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

the inn, and as I had taken it into my head, he was someway concerned about the house or stable, I put the bridle into his hand⁠—so begun with the boot:⁠—when I had finished the affair, I turned about to take the mule from the man, and thank him⁠⸺⁠

⸻But Monsieur le Marquis had walked in⁠⸺⁠

XLII

I had now the whole south of France, from the banks of the Rhône to those of the Garonne, to traverse upon my mule at my own leisure⁠—at my own leisure⁠⸺⁠for I had left Death, the Lord knows⁠⸺⁠and He only⁠—how far behind me⁠⸺“I have followed many a man thro’ France, quoth he⁠—but never at this mettlesome rate.”⁠⸺⁠Still he followed,⁠⸺⁠and still I fled him⁠⸺⁠but I fled him chearfully⁠⸺⁠still he pursued⁠⸺⁠but, like one who pursued his prey without hope⁠⸺⁠as he lagg’d, every step he lost, soften’d his looks⁠⸺⁠why should I fly him at this rate?

So notwithstanding all the commissary of the post-office had said, I changed the mode of my travelling once more; and, after so precipitate and rattling a course as I had run, I flattered my fancy with thinking of my mule, and that I should traverse the rich plains of Languedoc upon his back, as slowly as foot could fall.

There is nothing more pleasing to a traveller⁠⸺⁠or more terrible to travel-writers, than a large rich plain; especially if it is without great rivers or bridges; and presents nothing to the eye, but one unvaried picture of plenty: for after they have once told you, that ’tis delicious! or delightful! (as the case happens)⁠—that the soil was grateful, and that nature pours out all her abundance, etc⁠ ⁠… they have then a large plain upon their hands, which they know not what to do with⁠—and which is of little or no use to them but to carry them to some town; and that town, perhaps of little more, but a new place to start from to the next plain⁠⸺⁠and so on.

—This is most terrible work; judge if I don’t manage my plains better.

XLIII

I had not gone above two leagues and a half, before the man with his gun began to look at his priming.

I had three several times loiter’d terribly behind; half a mile at least every time; once, in deep conference with a drum-maker, who was making drums for the fairs of Baucaira and Tarascone⁠—I did not understand the principles⁠⸺⁠

The second time, I cannot so properly say, I stopp’d⁠⸺⁠for meeting a couple of Franciscans straitened more for time than myself, and not being able to get to the bottom of what I was about⁠⸺⁠I had turn’d back with them⁠⸺⁠

The third, was an affair of trade with a gossip, for a hand-basket of Provence figs for four sous; this would have been transacted at once; but for a case of conscience at the close of it; for when the figs were paid for, it turn’d out, that there were two dozen of eggs cover’d over with vine-leaves at the bottom of the basket⁠—as I had no intention of buying eggs⁠—I made no sort of claim of them⁠—as for the space they had occupied⁠—what signified it? I had figs enow for my money⁠⸺⁠

—But it was my intention to have the basket⁠—it was the gossip’s intention to keep it, without which, she could do nothing with her eggs⁠⸺⁠and unless I had the basket, I could do as little with my figs, which were too ripe already, and most of ’em burst at the side: this brought on a short contention, which terminated in sundry proposals, what we should both do⁠⸺⁠

⸺⁠How we disposed of our eggs and figs, I defy you, or the Devil himself, had he not been there (which I am persuaded he was), to form the least probable conjecture: You will read the whole of it⁠⸻not this year, for I am hastening to the story of my uncle Toby’s amours⁠—but you will read it in the collection of those which have arose out of the journey across this plain⁠—and which, therefore, I call my

plain stories.

How far my pen has been fatigued, like those of other travellers, in this journey of it, over so barren a track⁠—the world must judge⁠—but the traces of it, which are now all set o’ vibrating together this moment, tell me ’tis the most fruitful and busy period of my life; for as I had made no convention with my man with the gun, as to time⁠—by stopping and talking to every soul I met, who was not in a full trot⁠—joining all parties before me⁠—waiting for every soul behind⁠—hailing all those who were coming through crossroads⁠—arresting all kinds of beggars, pilgrims, fiddlers, friars⁠⸺⁠not passing by a woman in a mulberry-tree without commending her legs, and tempting her into conversation with a pinch of snuff⁠⸻In short, by seizing every handle, of what size or shape soever, which chance held out to me in this journey⁠—I turned my plain into a city⁠—I was always in company, and with great variety too; and as my mule loved society as much as myself, and had some proposals always on his part to offer to every beast he met⁠—I am confident we could have passed through Pall-Mall, or St. James’s-Street for a month together, with fewer adventures⁠—and seen less of human nature.

O! there is that sprightly frankness, which at once unpins every plait of a Languedocian’s dress⁠—that whatever is beneath it, it looks so like the simplicity which poets sing of in better days⁠—I will delude my fancy, and believe it is so.

’Twas in the road betwixt Nismes and Lunel, where there is the best Muscatto wine in all France, and which by the by belongs to the honest canons of Montpellier⁠—and foul befal the man who has drank it at their table, who grudges them a drop of it.

⸺⁠The sun was set⁠—they had done their work; the nymphs had tied up their hair afresh⁠—and the swains were preparing for a carousal⁠⸺⁠my mule made a dead point⁠⸺’Tis the fife and tabourin, said I⁠⸺⁠I’m frighten’d to death, quoth he⁠⸺⁠They are running at the ring of pleasure, said I, giving