by Eugène Sue
“What good is that?” asked the abbé. “What is done with these animals thus appointed by fate?”
“We make a lot of them and they are sold for the profit of the people on the farm. This profit is in addition to their fixed wages. You understand, gentlemen, that all my people are thus interested in the cattle and the poultry, which receive the best possible care, inasmuch as chance alone decides the lot of encouragement, as we call it. What is the result, gentlemen? It is that cattle and poultry become almost as much the property of my people as mine, because the finer the lot, the dearer it sells, and the larger the profit. Eh, gentlemen, would you believe that, thanks to the zeal, the care and diligence which my farm people give to the hope of this profit, I gain more than I give, because our interest is common, so that in improving the condition of these poor people, I advance my own.”
“The moral of all this, my lord canon, is,” said the doctor, smiling, “that it is necessary to eat as many fine sirloins as possible, as many tender cutlets from the salt meadows, and give oneself with equal devotion to the unlimited consumption of pullets, capons, and India cocks, so as to encourage this industry.”
“I will try, doctor,” said the canon, gravely, “to attain to the height of my duties.”
“And they are more numerous than you think, Dom Diégo, because it depends upon you too to see that poor people are better clothed and better shod, and to this you can make especial contribution, by eating plenty of veal stewed à la Samaritan, plenty of beefsteak with anchovy sauce, and plenty of lambs’ tongues à la d’Uxelle.”
“Come now, doctor,” said the canon, “you are joking!”
“You are rather slow in discovering that, Dom Diégo,” said the abbé.
“I am speaking seriously,” replied the doctor, “and I am going to prove it to you, Dom Diégo. What are shoes made of?”
“Of leather, doctor.”
“And what produces this leather? Do not beeves, sheep, and calves? It is then evident that the more cattle consumed, the more the price of leather is diminished, and good health-promoting shoes become more accessible to the poor, who can afford only wooden shoes.”
“That is true,” said the canon, with a thoughtful expression. “It is certainly true.”
“Now,” continued the doctor, “of what are good woollen garments and good woollen stockings woven? Of the fleece of the sheep! Now, then, the greater the consumption of mutton, the cheaper wool becomes.”
“Ah, doctor,” cried the canon, carried away by a sudden burst of fine philosophy, “what a pity we cannot eat six meals a day! Yes, yes, a man could kill himself with indigestion for the greater happiness of his fellow men.”
“Ah, Dom Diégo!” replied the doctor, in a significant tone. “Such perhaps is the martyrdom which awaits you!”
“And I shall submit to it with joy,” cried the canon, enthusiastically. “It is sweet to die for humanity!”
Abbé Ledoux could no longer doubt that Dom Diégo was wholly beyond his influence, and manifested his vexation by angry glances, and disdainful shrugs of his shoulders.
“Oh, my God, doctor,” suddenly exclaimed the canon, expanding his wide nostrils over and over again, “what is that appetising odour I scent there?”
“That is the exhibition of the industry pursued by my nephew Michel, my lord canon; these things are just out of the oven; see what a golden brown they have, how dainty they are!”
And Doctor Gasterini pointed out to the canon, the most marvellous specimens of pastry and bakery that one could possibly imagine: immense pies of game, of fish and of fowl, delicious morsels of baked shell-fish, fruit pies, little tarts with preserves and creams of all sorts, smoking cakes of every description, meringues with pineapple jelly, burnt almonds and sugared nuts, nougats mounted in shape of rocks, supporting temples of sugar candy, graceful ships of candy, whose top of fine spun sugar, resembling filigree work of silver, disclosed a dish of vanilla cakes, floating in rose-coloured cream whipped as light as foam. The list of wonderful dainties would be too long to enumerate, and Canon Dom Diégo stood before them in mute admiration.
“The dinner hour approaches, and I must go to my stoves, to give the finishing touch to certain dishes, which my pupils have begun,” said Doctor Gasterini to his guest. “But to prove to you the importance of this appetising branch of industry, I will limit myself to a single question.”
And addressing his nephew Michel, he said:
“My boy, tell the gentleman how much the stock of pastry you exhibit in the street of La Paix has cost.”
