The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman Laurence Sterne (short novels to read .txt) 📖

of the horse-guards in my life, said La Maronette, with two such legs⁠⸺⁠Or who stood so well upon them, said La Sabatiere⁠⸻But he has no whiskers, cried La Fosseuse⁠⸺⁠Not a pile, said La Rebours.

The queen went directly to her oratory, musing all the way, as she walked through the gallery, upon the subject; turning it this way and that way in her fancy⁠—Ave Maria!⁠⸻what can La Fosseuse mean? said she, kneeling down upon the cushion.

La Guyol, La Battarelle, La Maronette, La Sabatiere, retired instantly to their chambers⁠⸻Whiskers! said all four of them to themselves, as they bolted their doors on the inside.

The Lady Carnavallette was counting her beads with both hands, unsuspected, under her farthingal⁠⸺⁠from St. Antony down to St. Ursula inclusive, not a saint passed through her fingers without whiskers; St. Francis, St. Dominick, St. Bennet, St. Basil, St. Bridget, had all whiskers.

The Lady Baussiere had got into a wilderness of conceits, with moralizing too intricately upon La Fosseuse’s text⁠⸺⁠She mounted her palfrey, her page followed her⁠⸺⁠the host passed by⁠—the Lady Baussiere rode on.

One denier, cried the order of mercy⁠—one single denier, in behalf of a thousand patient captives, whose eyes look towards heaven and you for their redemption.

⸺⁠The Lady Baussiere rode on.

Pity the unhappy, said a devout, venerable, hoary-headed man, meekly holding up a box, begirt with iron, in his withered hands⁠⸺⁠I beg for the unfortunate⁠—good my Lady, ’tis for a prison⁠—for an hospital⁠—’tis for an old man⁠—a poor man undone by shipwreck, by suretyship, by fire⁠⸺⁠I call God and all his angels to witness⁠⸺’tis to clothe the naked⁠⸺⁠to feed the hungry⁠⸺’tis to comfort the sick and the brokenhearted.

The Lady Baussiere rode on.

A decayed kinsman bowed himself to the ground.

⸺⁠The Lady Baussiere rode on.

He ran begging bareheaded on one side of her palfrey, conjuring her by the former bonds of friendship, alliance, consanguinity, etc.⁠⸺⁠Cousin, aunt, sister, mother,⁠⸺⁠for virtue’s sake, for your own, for mine, for Christ’s sake, remember me⁠⸺⁠pity me.

⸺⁠The Lady Baussiere rode on.

Take hold of my whiskers, said the Lady Baussiere⁠⸺⁠The page took hold of her palfrey. She dismounted at the end of the terrace.

There are some trains of certain ideas which leave prints of themselves about our eyes and eyebrows; and there is a consciousness of it, somewhere about the heart, which serves but to make these etchings the stronger⁠—we see, spell, and put them together without a dictionary.

Ha, ha! he, hee! cried La Guyol and La Sabatiere, looking close at each other’s prints⁠⸺⁠Ho, ho! cried La Battarelle and Maronette, doing the same:⁠—Whist! cried one⁠—st, st,⁠—said a second⁠—hush, quoth a third⁠—poo, poo, replied a fourth⁠—gramercy! cried the Lady Carnavallette;⁠⸺’twas she who bewhisker’d St. Bridget.

La Fosseuse drew her bodkin from the knot of her hair, and having traced the outline of a small whisker, with the blunt end of it, upon one side of her upper lip, put it into La Rebours’ hand⁠—La Rebours shook her head.

The Lady Baussiere coughed thrice into the inside of her muff⁠—La Guyol smiled⁠—Fy, said the Lady Baussiere. The queen of Navarre touched her eye with the tip of her forefinger⁠—as much as to say, I understand you all.

’Twas plain to the whole court the word was ruined: La Fosseuse had given it a wound, and it was not the better for passing through all these defiles⁠⸺⁠It made a faint stand, however, for a few months, by the expiration of which, the Sieur De Croix, finding it high time to leave Navarre for want of whiskers⁠⸺⁠the word in course became indecent, and (after a few efforts) absolutely unfit for use.

The best word, in the best language of the best world, must have suffered under such combinations.⁠⸻The curate of d’Estella wrote a book against them, setting forth the dangers of accessory ideas, and warning the Navarois against them.

Does not all the world know, said the curate d’Estella at the conclusion of his work, that Noses ran the same fate some centuries ago in most parts of Europe, which Whiskers have now done in the kingdom of Navarre?⁠—The evil indeed spread no farther then⁠—but have not beds and bolsters, and nightcaps and chamberpots stood upon the brink of destruction ever since? Are not trouse, and placket-holes, and pump-handles⁠—and spigots and faucets, in danger still from the same association?⁠⸺⁠Chastity, by nature, the gentlest of all affections⁠—give it but its head⁠⸺’tis like a ramping and a roaring lion.

The drift of the curate d’Estella’s argument was not understood.⁠—They ran the scent the wrong way.⁠—The world bridled his ass at the tail.⁠—And when the extremes of delicacy, and the beginnings of concupiscence, hold their next provincial chapter together, they may decree that bawdy also.

II

When my father received the letter which brought him the melancholy account of my brother Bobby’s death, he was busy calculating the expense of his riding post from Calais to Paris, and so on to Lyons.

’Twas a most inauspicious journey; my father having had every foot of it to travel over again, and his calculation to begin afresh, when he had almost got to the end of it, by Obadiah’s opening the door to acquaint him the family was out of yeast⁠—and to ask whether he might not take the great coach-horse early in the morning and ride in search of some.⁠—With all my heart, Obadiah, said my father (pursuing his journey)⁠—take the coach-horse, and welcome.⁠⸺⁠But he wants a shoe, poor creature! said Obadiah.⁠⸺⁠Poor creature! said my uncle Toby, vibrating the note back again, like a string in unison. Then ride the Scotch horse, quoth my father hastily.⁠—He cannot bear a saddle upon his back, quoth Obadiah, for the whole world.⁠⸺⁠The devil’s in that horse; then take Patriot, cried my father, and shut the door.⁠⸺⁠Patriot is sold, said Obadiah. Here’s for you! cried my father, making a pause, and looking in my uncle Toby’s face, as if the thing had not been a matter of fact.⁠—Your worship ordered me to sell him last April, said Obadiah.⁠—Then go on foot for your pains, cried my father⁠⸺⁠I had much rather walk than ride, said Obadiah, shutting the door.

What plagues, cried my father, going on with his calculation.⁠⸺⁠But the