach, she got out in the avenue before we came to the gate; and, skudding across the courtyard like a sylph, ran upstairs with so much precipitation that she was obliged to stop and take breath on the first landing place, before she could get up the next flight. Mr. Wolmar came out to meet her, but she was in too much hurry to speak to him. On opening the door of Eloisa’s apartment, I saw her sitting near the window, with the little Harriot on her knee. Clara had prepared for her a fine compliment, in her way, a compound of affection and pleasantry; but, on setting her foot over the threshold, compliment and pleasantry were all forgotten; she flew forward to embrace her friend with a transport impossible to be described, crying out ah! my dear, dear cousin! Harriot, seeing her mother, fled to meet her, and crying out _Mamma, Mamma_, ran with so much force against her, that the poor child fell backwards on the floor. The effect of the sudden appearance of Clara, the fall of Harriot, the joy, the apprehensions, that seized upon Eloisa at that instant, made her give a violent shriek, and faint away. Clara was going to lift up the child when she saw her friend turn pale, which made her hesitate whom to assist; till, seeing me take up Harriot, she flew to the relief of Eloisa; but, in endeavouring to recover her, sunk down likewise in a swoon by the side of her friend.

The child, seeing them both without motion, made such loud lamentations as soon brought the little Frenchwoman into the room; the one clung about her mother, the other ran to her mistress. For my part, I was so struck, so affected, that I stalked about the room with out knowing what I did: venting broken exclamations, and making involuntary motions to no purpose. Wolmar himself, the unsusceptible Wolmar, seemed affected. But where is the heart of iron whom such a scene of sensibility would not affect? where is the unfortunate mortal from whom such a scene of tenderness would not have extorted tears? Instead of running to Eloisa, this fortunate husband threw himself on a settee, to enjoy the delightful scene. “Be not afraid,” says he, seeing our uneasiness. “In these accidents nature only is exhausted for a moment, to recover itself with new vigour; they are never dangerous. Let me prevail on you not to interrupt the pleasure I take in this transporting sight, but partake it with me. How ravishingly delightful must it be to you? I never tasted any thing like it, and am yet the most unhappy of all here.”

You may judge, my lord, by the first moment of their meeting, the consequences of the reunion of these charming friends. It has excited throughout the whole house a sound of gladness, a tumultuous joy, that has not yet subsided. Eloisa was in such an agitation as I never saw her in before; it was impossible for her to think of any thing all that day, but to gaze on her new visitor, and load her with fresh caresses. No body even thought of the saloon of Apollo; there was no occasion for thinking of it when every place gave equal pleasure. We were hardly, even the next day, composed enough to think of making an entertainment on the occasion. Had it not been for Wolmar, every thing would have gone wrong. In the mean time, every one was dressed in the best manner. No other care was admitted, than what tended to amusement. The entertainment was not grand, but extremely joyous; throughout the whole there reigned a pleasing confusion and disorder, which was its greatest embellishment.

The morning was spent in putting Mrs. Orbe in possession of her employment of intendant or housekeeper, and she betrayed the same eagerness to enter into her office, as a child does after a new plaything; at which we were highly diverted. In entering the saloon at dinner, both cousins were agreeably surprized to see on every side, their names in cypher, artificially formed with flowers. Eloisa guessed in an instant to whom she was obliged for that piece of ingenuity, and embraced me in a transport of joy. Clara, contrary to former custom, hesitated to follow her example; till Wolmar reprimanding her, she blushed, and embraced me. Her sweet confusion, which I observed but too plainly, had an effect on me which I cannot describe; but I could not feel myself in her arms without emotion.

After dinner, a fine collation was set out in the gynaeceum, or women’s apartment; where for once Mr. Wolmar and I were admitted, and were entertained agreeably. In the evening all the house, now increased by three persons, assembled to dance. Clara seemed ornamented by the hands of the Graces, never having appeared to so much advantage as on that day. She danced, she chatted, she laugh’d, she gave orders, she was capable of every thing. Having protested she would tire me out, she danced down five or six country dances in a breath; and then reproached me for footing it with the gravity of a philosopher. I, on the other hand, told her she danc’d like a fairy; that she was full as mischievous, and that she would not let me rest night nor day. You shall see to the contrary, says she, here’s that will set you to sleep presently: with that she started up, and led down another dance.

