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

True philosophy⁠⸺⁠but there is no treating the subject whilst my uncle is whistling Lillabullero.

⸺⁠Let us go into the house.

⸻* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *⁠⸻

⸺⁠You shall see the very place, Madam; said my uncle Toby.

Mrs. Wadman blush’d⁠⸺⁠look’d towards the door⁠⸺⁠turn’d pale⁠⸺⁠blush’d slightly again⁠⸺⁠recover’d her natural colour⁠⸺⁠blush’d worse than ever; which, for the sake of the unlearned reader, I translate thus⁠⸺⁠

“L⁠⸺⁠d! I cannot look at it⁠⸺⁠
What would the world say if I look’d at it?
I should drop down, if I look’d at it⁠—
I wish I could look at it⁠⸺⁠
There can be no sin in looking at it.
⸺⁠I will look at it.”

Whilst all this was running through Mrs. Wadman’s imagination, my uncle Toby had risen from the sofa, and got to the other side of the parlour door, to give Trim an order about it in the passage⁠⸺⁠

* * * * * * * * * * *⁠⸺⁠I believe it is in the garret, said my uncle Toby⁠⸺⁠I saw it there, an’ please your honour, this morning, answered Trim⁠⸺⁠Then prithee, step directly for it, Trim, said my uncle Toby, and bring it into the parlour.

The corporal did not approve of the orders, but most chearfully obeyed them. The first was not an act of his will⁠—the second was; so he put on his Montero-cap, and went as fast as his lame knee would let him. My uncle Toby returned into the parlour, and sat himself down again upon the sofa.

⸺⁠You shall lay your finger upon the place⁠—said my uncle Toby.⁠⸺⁠I will not touch it, however, quoth Mrs. Wadman to herself.

This requires a second translation:⁠—it shows what little knowledge is got by mere words⁠—we must go up to the first springs.

Now in order to clear up the mist which hangs upon these three pages, I must endeavour to be as clear as possible myself.

Rub your hands thrice across your foreheads⁠—blow your noses⁠—cleanse your emunctories⁠—sneeze, my good people!⁠⸺⁠God bless you⁠⸺⁠

Now give me all the help you can.

As there are fifty different ends (counting all ends in⁠⸺⁠as well civil as religious) for which a woman takes a husband, she first sets about and carefully weighs, then separates and distinguishes in her mind, which of all that number of ends is hers: then by discourse, enquiry, argumentation, and inference, she investigates and finds out whether she has got hold of the right one⁠⸺⁠and if she has⁠⸺⁠then, by pulling it gently this way and that way, she further forms a judgment, whether it will not break in the drawing.

The imagery under which Slawkenbergius impresses this upon the reader’s fancy, in the beginning of his third Decad, is so ludicrous, that the honour I bear the sex, will not suffer me to quote it⁠⸺⁠otherwise it is not destitute of humour.

“She first, saith Slawkenbergius, stops the asse, and holding his halter in her left hand (lest he should get away) she thrusts her right hand into the very bottom of his pannier to search for it⁠—For what?⁠—you’ll not know the sooner, quoth Slawkenbergius, for interrupting me⁠⸺⁠

“I have nothing, good Lady, but empty bottles;” says the asse.

“I’m loaded with tripes;” says the second.

⸺⁠And thou art little better, quoth she to the third; for nothing is there in thy panniers but trunk-hose and pantofles⁠—and so to the fourth and fifth, going on one by one through the whole string, till coming to the asse which carries it, she turns the pannier upside down, looks at it⁠—considers it⁠—samples it⁠—measures it⁠—stretches it⁠—wets it⁠—dries it⁠—then takes her teeth both to the warp and weft of it.

⸺⁠Of what? for the love of Christ!

I am determined, answered Slawkenbergius, that all the powers upon earth shall never wring that secret from my breast.

We live in a world beset on all sides with mysteries and riddles⁠—and so ’tis no matter⁠⸺⁠else it seems strange, that Nature, who makes everything so well to answer its destination, and seldom or never errs, unless for pastime, in giving such forms and aptitudes to whatever passes through her hands, that whether she designs for the plough, the caravan, the cart⁠—or whatever other creature she models, be it but an asse’s foal, you are sure to have the thing you wanted; and yet at the same time should so eternally bungle it as she does, in making so simple a thing as a married man.

Whether it is in the choice of the clay⁠⸺⁠or that it is frequently spoiled in the baking; by an excess of which a husband may turn out too crusty (you know) on one hand⁠⸺⁠or not enough so, through defect of heat, on the other⁠⸺⁠or whether this great Artificer is not so attentive to the little Platonic exigences of that part of the species, for whose use she is fabricating this⁠⸺⁠or that her Ladyship sometimes scarce knows what sort of a husband will do⁠⸺⁠I know not: we will discourse about it after supper.

It is enough, that neither the observation itself, or the reasoning upon it, are at all to the purpose⁠⸺⁠but rather against it; since with regard to my uncle Toby’s fitness for the marriage state, nothing was ever better: she had formed him of the best and kindliest clay⁠⸺⁠had temper’d it with her own milk, and breathed into it the sweetest spirit⁠⸺⁠she had made him all gentle, generous, and humane⁠⸺⁠she had filled his heart with trust and confidence, and disposed every passage which led to it, for the communication of the tenderest offices⁠⸺⁠she had moreover considered the other causes for which matrimony was ordained⁠⸺⁠

And accordingly * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The donation was not defeated by my uncle Toby’s wound.

Now this last article was somewhat apocryphal; and the Devil, who is the great disturber of our