“You ought to know, uncle,” replied Michel, smiling affectionately at Doctor Gasterini, “for you advanced the money necessary for the expenditure.”
“My faith, boy, you have reimbursed me long ago, and I have forgotten the figures. Let us see. It was—”
“Two hundred thousand francs, uncle. And I have done an excellent business. Besides, the house is good, because my predecessor made there twenty thousand a year income in ten years.”
“Twenty thousand income!” cried Dom Diégo in astonishment, “twenty thousand!”
“Now you see, my lord canon, how capital is created by eating hot pies and plum cake with pistachios. But would you like to see something really grand? For this time we are discussing an industry which affects not only the interests of almost all the counties of France, but which extends over a great part of Europe and the East, — that is to say, Germany, Italy, Greece, Spain, and Portugal. An industry which puts in circulation an enormous amount of capital, which occupies entire populations, whose finest products sometimes reach a fabulous price, — an industry, in short, which is to gluttony what the soul is to the body, what mind is to matter. Wait, Dom Diégo, look and reverence, for here the youngest are already very old.”
Immediately, through instinct, the canon took off his hat, and reverently bowed his head.
“I present to you my nephew Theodore, commissary of fine French and foreign wines,” said the doctor to the canon.
There was nothing brilliant or showy in this stall; only simple wooden shelves filled with dusty bottles and above each shelf a label in red letters on a black ground, which made the brief and significant announcement:
“France. — Chambertin (comet); Clos-Vougeat, 1815; Volney (comet); Nuits, 1820; Pomard, 1834; Châblis, 1834; Pouilly (comet); Château Margot, 1818; Haut-Brion, 1820; Château Lafitte, 1834; Sauterne, 1811; Grave (comet); Roussillon, 1800; Tavel, 1802; Cahors, 1793; Lunel, 1814; Frontignan (comet); Rivesaltes, 1831; Foamy Ai, 1820; Ai rose, 1831; Dry Sillery (comet); Eau de vie de Cognac, 1757; Anisette de Bordeaux, 1804; Ratafia de Louvres, 1807.
“Germany. — Johannisberg, 1779; Rudesteimer, 1747; Hocheimer, 1760; Tokai, 1797; Vermouth, 1801; Vin de Hongrie, 1783; Kirchenwasser of the Black Forest, 1801.
“Holland. — Anisette, 1821; Curacao red, 1805; White Curacao, 1820; Genievre, 1799.
“Italy. — Lacryma Christi, 1803; Imola, 1819.
“Greece. — Chypre, 1801; Samos, 1813.
“Ionian Islands. — Marasquin de Zara.
“Spain. — Val de Penas, 1812; Xeres dry, 1809; Sweet Xeres, 1810; Escatelle, 1824; Tintilla de Rota, 1823; Malaga, 1799.
“Portugal. — Po, 1778.
“Island of Madeira. — Madeira, 1810; having made three voyages from the Indies.
“Cape of Good Hope. — Red and white and pale wines, 1826.”
While Dom Diégo was looking on with profound interest, Doctor Gasterini said to his nephew:
“My boy, do you recollect the price at which some celebrated wine-cellars have been sold?”
“Yes, dear uncle,” replied Michel, “the Duke of Sussex owned a wine-cellar which was sold for two hundred and eighty thousand francs; Lafitte’s wine-cellar sold in Paris for nearly one hundred thousand francs; the one belonging to Lagillière, also in Paris, was sold for sixty thousand francs.”
“Well, well, Dom Diégo,” said Doctor Gasterini to his guest, “what do you think of it? Do you
believe all this to be an abomination, as that wag Abbé Ledoux, who is observing us now with such a deceitful countenance, declares? Do you think the passion, which promotes an industry of such importance, deserves to be anathematised only? Think of the expenditure of labour in their transport and preservation that these wine-cellars must have cost. How many people have lived on the money they represent?”
“I think,” said the canon, “that I was blind and stupid never to have comprehended, until now, the immense social, political, and industrial influence I have wielded by eating and drinking the choicest viands and wines. I think now that the consciousness of accomplishing a mission to the world in giving myself up to unbridled gluttony, will be a delicious aperient for my appetite, — a consciousness which I owe to you, and to you only, doctor. Oh, noble thinker! Oh, grand philosophy!”