She was really indefatigable; but it was otherwise with Eloisa: she could hardly support herself; her knees trembled, as she danced; she was too much affected, to be chearful. One might observe a tear of joy every now and then trickle from her eyes; she regarded her cousin with a kind of delicious transport; took a pleasure in conceiving herself the guest for whom the entertainment was made, and looked fondly upon Clara as the mistress of the house who entertained her.

After supper, I play’d off the fireworks I brought from China, which had a pretty effect. We sat up great part of the night. At length it became time to break up: Mrs. Orbe was tired, or had danced enough to be so; and Eloisa was desirous she should not sit up too late.

After this we became insensibly tranquil, and good order took place. Clara, giddy and inconsiderate as she seems, knows how to check her sallies, and put on an air of authority, when she pleases. She has, besides great good sense, an exquisite discernment, the penetration of Wolmar, and the goodness of Eloisa; and tho’ extremely liberal, has a good deal of discretion in her generosity: for, tho’ left so young a widow, and charged with the care of a daughter, the fortunes of both increase in her hands; so that there is no reason to apprehend the house will, under her direction, be less prudently governed than before. In the mean time, Eloisa has the satisfaction of devoting herself entirely to an occupation more agreeable to her taste; that is, the education of her children: and I doubt not but Harriot will profit greatly by one of her mothers having relieved the other. I say her mothers, because by the manner in which they both behave to her, it is difficult to distinguish which is really so; so that some strangers, who arrived here to day, are still, or appear to be, in doubt about it. In fact, they both call her _Harriot_, or _my child_, indifferently. She calls the one her _Mamma_, and the other her _little Mamma_: she has the same love for both, and pays them equal obedience. If the ladies are asked whose child it is, each answers it is hers: if Harriot be questioned, she says that she has two mothers; so that it is no wonder that people are puzzled. The most discerning, however, think her the child of Eloisa; Harriot, whose father was of a fair complexion, being fair like her, and something resembling her in features. A greater maternal tenderness appears also in the soft regards of Eloisa, than in the sprightlier looks of Clara. The child puts on also a more respectful air, and is more reserved in her behaviour before the former. She places herself involuntarily oftener on the side of Eloisa, because she most frequently talks to her. It must be confessed all appearances are in favour of our _little mamma_; and I perceive the deception is so agreeable to the two cousins, that it may be sometimes perhaps intended.

In a fortnight, my lord, nothing will be wanting here but your presence; and when you are arrived, I shall have a very bad opinion of that man, who should be tempted to ransack the world for a virtue, or a pleasure, which may not be found in this house.

Letter CXLIII. To Lord B----.

For these three days past I have attempted every evening successively to write to you; but found myself, through the fatigue of the day, too sleepy to effect my purpose at night, and in the morning I am again called upon early to my employment. A pleasing tranquillity, more intoxicating than wine, takes possession of my senses; and I cannot without regret bear a moment’s avocation from the new and agreeable amusements I find here.

I cannot indeed conceive that any place would be disagreeable to me in such company; but do you know why Clarens in itself is agreeable? it is that here I find myself actually in the country, which I could hardly ever say before. The inhabitants of cities know not how to enjoy the country; they know not what it is to be there; and, even when they are there, know not what to do with themselves. They are ignorant of all rustic business and amusements; they despise them; they seem at home as if they were in a foreign country, and I am not at all surprized that they are displeased with it. Among the country people, we should live as they do, or not associate with them at all.

The Parisians, who imagine they go into the country, mistake the thing; they carry Paris along with them. They are attended with their singers, their wits, their authors, and their parasites. Cards, music, and plays, engross all their attention; [88] their tables are spread in the same manner as at Paris; they sit down to their meals at the same hours; are served with the same dishes, and in the same pomp: in a word, they do just the same things in the country as they did in town, where, for that reason, it had been better they had stayed; for, however opulent they are, or careful to omit nothing they are accustomed to, they always find something wanting, and perceive the impossibility of carrying Paris altogether along with them. Thus, that variety they are so fond of eludes their search; they are acquainted only with one manner of living, and are therefore a continual burthen to themselves. To me every rural employment affords something agreeable; nor is there any so painful and laborious as to excite our compassion for the labourer. As the object of both public and private utility, husbandry is peculiarly interesting; and, as it was the first employment of man in his state of innocence, it fills the mind with the most pleasing sensations, and affects us with the agreeable ideas of the golden age. The imagination cannot help being warmed by the prospects of seedtime and harvest: If we look around us, and see the fields covered with hay makers, and with flocks of sheep scattered at a distance, one is sensibly affected with a pleasure arising one knows not how. The voice of nature thus sometimes softens our savage hearts, and, though its dictates are too often fruitless, it is so agreeable that we never hear it without pleasure.

