The Confessions of Jean Jacques Rousseau — Volume 03Rousseau, Jean-Jacques
Philosophy
The Confessions of Jean Jacques Rousseau — Volume 03
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 Warrens 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.
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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