The Confessions of Jean Jacques Rousseau — CompleteRousseau, Jean-Jacques
Philosophy
The Confessions of Jean Jacques Rousseau — Complete
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques
Authors, French -- 18th century -- Biography; Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 1712-1778
My time passed in the most agreeable manner, though occupied in a way
which was by no means calculated to please me; such as having projects
to digest, bills to write fair, receipts to transcribe, herbs to pick,
drugs to pound, or distillations to attend; and in the midst of
all this, came crowds of travellers, beggars, and visitors of all
denominations. Some times it was necessary to converse at the same time
with a soldier, an apothecary, a prebendary, a fine lady, and a lay
brother. I grumbled, swore, and wished all this troublesome medley at
the devil, while she seemed to enjoy it, laughing at my chagrin till the
tears ran down her cheeks. What excited her mirth still more, was to
see that my anger was increased by not being able myself to refrain from
laughter. These little intervals, in which I enjoyed the pleasure
of grumbling, were charming; and if, during the dispute, another
importunate visitor arrived, she would add to her amusement by
maliciously prolonging the visit, meantime casting glances at me for
which I could almost have beat her; nor could she without difficulty
refrain from laughter on seeing my constrained politeness, though every
moment glancing at her the look of a fury, while, even in spite of
myself, I thought the scene truly diverting.
All this, without being pleasing in itself, contributed to amuse,
because it made up a part of a life which I thought delightful. Nothing
that was performed around me, nothing that I was obliged to do, suited
my taste, but everything suited my heart; and I believe, at length, I
should have liked the study of medicine, had not my natural distaste
to it perpetually engaged us in whimsical scenes, that prevented my
thinking of it in a serious light. It was, perhaps, the first time that
this art produced mirth. I pretended to distinguish a physical book by
its smell, and what was more diverting, was seldom mistaken. Madam
de Warens made me taste the most nauseous drugs; in vain I ran, or
endeavored to defend myself; spite of resistance or wry faces, spite
of my struggles, or even of my teeth, when I saw her charming fingers
approach my lips, I was obliged to give up the contest.
[Illustration: 0098]
When shut up in an apartment with all her medical apparatus, any one who
had heard us running and shouting amidst peals of laughter would rather
have imagined we had been acting a farce than preparing opiates or
elixirs.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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