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

is no christian-name in the world, said the curate, beginning with Tris⁠—but Tristram. Then ’tis Tristram-gistus, quoth Susannah.

⸺⁠There is no gistus to it, noodle!⁠—’tis my own name, replied the curate, dipping his hand, as he spoke, into the bason⁠—Tristram! said he, etc. etc. etc. etc., so Tristram was I called, and Tristram shall I be to the day of my death.

My father followed Susannah, with his nightgown across his arm, with nothing more than his breeches on, fastened through haste with but a single button, and that button through haste thrust only half into the buttonhole.

⸺⁠She has not forgot the name? cried my father, half opening the door.⁠⸺⁠No, no, said the curate, with a tone of intelligence.⁠⸺⁠And the child is better, cried Susannah.⁠⸺⁠And how does your mistress? As well, said Susannah, as can be expected.⁠—Pish! said my father, the button of his breeches slipping out of the buttonhole⁠—So that whether the interjection was levelled at Susannah, or the buttonhole⁠—whether Pish was an interjection of contempt or an interjection of modesty, is a doubt, and must be a doubt till I shall have time to write the three following favourite chapters, that is, my chapter of chambermaids, my chapter of pishes, and my chapter of buttonholes.

All the light I am able to give the reader at present is this, that the moment my father cried Pish! he whisk’d himself about⁠—and with his breeches held up by one hand, and his nightgown thrown across the arm of the other, he turned along the gallery to bed, something slower than he came.

XV

I wish I could write a chapter upon sleep.

A fitter occasion could never have presented itself, than what this moment offers, when all the curtains of the family are drawn⁠—the candles put out⁠—and no creature’s eyes are open but a single one, for the other has been shut these twenty years, of my mother’s nurse.

It is a fine subject!

And yet, as fine as it is, I would undertake to write a dozen chapters upon buttonholes, both quicker and with more fame, than a single chapter upon this.

Buttonholes! there is something lively in the very idea of ’em⁠⸺⁠and trust me, when I get amongst ’em⁠⸺⁠You gentry with great beards⁠⸺⁠look as grave as you will⁠⸻I’ll make merry work with my buttonholes⁠—I shall have ’em all to myself⁠—’tis a maiden subject⁠—I shall run foul of no man’s wisdom or fine sayings in it.

But for sleep⁠⸺⁠I know I shall make nothing of it before I begin⁠—I am no dab at your fine sayings in the first place⁠—and in the next, I cannot for my soul set a grave face upon a bad matter, and tell the world⁠—’tis the refuge of the unfortunate⁠—the enfranchisement of the prisoner⁠—the downy lap of the hopeless, the weary, and the brokenhearted; nor could I set out with a lye in my mouth, by affirming, that of all the soft and delicious functions of our nature, by which the great Author of it, in his bounty, has been pleased to recompense the sufferings wherewith his justice and his good pleasure has wearied us⁠⸺⁠that this is the chiefest (I know pleasures worth ten of it); or what a happiness it is to man, when the anxieties and passions of the day are over, and he lies down upon his back, that his soul shall be so seated within him, that whichever way she turns her eyes, the heavens shall look calm and sweet above her⁠—no desire⁠—or fear⁠—or doubt that troubles the air, nor any difficulty past, present, or to come, that the imagination may not pass over without offence, in that sweet secession.

“God’s blessing,” said Sancho Pança, “be upon the man who first invented this selfsame thing called sleep⁠—it covers a man all over like a cloak.” Now there is more to me in this, and it speaks warmer to my heart and affections, than all the dissertations squeez’d out of the heads of the learned together upon the subject.

—Not that I altogether disapprove of what Montaigne advances upon it⁠—’tis admirable in its way⁠—(I quote by memory).

The world enjoys other pleasures, says he, as they do that of sleep, without tasting or feeling it as it slips and passes by.⁠—We should study and ruminate upon it, in order to render proper thanks to him who grants it to us.⁠—For this end I cause myself to be disturbed in my sleep, that I may the better and more sensibly relish it.⁠⸺⁠And yet I see few, says he again, who live with less sleep, when need requires; my body is capable of a firm, but not of a violent and sudden agitation⁠—I evade of late all violent exercises⁠⸺⁠I am never weary with walking⁠⸺⁠but from my youth, I never liked to ride upon pavements. I love to lie hard and alone, and even without my wife⁠⸺⁠This last word may stagger the faith of the world⁠⸺⁠but remember, “La Vraisemblance (as Bayle says in the affair of Liceti) n’est pas toujours du Côté de la Verité.” And so much for sleep.

XVI

If my wife will but venture him⁠—brother Toby, Trismegistus shall be dress’d and brought down to us, whilst you and I are getting our breakfasts together.⁠⸻

⸺⁠Go, tell Susannah, Obadiah, to step here.

She is run upstairs, answered Obadiah, this very instant, sobbing and crying, and wringing her hands as if her heart would break.

We shall have a rare month of it, said my father, turning his head from Obadiah, and looking wistfully in my uncle Toby’s face for some time⁠—we shall have a devilish month of it, brother Toby, said my father, setting his arms akimbo, and shaking his head; fire, water, women, wind⁠—brother Toby!⁠—’Tis some misfortune, quoth my uncle Toby.⁠⸺⁠That it is, cried my father⁠—to have so many jarring elements breaking loose, and riding triumph in every corner of a gentleman’s house⁠—Little boots it to the peace of a family, brother Toby, that you and I possess ourselves, and sit here silent and unmoved⁠⸺⁠whilst such a storm is whistling over our heads.⁠⸻

And what’s the matter, Susannah? They have called