If I were a rich man,

I will not go to the country to build a villa for myself, nor will I build the Tuileries in the backcountry. I will have a simple hut and a small white house with green windshields on a wooded and scenic hillside. As for the roof, I will replace the thatch with tiles, which will be the most comfortable in any season. Because the tiles are cleaner and brighter than thatch, and the houses in my hometown are like this, it makes me feel like a boy again.

I don't need a yard, but I want a small yard for poultry; I don't need stables, but I want a bullpen with cows that bring me fresh milk every day; I don't need a flower bed, but I want a vegetable field; I don't need a spacious garden, but I want an orchard as I describe below. The fruit of the tree does not need to be counted or picked for passers-by to enjoy; I will not plant the fruit tree against the wall around the house, so that passers-by dare not touch the magnificent fruit of the tree. However, the cost of this small profligacy is small, because my secluded house is located in a remote province, where there is not much money, but rich in food, is a rich and poor place.

Then I invited a group of friends whom I had chosen carefully. Men like to have fun, and they are all experts; women are happy to get out of the boudoir, take part in field games, and know how to fish, catch birds, turn over hay and pick grapes, rather than just embroidery and playing cards. There, the atmosphere of the city was gone, and we all became mountain villagers, and we had different activities and revelry every night. During the day, we gather together to take part in outdoor exercise and work, which will increase our appetite. Every meal we have is a feast, and food is richer than delicacies. Happy mood, field work, and playful games are the best cooks in the world, while exquisite seasonings are ridiculous for sunrise labourers. Such feasts are neither polite nor ostentatious: there are restaurants everywhere-gardens, boats, shade of trees; sometimes they are set by gurgling springs, on the grassy meadows, under alder and hazel trees; and the guests line up askew with rich food in their hands, singing merrily. Grass tables and chairs, spring ring stones serve as a table for food and wine, and the fruit after a meal hangs on the branches. There is no need to pay attention to politeness as long as the food is served in different order, as long as you have a good appetite; everyone likes to do it himself, and there is no need to pretend to help others. In this sincere and intimate atmosphere, people tease and tease each other, but they are not mean, and there is no sense of hypocrisy or restraint. There is no need for annoying servants at all, because they will eavesdrop on our conversation, whisper about our behavior, count with greedy eyes how many pieces of meat we eat, sometimes don't serve wine, and they nag us when the party is too long.

In order to be our own masters, we will be our own servants, and everyone will be served. We allow time to go by, eat is rest, and there is nothing wrong with eating until the sun goes down. If a farmer, Hoe, who has returned from work, walks past us, I will say a few kind words to him to make him happy, and I will invite him to drink a few sips of fine wine so that he can forget his physical fatigue for a while. As a result, my heart will show some joy, and whisper to myself: "I am still a good person."

During the festivals of the villagers, I will rush to have fun with my friends, and the weddings in the neighborhood will not be without my fun. I bring these kind people gifts as simple as their own, adding a little joy to the celebration; in exchange, I will receive an inestimable reward, a reward that people like me rarely get: heart-to-heart conversation and unparalleled joy. I sat down at their long table and happily drank the wedding; I echoed and sang an old folk song with you; in the barn, we danced together as if we had attended a ball at the Paris Opera House. No! Happier than there.