I must confess, that the misery which appears on the face of some countries, where the taxes devour the produce of the earth, the eager avarice of a greedy collector, the inflexible rigour of an inhuman master, take away much of the beauty of the prospect. To see the poor jaded cattle ready to expire under the whip; to see the unhappy peasants themselves emaciated with fasting, clothed in rags, groaning with fatigue, and hardly secured from the inclemencies of the weather by their wretched huts; these are deplorable sights, and it makes one almost blush to be a man when one thinks how the very vitals of such poor objects are drained to satisfy their cruel masters. But what pleasure is it, on the other hand, to see the prudent and humane proprietors, in milder governments, make the cultivation of their lands the instrument of their benevolence, their recreation, their pleasures! to see them with open hands distribute the bounties of providence! to see their servants, their cattle, and every creature about them, fatten on the abundance that flows from their barns, their cellars and granaries! to see them surrounded with peace and plenty, and make, of the employment that enriches them, a continual entertainment! How is it possible for one to be inattentive to the agreeable illusions which such objects present? we forget the age we live in, and the vices of our cotemporaries, and are transported in imagination to the time of the patriarchs; we are desirous to set one’s own hands to work; to join in the rustic employment, and partake of the happiness annexed to it. Oh! how delightful were the days of love and innocence, when the women were affectionate and modest, the men simple and content! such were the days when a lover did not regret fourteen years of servitude to obtain his mistress. Fair daughter of Laban! keeper of thy father’s flocks, how amiable must thou have been! how irresistible thy charms! No, never doth beauty exert its power so much as when in the midst of rural scenes and rustic simplicity. Here is the real seat of its empire; here she sits on her throne, surrounded by the graces; adorned by whose lands, she captivates all beholders. Excuse this rhapsody, my lord; I return now to my subject.

For this month past the autumnal heats have been preparing a favourable vintage, which the first has already induced us to begin; [89] the parched leaves falling off the vines, and exposing to view the clustered grapes, whose juicy ripeness invites the hands of the gatherers. Vines loaded with this salutary fruit, which heaven bestows on the unfortunate as a cure for all their woes; the sound of the casks, tubs, and tons, which they are hooping anew on every side, the songs of the gatherers with which the vintage re-echoes; the continual trotting backwards and forwards of those who carry the grapes to the press, the harsh sound of the rustic instruments that animate the people to work; the agreeable and affecting picture of a general good humour, which seems to be extended at that time over the face of the whole earth; add to these the fog, which the sun exhales in a morning and draws up like the curtain of theatre, to display so delightful a scene; all conspire to give it the air of an entertainment; and that an entertainment which is the more pleasing on reflection, that it is the only one in which mankind have art enough to join utility with delight.

