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

It is well worth it, gentle stranger, replied the centinel.

⸺’Tis not worth a single stiver, said the bandy-legg’d drummer⁠⸺’tis a nose of parchment.

As I am a true catholic⁠—except that it is six times as big⁠—’tis a nose, said the centinel, like my own.

—I heard it crackle, said the drummer.

By dunder, said the centinel, I saw it bleed.

What a pity, cried the bandy-legg’d drummer, we did not both touch it!

At the very time that this dispute was maintaining by the centinel and the drummer⁠—was the same point debating betwixt a trumpeter and a trumpeter’s wife, who were just then coming up, and had stopped to see the stranger pass by.

Benedicity!⁠⸻What a nose! ’tis as long, said the trumpeter’s wife, as a trumpet.

And of the same metal, said the trumpeter, as you hear by its sneezing.

’Tis as soft as a flute, said she.

—’Tis brass, said the trumpeter.

—’Tis a pudding’s end, said his wife.

I tell thee again, said the trumpeter, ’tis a brazen nose.

I’ll know the bottom of it, said the trumpeter’s wife, for I will touch it with my finger before I sleep.

The stranger’s mule moved on at so slow a rate, that he heard every word of the dispute, not only betwixt the centinel and the drummer, but betwixt the trumpeter and trumpeter’s wife.

No! said he, dropping his reins upon his mule’s neck, and laying both his hands upon his breast, the one over the other, in a saintlike position (his mule going on easily all the time) No! said he, looking up⁠—I am not such a debtor to the world⁠⸺⁠slandered and disappointed as I have been⁠—as to give it that conviction⁠⸺⁠no! said he, my nose shall never be touched whilst Heaven gives me strength⁠⸺⁠To do what? said a burgomaster’s wife.

The stranger took no notice of the burgomaster’s wife⁠⸻he was making a vow to Saint Nicolas; which done, having uncrossed his arms with the same solemnity with which he crossed them, he took up the reins of his bridle with his left hand, and putting his right hand into his bosom, with his scymetar hanging loosely to the wrist of it, he rode on, as slowly as one foot of the mule could follow another, thro’ the principal streets of Strasburg, till chance brought him to the great inn in the marketplace over against the church.

The moment the stranger alighted, he ordered his mule to be led into the stable, and his cloak-bag to be brought in; then opening, and taking out of it his crimson-sattin breeches, with a silver-fringed⁠—(appendage to them, which I dare not translate)⁠—he put his breeches, with his fringed codpiece on, and forthwith, with his short scymetar in his hand, walked out on to the grand parade.

The stranger had just taken three turns upon the parade, when he perceived the trumpeter’s wife at the opposite side of it⁠—so turning short, in pain lest his nose should be attempted, he instantly went back to his inn⁠—undressed himself, packed up his crimson-sattin breeches, etc., in his cloak-bag, and called for his mule.

I am going forwards, said the stranger, for Frankfort⁠⸺⁠and shall be back at Strasburg this day month.

I hope, continued the stranger, stroking down the face of his mule with his left hand as he was going to mount it, that you have been kind to this faithful slave of mine⁠—it has carried me and my cloak-bag, continued he, tapping the mule’s back, above six hundred leagues.

⸺’Tis a long journey, Sir, replied the master of the inn⁠⸺⁠unless a man has great business.⁠⸺⁠Tut! tut! said the stranger, I have been at the Promontory of Noses; and have got me one of the goodliest, thank Heaven, that ever fell to a single man’s lot.

Whilst the stranger was giving this odd account of himself, the master of the inn and his wife kept both their eyes fixed full upon the stranger’s nose⁠⸺⁠By saint Radagunda, said the innkeeper’s wife to herself, there is more of it than in any dozen of the largest noses put together in all Strasburg! is it not, said she, whispering her husband in his ear, is it not a noble nose?

’Tis an imposture, my dear, said the master of the inn⁠⸺’tis a false nose.

’Tis a true nose, said his wife.

’Tis made of fir-tree, said he, I smell the turpentine.⁠⸻

There’s a pimple on it, said she.

’Tis a dead nose, replied the innkeeper.

’Tis a live nose, and if I am alive myself, said the innkeeper’s wife, I will touch it.

I have made a vow to saint Nicolas this day, said the stranger, that my nose shall not be touched till⁠—Here the stranger, suspending his voice, looked up.⁠⸻Till when? said she hastily.

It never shall be touched, said he, clasping his hands and bringing them close to his breast, till that hour⁠—What hour? cried the innkeeper’s wife.⁠—Never!⁠—never! said the stranger, never till I am got⁠—For Heaven’s sake, into what place? said she⁠⸻The stranger rode away without saying a word.

The stranger had not got half a league on his way towards Frankfort before all the city of Strasburg was in an uproar about his nose. The Compline bells were just ringing to call the Strasburgers to their devotions, and shut up the duties of the day in prayer:⁠—no soul in all Strasburg heard ’em⁠—the city was like a swarm of bees⁠⸻men, women, and children (the Compline bells tinkling all the time) flying here and there⁠—in at one door, out at another⁠⸺⁠this way and that way⁠—long ways and cross ways⁠—up one street, down another street⁠⸺⁠in at this alley, out of that⁠⸻did you see it? did you see it? did you see it? O! did you see it?⁠⸻who saw it? who did see it? for mercy’s sake, who saw it?

Alack o’day! I was at vespers!⁠—I was washing, I was starching, I was scouring, I was quilting⁠⸺⁠God help me! I never saw it⁠⸺⁠I never touch’d it!⁠⸺⁠would I had been a centinel, a bandy-legg’d drummer, a trumpeter, a trumpeter’s wife, was the general cry and lamentation in every street and corner of Strasburg.

Whilst all this confusion and disorder triumphed throughout the great