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

of asses could have carried⁠⸺⁠there is not one that has more intricacies in it than this⁠—that from the very moment the mistress of the house is brought to bed, every female in it, from my lady’s gentlewoman down to the cinder-wench, becomes an inch taller for it; and give themselves more airs upon that single inch, than all their other inches put together.

I think rather, replied my uncle Toby, that ’tis we who sink an inch lower.⁠—If I meet but a woman with child⁠—I do it.⁠—’Tis a heavy tax upon that half of our fellow-creatures, brother Shandy, said my uncle Toby⁠—’Tis a piteous burden upon ’em, continued he, shaking his head⁠—Yes, yes, ’tis a painful thing⁠—said my father, shaking his head too⁠⸺⁠but certainly since shaking of heads came into fashion, never did two heads shake together, in concert, from two such different springs.

God bless Deuce take } ’em all⁠⸻said my uncle Toby and my father, each to himself.

XIII

Holla!⁠⸺⁠you, chairman!⁠⸺⁠here’s sixpence⁠⸺⁠do step into that bookseller’s shop, and call me a day-tall critick. I am very willing to give any one of ’em a crown to help me with his tackling, to get my father and my uncle Toby off the stairs, and to put them to bed.

—’Tis even high time; for except a short nap, which they both got whilst Trim was boring the jackboots⁠—and which, by the by, did my father no sort of good, upon the score of the bad hinge⁠—they have not else shut their eyes, since nine hours before the time that Dr. Slop was led into the back parlour in that dirty pickle by Obadiah.

Was every day of my life to be as busy a day as this⁠—and to take up⁠—Truce.

I will not finish that sentence till I have made an observation upon the strange state of affairs between the reader and myself, just as things stand at present⁠—an observation never applicable before to any one biographical writer since the creation of the world, but to myself⁠—and I believe, will never hold good to any other, until its final destruction⁠—and therefore, for the very novelty of it alone, it must be worth your worships attending to.

I am this month one whole year older than I was this time twelvemonth; and having got, as you perceive, almost into the middle of my fourth volume⁠—and no farther than to my first day’s life⁠—’tis demonstrative that I have three hundred and sixty-four days more life to write just now, than when I first set out; so that instead of advancing, as a common writer, in my work with what I have been doing at it⁠—on the contrary, I am just thrown so many volumes back⁠—was every day of my life to be as busy a day as this⁠—And why not?⁠⸺⁠and the transactions and opinions of it to take up as much description⁠—And for what reason should they be cut short? as at this rate I should just live 364 times faster than I should write⁠—It must follow, an’ please your worships, that the more I write, the more I shall have to write⁠—and consequently, the more your worships read, the more your worships will have to read.

Will this be good for your worships’ eyes?

It will do well for mine; and, was it not that my Opinions will be the death of me, I perceive I shall lead a fine life of it out of this selfsame life of mine; or, in other words, shall lead a couple of fine lives together.

As for the proposal of twelve volumes a year, or a volume a month, it no way alters my prospect⁠—write as I will, and rush as I may into the middle of things, as Horace advises⁠—I shall never overtake myself whipp’d and driven to the last pinch; at the worst I shall have one day the start of my pen⁠—and one day is enough for two volumes⁠⸺⁠and two volumes will be enough for one year.⁠—

Heaven prosper the manufacturers of paper under this propitious reign, which is now opened to us⁠⸺⁠as I trust its providence will prosper everything else in it that is taken in hand.⁠⸺⁠

As for the propagation of Geese⁠—I give myself no concern⁠—Nature is all bountiful⁠—I shall never want tools to work with.

—So then, friend! you have got my father and my uncle Toby off the stairs, and seen them to bed?⁠⸻And how did you manage it?⁠⸺⁠You dropp’d a curtain at the stair-foot⁠—I thought you had no other way for it⁠⸻Here’s a crown for your trouble.

XIV

—Then reach me my breeches off the chair, said my father to Susannah.⁠⸺⁠There is not a moment’s time to dress you, Sir, cried Susannah⁠—the child is as black in the face as my⁠⸺⁠As your what? said my father, for like all orators, he was a dear searcher into comparisons.⁠—Bless me, Sir, said Susannah, the child’s in a fit.⁠—And where’s Mr. Yorick?⁠—Never where he should be, said Susannah, but his curate’s in the dressing-room, with the child upon his arm, waiting for the name⁠—and my mistress bid me run as fast as I could to know, as captain Shandy is the godfather, whether it should not be called after him.

Were one sure, said my father to himself, scratching his eyebrow, that the child was expiring, one might as well compliment my brother Toby as not⁠—and it would be a pity, in such a case, to throw away so great a name as Trismegistus upon him⁠⸺⁠but he may recover.

No, no,⁠⸺⁠said my father to Susannah, I’ll get up⁠⸻There is no time, cried Susannah, the child’s as black as my shoe. Trismegistus, said my father⁠⸻But stay⁠—thou art a leaky vessel, Susannah, added my father; canst thou carry Trismegistus in thy head, the length of the gallery without scattering?⁠⸻Can I? cried Susannah, shutting the door in a huff.⁠⸺⁠If she can, I’ll be shot, said my father, bouncing out of bed in the dark, and groping for his breeches.

Susannah ran with all speed along the gallery.

My father made all possible speed to find his breeches.

Susannah got the start, and kept it⁠—’Tis Tris⁠—something, cried Susannah⁠—There