Mr. Wolmar, who has one of the best vineyards in the country, has made all the necessary preparations for his vintage. His backs, his winepress, his cellar, his casks, are all ready for that delicious liquor for which they are designed. Mrs. Wolmar herself takes charge of the crop; the choice of the labourers, and the order and distribution of the several parts of the work falling to her share. Mrs. Orbe takes care of all entertainments, and of the payment of the day-labourers agreeable to the police established here; the laws of which are never infringed or broken. As to my part, I am set to inspect the press and enforce the directions of Eloisa, who cannot bear the steam of the backs; and Clara did not fail to recommend me to this employ, as it was so well adapted to a toper. Thus every one having an allotted task, we are all up early in the morning, and are assembled to go to the vineyard. Mrs. Orbe, who never thinks herself sufficiently employed, undertaking further to observe and rate those that are idle; in doing which I can safely say, with respect to me at least, that she acquits herself with a malicious assiduity. As to the old baron, while we are all employed, he walks out with his gun, and comes, every now and then, to take me from my work, to go with him a thrush-shooting; and I am taxed by my companions with being secretly engaged to him. So that by degrees I lose my old name of philosopher and get that of an idler; appellations which in reality are not so very different. You see, by what I have told you of the baron, that we are quite reconciled, and that Wolmar has reason to be content with his second experiment. [90] Shall I hate the father of my friend? no, were I his son, I could not respect him more than I do. In fact, I know not any man more sincere, more open, more generous, or more honourable in every respect than this old gentleman. But the extravagance of his notions and prejudices is odd enough. Since he is certain I cannot be united to his family, he is extremely civil; and, provided I be not his son-in-law, he will readily give up every thing, and allow me a superiority to himself. The only thing I cannot forgive him, is, that when we are alone, he will some time rally the pretended philosopher on his former lectures. His pleasantry on this head hurts me, and I am always vexed at it; but he turns my resentment into ridicule, and says, Come along, let us go bring down a thrush or two; we have carried this argument far enough. And then he calls out, as we go out of doors; here, Clara, Clara! provide a good supper for your master; I am going to get him an appetite. Notwithstanding his age, also, I can assure you, he brushes among the vines with his gun, with as much activity as myself, and is incomparably a better marksman. I have some satisfaction, however, in that he dares not drop a word before his daughter; the little scholar prescribing no less to her father than to her preceptor. But to return to our vintage.

It is now a week since we have been employed in this agreeable occupation, yet we have hardly done half our work. Besides the wines intended for sale and for common use, which are only simply tho’ carefully made, our benevolent fairy makes others of a more exquisite flavour for us drinkers; I myself assisting in the magical operations.

We make wines of all countries from the grapes of one vineyard: to make one sort, she orders the stalks of the bunches to be twisted when the grape is ripe, and lets them dry by the heat of the sun upon the stock; for another, she has the grapes picked and stoned before they are put into the press; Again, for a third sort, she has the red grapes gathered before sunrising, and carefully conveyed to the press, fresh with their bloom and covered with the morning dew, to make white wine. She makes a sweet wine, by putting into the casks _must_, reduced to a syrup by evaporation; a dry wine, by checking its fermentation; a bitter cordial by steeping wormwood; [91] and a muscadel wine, with the help of simples. All those different wines have their peculiar methods of preparation; every one of which is simple and wholesome. And thus an industrious economy makes up for a diversity of soils, and unites twenty climates in one. You cannot conceive with what assiduity, with what alacrity, all our business is done. We sing and laugh all day long, without the least interruption to our work. We live altogether in the greatest familiarity; are all treated on a footing, and yet no one forgets himself. The ladies put on none of their airs, the countrywomen are decent, the men droll, but never rude. Those are the most caressed who sing the best songs, tell the best stories, or hit off the best joke. Our good understanding even gives rise to pleasant bickerings between us, and our mutual raillery is exerted only to shew how far we can bear with good temper each others severity. There is no returning home to play the gentle folks; we stay all the day long in the vineyard; Eloisa having caused a lodge to be built there, whither we retreat to warm ourselves when cold, or to shelter us from the rain. We dine with the peasants, and at their hour, as well as work with them. We eat their soup, a little coarse indeed, but very good, and seasoned with excellent herbs. We laugh not at their downright behaviour and rustic compliments; but, in order to free them from constraint, give into their own ways without affectation. This complacence on our side, also, is not lost upon them; they are sensible of it; and, seeing that we are so ready to go out of our way for them, are more willing to go on in their own for us. At dinner the children are brought from the house, and pass the rest of the day in the vineyard. How rejoiced are the peasants to see them! then, taking them up in their sturdy arms, they bless them, and wish heaven may prolong their days to resemble their parents, and make them in like manner a blessing to their country. When I think that the most of these men have born arms, and understand the use of the sword and musket, as well as the management of the hoe and pruning-knife, in seeing Eloisa so loved and respected by them, and herself and children received with such affecting acclamations, I cannot help calling to mind the virtuous and illustrious Agrippina, shewing her son to the troops of Germanicus. Incomparable Eloisa! who exercises in the simplicity of private life, the despotic power of wisdom and beneficence; your person a dear and sacred trust deposited in the hands of your country-men, every one of whom would defend and protect you at the hazard of his own life; it is yours to live more securely, more honourably, in the midst of a whole people who love you, than monarchs surrounded with guards.