“This is the science of gastronomy carried to insanity,” said Abbé Ledoux. “It is a new paganism.”
“My Lord Diégo,” continued the doctor, “we will speak of the gratitude which you think you owe me, when we have taken a view of this last shop. Here is an industry which surpasses in importance all of which we have been speaking. The question is a grave one, for it turns the scale of gluttony’s influence upon the equilibrium of Europe.”
“The equilibrium of Europe!” said the canon, more and more dismayed. “What has eating to do with the equilibrium of Europe?”
“Go on, go on, Dom Diégo,” said Abbé Ledoux, shrugging his shoulders, “if you listen to this tempter, he will prove to you things still more astonishing.”
“I am going to prove, my dear abbé, both to you and to Dom Diégo, that I advance nothing but what is strictly true. And, first, you will confess, will you not, that the marine service of a nation like France has great weight in the balance of the destinies of Europe?”
“Certainly,” said the canon.
“Well, what follows?” said the abbé.
“Now,” pursued the doctor, “you will agree with me, that as this military marine service is strengthened or enfeebled, France gains or loses in the same proportion?”
“Evidently,” said the canon.
“Conclude your argument,” cried the abbé, “that is what I am waiting for.”
“I will conclude then, my dear abbé, by saying that the more progress gluttony makes, the more accessible it becomes to the greatest number, the more will the military marine of France gain in strength and in influence, and that, my Lord Dom Diégo, I am going to demonstrate to you by begging you to read that sign.”
And just above the door of this last stall, the only one not occupied by a niece or nephew of Doctor Gasterini, were the words “Colonial Provisions.”
“Colonial provisions,” repeated the canon aloud, looking at the physician with an interrogating air, while the abbé, more discerning, bit his lips with vexation.
“Do I need to tell you, lord canon,” pursued the doctor, “that without colonies, we would have no merchant service, and without a merchant service, no navy for war, since the navy is recruited from the seamen in the merchant service? Well, if the lovers of good eating did not consume all the delicacies which you see exhibited here in small samples, — sugar, coffee, vanilla, cloves, cinnamon, ginger, rice, pistachios, Cayenne pepper, nutmeg, liquors from the islands, hachars from the Indies, what, I ask you, would become of our colonies, that is to say, our maritime power?”
“I am amazed,” cried the canon, “I am dizzy; at each step I feel myself expand a hundred cubits.”
“And, zounds! you are right, lord Dom Diégo,” said the doctor, “for indeed, when, after having tasted at dessert a cheese frozen with vanilla, to which will succeed a glass of wine from Constance or the Cape, you take a cup of coffee, and conclude of course with one or two little glasses of liquor from the islands, flavoured with cloves or cinnamon, ah, well, you will further heroically the maritime power of France, and do in your sphere as much for the navy as the sailor or the captain. And speaking of captains, lord canon,” added the doctor, sadly, “I wish you to observe that among all the shops we have seen, this one alone is empty, because the captain of the ship which has brought all these choice provisions from the Indies and the colonies dares not show himself, while he is under the cloud of your vengeance. I mean, canon, my poor nephew, Captain Horace. He alone has failed to come, to-day, to this family feast.”
“Ah, the accursed serpent!” muttered the abbé, “how adroitly he goes to his aim; how well he knows how to wind this miserable brute, Dom Diégo, around his finger.”
At the name of Captain Horace, the canon started, then relapsed into thoughtful silence.
CHAPTER XIV.
CANON DOM DIÉGO, after a few moments’ silence, extended his fat hand to Doctor Gasterini, and, trembling with emotion, said:
“Doctor, Captain Horace cost me my appetite; you have restored it to me, I hope, for the remainder of my life; and much more, you have, according to your promise, proven to me, not by specious reasoning, but by facts and figures, that the gourmand, as you have declared with so much wisdom, accomplishes a high social and political mission in the civilised world; you have delivered me from the pangs of remorse by giving me a knowledge of the noble task that my epicureanism may perform, and in this sacred duty, doctor, I will not fail. So, in gratitude to you, in appreciation of you, I hope to acquit myself modestly by declaring to you that, not only shall I refuse to enter a complaint against your nephew, Captain Horace, but I cordially bestow upon him the hand of my niece in marriage.”
