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

Till that moment, my father, who had a map of Sanson’s, and a book of the post-roads before him, had kept his hand upon the head of his compasses, with one foot of them fixed upon Nevers, the last stage he had paid for⁠—purposing to go on from that point with his journey and calculation, as soon as Obadiah quitted the room: but this second attack of Obadiah’s, in opening the door and laying the whole country under water, was too much.⁠⸺⁠He let go his compasses⁠—or rather with a mixed motion between accident and anger, he threw them upon the table; and then there was nothing for him to do, but to return back to Calais (like many others) as wise as he had set out.

When the letter was brought into the parlour, which contained the news of my brother’s death, my father had got forwards again upon his journey to within a stride of the compasses of the very same stage of Nevers.⁠⸺⁠By your leave, Mons. Sanson, cried my father, striking the point of his compasses through Nevers into the table⁠—and nodding to my uncle Toby to see what was in the letter⁠—twice of one night, is too much for an English gentleman and his son, Mons. Sanson, to be turned back from so lousy a town as Nevers⁠—What think’st thou, Toby? added my father in a sprightly tone.⁠⸺⁠Unless it be a garrison town, said my uncle Toby⁠⸺⁠for then⁠⸺⁠I shall be a fool, said my father, smiling to himself, as long as I live.⁠—So giving a second nod⁠—and keeping his compasses still upon Nevers with one hand, and holding his book of the post-roads in the other⁠—half calculating and half listening, he leaned forwards upon the table with both elbows, as my uncle Toby hummed over the letter.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻⁠—he’s gone! said my uncle Toby.⁠⸺⁠Where⁠⸺⁠Who? cried my father.⁠⸺⁠My nephew, said my uncle Toby.⁠⸺⁠What⁠—without leave⁠—without money⁠—without governor? cried my father in amazement. No:⁠⸺⁠he is dead, my dear brother, quoth my uncle Toby.⁠—Without being ill? cried my father again.⁠—I dare say not, said my uncle Toby, in a low voice, and fetching a deep sigh from the bottom of his heart, he has been ill enough, poor lad! I’ll answer for him⁠⸺⁠for he is dead.

When Agrippina was told of her son’s death, Tacitus informs us, that, not being able to moderate the violence of her passions, she abruptly broke off her work.⁠—My father stuck his compasses into Nevers, but so much the faster.⁠—What contrarieties! his, indeed, was matter of calculation!⁠—Agrippina’s must have been quite a different affair; who else could pretend to reason from history?

How my father went on, in my opinion, deserves a chapter to itself.⁠—

⸺⸺⁠And a chapter it shall have, and a devil of a one too⁠—so look to yourselves.

’Tis either Plato, or Plutarch, or Seneca, or Xenophon, or Epictetus, or Theophrastus, or Lucian⁠—or someone perhaps of later date⁠—either Cardan, or Budæus, or Petrarch, or Stella⁠—or possibly it may be some divine or father of the church, St. Austin, or St. Cyprian, or Barnard, who affirms that it is an irresistible and natural passion to weep for the loss of our friends or children⁠—and Seneca (I’m positive) tells us somewhere, that such griefs evacuate themselves best by that particular channel⁠—And accordingly we find, that David wept for his son Absalom⁠—Adrian for his Antinous⁠—Niobe for her children, and that Apollodorus and Crito both shed tears for Socrates before his death.

My father managed his affliction otherwise; and indeed differently from most men either ancient or modern; for he neither wept it away, as the Hebrews and the Romans⁠—or slept it off, as the Laplanders⁠—or hanged it, as the English, or drowned it, as the Germans⁠—nor did he curse it, or damn it, or excommunicate it, or rhyme it, or lillabullero it.⁠⸺⁠

⸺⁠He got rid of it, however.

Will your worships give me leave to squeeze in a story between these two pages?

When Tully was bereft of his dear daughter Tullia, at first he laid it to his heart,⁠—he listened to the voice of nature, and modulated his own unto it.⁠—O my Tullia! my daughter! my child!⁠—still, still, still,⁠—’twas O my Tullia!⁠—my Tullia! Methinks I see my Tullia, I hear my Tullia, I talk with my Tullia.⁠—But as soon as he began to look into the stores of philosophy, and consider how many excellent things might be said upon the occasion⁠—nobody upon earth can conceive, says the great orator, how happy, how joyful it made me.

My father was as proud of his eloquence as Marcus Tullius Cicero could be for his life, and, for aught I am convinced of to the contrary at present, with as much reason: it was indeed his strength⁠—and his weakness too.⁠⸺⁠His strength⁠—for he was by nature eloquent; and his weakness⁠—for he was hourly a dupe to it; and, provided an occasion in life would but permit him to show his talents, or say either a wise thing, a witty, or a shrewd one⁠—(bating the case of a systematic misfortune)⁠—he had all he wanted.⁠—A blessing which tied up my father’s tongue, and a misfortune which let it loose with a good grace, were pretty equal: sometimes, indeed, the misfortune was the better of the two; for instance, where the pleasure of the harangue was as ten, and the pain of the misfortune but as five⁠—my father gained half in half, and consequently was as well again off, as if it had never befallen him.

This clue will unravel what otherwise would seem very inconsistent in my father’s domestic character; and it is this, that, in the provocations arising from the neglects and blunders of servants, or other mishaps unavoidable in a family, his anger or rather the duration of it, eternally ran counter to all conjecture.

My father had a favourite little mare, which he had consigned over to a most beautiful Arabian horse, in order to have a pad