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

postillion⁠⸺⁠it is but three years ago, that the sun did not shine upon so fair, so quick-witted and amiable a maid; and better fate did Maria deserve, than to have her Banns forbid, by the intrigues of the curate of the parish who published them⁠⸺⁠

He was going on, when Maria, who had made a short pause, put the pipe to her mouth, and began the air again⁠⸺⁠they were the same notes;⁠⸺⁠yet were ten times sweeter: It is the evening service to the Virgin, said the young man⁠⸺⁠but who has taught her to play it⁠—or how she came by her pipe, no one knows; we think that heaven has assisted her in both; for ever since she has been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only consolation⁠⸺⁠she has never once had the pipe out of her hand, but plays that service upon it almost night and day.

The postillion delivered this with so much discretion and natural eloquence, that I could not help deciphering something in his face above his condition, and should have sifted out his history, had not poor Maria taken such full possession of me.

We had got up by this time almost to the bank where Maria was sitting: she was in a thin white jacket, with her hair, all but two tresses, drawn up into a silk-net, with a few olive leaves twisted a little fantastically on one side⁠⸺⁠she was beautiful; and if ever I felt the full force of an honest heartache, it was the moment I saw her⁠⸺⁠

⸺⁠God help her! poor damsel! above a hundred masses, said the postillion, have been said in the several parish churches and convents around, for her,⁠⸺⁠but without effect; we have still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, that the Virgin at last will restore her to herself; but her parents, who know her best, are hopeless upon that score, and think her senses are lost forever.

As the postillion spoke this, Maria made a cadence so melancholy, so tender and querulous, that I sprung out of the chaise to help her, and found myself sitting betwixt her and her goat before I relapsed from my enthusiasm.

Maria look’d wistfully for some time at me, and then at her goat⁠⸺⁠and then at me⁠⸺⁠and then at her goat again, and so on, alternately⁠⸺⁠

⸺⁠Well, Maria, said I softly⁠⸺⁠What resemblance do you find?

I do entreat the candid reader to believe me, that it was from the humblest conviction of what a Beast man is,⁠⸺⁠that I asked the question; and that I would not have let fallen an unseasonable pleasantry in the venerable presence of Misery, to be entitled to all the wit that ever Rabelais scatter’d⁠⸺⁠and yet I own my heart smote me, and that I so smarted at the very idea of it, that I swore I would set up for Wisdom, and utter grave sentences the rest of my days⁠⸺⁠and never⁠⸺⁠never attempt again to commit mirth with man, woman, or child, the longest day I had to live.

As for writing nonsense to them⁠⸺⁠I believe, there was a reserve⁠—but that I leave to the world.

Adieu, Maria!⁠—adieu, poor hapless damsel!⁠⸺⁠some time, but not now, I may hear thy sorrows from thy own lips⁠⸺⁠but I was deceived; for that moment she took her pipe and told me such a tale of woe with it, that I rose up, and with broken and irregular steps walk’d softly to my chaise.

⸻What an excellent inn at Moulins!

XXV

When we have got to the end of this chapter (but not before) we must all turn back to the two blank chapters, on the account of which my honour has lain bleeding this half hour⁠⸺⁠I stop it, by pulling off one of my yellow slippers and throwing it with all my violence to the opposite side of my room, with a declaration at the heel of it⁠⸺⁠

⸺⁠That whatever resemblance it may bear to half the chapters which are written in the world, or for aught I know may be now writing in it⁠—that it was as casual as the foam of Zeuxis his horse; besides, I look upon a chapter which has only nothing in it, with respect; and considering what worse things there are in the world⁠⸺⁠That it is no way a proper subject for satire⁠⸻

⸺⁠Why then was it left so? And here without staying for my reply, shall I be called as many blockheads, numsculs, doddypoles, dunderheads, ninny-hammers, goosecaps, joltheads, nincompoops, and sh⁠⸺⁠t-a-beds⁠⸺⁠and other unsavoury appellations, as ever the cake-bakers of Lernè cast in the teeth of King Garangantan’s shepherds⁠⸺⁠And I’ll let them do it, as Bridget said, as much as they please; for how was it possible they should foresee the necessity I was under of writing the 25th chapter of my book, before the 18th, etc.?

⸻So I don’t take it amiss⁠⸺⁠All I wish is, that it may be a lesson to the world, “to let people tell their stories their own way.”

The Eighteenth Chapter

As Mrs. Bridget opened the door before the corporal had well given the rap, the interval betwixt that and my uncle Toby’s introduction into the parlour, was so short, that Mrs. Wadman had but just time to get from behind the curtain⁠⸺⁠lay a Bible upon the table, and advance a step or two towards the door to receive him.

My uncle Toby saluted Mrs. Wadman, after the manner in which women were saluted by men in the year of our Lord God one thousand seven hundred and thirteen⁠⸺⁠then facing about, he march’d up abreast with her to the sofa, and in three plain words⁠⸺⁠though not before he was sat down⁠⸺⁠nor after he was sat down⁠⸺⁠but as he was sitting down, told her, “he was in love”⁠⸺⁠so that my uncle Toby strained himself more in the declaration than he needed.

Mrs. Wadman naturally looked down, upon a slit she had been darning up in her apron, in expectation every moment, that my uncle Toby would go on; but having no talents for amplification, and Love moreover of all others being a subject of which he was the