“As I told you, canon,” said the abbé, “I was very sure that once this diabolical doctor had you in his clutches, he would do with you all that he desired. Where now are the beautiful resolutions you made this morning?”
“Abbé,” replied Dom Diégo, in a self-sufficient tone, “I am not a child; I shall know how to stand at the height of the rôle the doctor has marked out for me.”
Then turning to the doctor, he added:
“You can instruct me, sir, what to write; a reliable person will take my letter, and go immediately in your carriage to the convent for my niece, and conduct her to this house.”
“Lord Dom Diégo,” replied the doctor, “you assure the happiness of our two children, the joy of my declining days, and consequently your satisfaction and pleasure in the indulgence of your appetite, for I shall keep my word; I will make you dine every day better than I made you breakfast the other morning. A wing of this house will henceforth be at your disposal; you will do me the honour of eating at my table, and you see that, after the professions I have chosen for my nieces and nephews, — with the knowledge and taste of an epicure, as I have told you, — my larder and my wine-cellar will be always marvellously well appointed and supplied. I am growing old, I have need of a staff in my old age. Horace and his wife shall never leave me. I shall confide to them the collection of my culinary traditions, that they may transmit them from generation to generation; we shall all live together, and we shall enjoy in turn the practice and philosophy of gluttony, my lord canon.”
“Doctor, I set my foot upon the very threshold of paradise!” cried the canon. “Ah, Providence is merciful, it loads a poor sinner like myself with blessings!”
“Heresy! blasphemy! impiety!” cried Abbé Ledoux. “You will be damned, thrice damned, as will be your tempter!”
“Come now, dear abbé,” replied the doctor, “none of your tricks. Confess at once that I have convinced you by my reasoning.”
“I! I am convinced!”
“Certainly, because I defy you — you and all like you, past, present, or future — to get out of this dilemma.”
“Let us hear the dilemma.”
“If gluttony is a monstrosity, then frugality pushed to the extreme ought to be a virtue.”
“Certainly,” answered the abbé.
“Then, my dear abbé, the more frugal a man is, according to your theory, the more deserving is he.”
“Evidently, doctor.”
“
So the man who lives on uncooked roots, and drinks water only for the purpose of self-mortification, would be the type and model of a virtuous man.”
“And who doubts it? You can find that celestial type among the anchorites.”
“Admirable types, indeed, abbé! Now, according to your ideas of making proselytes, you ought to desire most earnestly that all mankind should approach this type of ideal perfection as nearly as possible, — a man inhabiting a cave and living on roots. The beautiful ideal of your religious society would then be a society of cave-dwellers and root-eaters, administering rough discipline by way of pastime.”
“Would to God it might be so!” sternly answered the abbé; “there would be then as many righteous on the earth as there are men.”
“In the first place that would deplete the census considerably, my dear abbé, and afterward there would be the little inconvenience of destroying with one blow all the various industries, the specimens of which we have just been admiring. Without taking into account the industry of weavers who make our cloth, silversmiths who emboss silver plate, fabricators of porcelain and glass, painters, gilders, who embellish our houses, upholsterers, etc., that is to say, society, in approaching your ideal, would annihilate three-fourths of the most flourishing industries, and, in other words, would return to a savage state.”
“Better work out your salvation in a savage state,” persisted the opinionated Abbé Ledoux, “than deserve eternal agony by abandoning yourself to the pleasures of a corrupt civilisation.”
“What sublime disinterestedness! But then, why leave so generously these renunciations to others, these bitter, cruel privations, abandoning to them your part of paradise, and modestly contenting yourself with easy living here below, sleeping on eider-down, refreshing yourself with cool drinks, and comforting your stomach with warm food? Come, let us talk seriously, and confess that this is a veritable outrage, a veritable blasphemy against the munificence of creation, not to enjoy the thousand good things which she provides for the satisfaction of the creature.”