THE MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN (Complete Edition: Volumes 1-5). Alexandre DumasЧитать онлайн книгу.
I wished to be free." I see that we agree on one point, our liking for Rousseau.
"Speak for yourself, young man: youth is the season for illusions."
"Nay; one may be deceived upon things, but not on men."
"Alas, you will learn by and by, that it is men particularly about whom deception is easiest. Perhaps Rousseau is a little fairer than other men; but he has his faults, and great ones."
Gilbert shook his head, but the stranger continued to treat him with the same favor, though he was so uncivil.
"You said you had no master?"
"None, though it dwelt with me to have a most illustrious one; but I refused on the condition that I should make the amusement of noble idlers. Being young, able to study and make my way, I ought not to lose the precious time of youth and compromise in my person the dignity of man."
"This was right," said the stranger gravely; "but have you determined on a career?"
"I should like to be a physician."
"A grand and noble career, where one may decide between true science, modest and martyr-like, and quackery, impudent, rich and bloated. If you love truth, young man, be a doctor. If you love popular applause, be a doctor."
"I am afraid it will cost a lot of money to study, although Rousseau learned for nothing."
"Nothing? oh, young man," said the plant-collector, with a mournful smile, "do you call nothing the most precious of heavenly blessings—candor, health and sleep? That was the price the Genevian seeker of wisdom paid for the little he knows."
"Little! when he is a great musical composer!"
"Pooh, because the king sings 'I have lost my servant,' that does not prove 'The Village Sorcerer' to be a good opera."
"He is a noted botanist!"
"An herb-gatherer, very humble and ignorant amid the marvels known as plants and flowers."
"He is a Latin scholar, for I read that he had translated Tacitus."
"Bah, because in his conceit he wanted to be master of all crafts. But Tacitus, who is a rough antagonist to wrestle with, tired him. No, no, my good young man, in spite of your admiration, there are no more Admirable Crichtons, and what man gains in breadth he loses in depth. Rousseau is a superficial man whose surface is a trifle wider than most men's, that is all."
"Many would like to attain his mark," said the youth.
"Do you slur at me?" asked the stranger with a good nature disarming Gilbert.
"God forbid, for it is too much pleasure to chat for me to disoblige you. You draw me out and I am amazed at the language I am using, for I only picked it out of books, which I did not clearly follow. I have read too much, but I will read again with care. But I forget that while your talk is valuable to me, mine only wastes your time, for you are herb-gathering."
"No," said the botanist, fixing his gray eyes on the youth, who made a move to go but wanted to be detained. "My box is clearly full and I only want certain mosses; I heard that capillary grows round here."
"Stay, I saw some yonder."
"How do you know capillarys?"
"I was born on the woodland; the daughter of the nobleman on whose estate I was reared, liked botany; she had a collection and the objects had their names on labels attached. I noticed that what she called capillary was called by us rustics maidenhair fern."
"So you took a taste for botany?"
"It was this way. I sometimes heard Nicole—she is the maid to Mademoiselle Andrea de Taverney—say that her mistress wanted such and such a plant for her herbarium, so I asked her to get a sketch of them, and I searched in the woods till I raked them up. Then I transplanted them where she must find them, and used to hear the lady, in taking her walk, cry out: 'How odd! here is the very thing I was looking for!'"
The old gentleman looked with more heed and it made Gilbert lower his eyes blushing, for the interest had tenderness in it.
"Continue to study botany, which leads as a flowery path to medicine. Paris has free schools, and I suppose your folks will supply your maintenance."
"I have no relations, but I can earn my living at some trade."
"Yes, Rousseau says in his 'Emile,' that every one should learn a trade even though he were a prince's son."
"I have not read that book, but I have heard Baron Taverney mock at the maxim, and pretend grief at not having made his son a joiner. Instead, he made him a soldier, so that he will dismember instead of joining."
"Yes, these nobles bring their sons up to kill and not to nourish. When revolution comes, they will be forced to beg their bread abroad or sell their sword to the foreigners, which is more shameful. But you are not noble, and you have a craft?"
"No, I have a horror for rough toil; but give me a study and see how I will wear out night and day in my tasks."
"You have been to school, if not to college?"
"I know but to read and write," said Gilbert, shaking his head. "My mother taught me to read, for seeing me slight in physique, she said, 'You will never be a good workman, but must try to be priest or scholar. Learn to read, Gilbert, and you will not have to split wood, guide the plow or hew stone.' Unhappily my mother died before I could more than read, so I taught myself writing. First I traced letters on sand with a sharp stick till I found that the letters used in writing were not those of print, which I was copying. Hence I hope to meet some one who will need my pen, a blind man who will need my eyes, or a dumby who needs my tongue."
"You appear to have willingness and courage; but do you know what it will cost you to live in town?—at least three times what it did in the country."
"Well, suppose I have shelter and for rest after toil, I can shift on six cents a day."
"That is the right talk. I like this kind of man," said the plant collector. "Come with me to Paris and I will find you an independent profession by which you may live."
"Oh, my friend," exclaimed Gilbert, intoxicated with delight. "I accept your offer and I am grateful. But what will I have to do in your company?"
"Nothing but toil. But you will mete out the amount of your work. You will exercise your right of youth, freedom, happiness and even of idleness after you earn the right to be at leisure," added the unnamed benefactor, smiling as though in spite of his will.
Then, raising his eyes to heaven, he ejaculated: "Oh, youth, vigor and liberty!" with an inexpressibly poetical melancholy spreading over his fine, pure lineaments.
"Now, lead me to the spot where the maidenhair is to be found," he said.
Gilbert stepped out before the old gentleman and the pair disappeared in the underwood.
Chapter XXVII.
Master Jacques.
Before the day was over the pair could enter the capital. The young man's heart beat as he perceived Notre Dame Cathedral towers and the ocean of housetops.
"Oh, Paris!" he cried with rapture.
"Yes, Paris, a mass of buildings, a gulf of evils," said the old gentleman. "On each stone yonder you would see a drop of blood or a tear, if the miseries within those abodes could show themselves without."
Gilbert repressed his enthusiasm, which cooled of itself.
They entered by a poor district and the sights were hideous.
"It is going on eight," said the conductor, "let us be quick, young man, for goodness' sake."
Gilbert hurried on.
"I forget to say that I am a married