Complete Works of Laurence Sterne

by Laurence Sterne

  T. SHANDY, VOL. IV. C. 83.

  MARIA.

  MOULINES.

  I NEVER felt what the distress of plenty was in any one shape till now — to travel it through the Bourbonnois, the sweetest part of France — in the hey-day of the vintage, when Nature is pouring her abundance into every one’s lap, and every eye is lifted up — a journey through each step of which music beats time to Labour, and all her children are rejoicing as they carry in their clusters — to pass through this with my affections flying out, and kindling at every group before me — and every one of them was pregnant with adventures.

  Just heaven! — it would fill up twenty volumes — and alas! I have but a few small pages left of this to crowd it into — and half of these must be taken up with the poor Maria my friend Mr. Shandy met with near Moulines.

  The story he had told of that disordered maid affected me not a little in the reading; but when I got within the neighbourhood where she lived, it returned so strong into my mind, that I could not resist an impulse which prompted me to go half a league out of the road, to the village where her parents dwelt, to enquire after her.

  ’Tis going, I own, like the knight of the Woeful Countenance, in quest of melancholy adventures — but I know not how it is, but I am never so perfectly conscious of the existence of a soul within me, as when I am entangled in them.

  The old mother came to the door, her looks told me the story before she opened her mouth — She had lost her husband: he had died, she said, of anguish, for the loss of Maria’s senses, about a month before — She had feared at first, she added, that it would have plundered her poor girl of what little understanding was left — but, on the contrary, it had brought her more to herself — still she could not rest — her poor daughter, she said, crying, was wandering somewhere about the road —

  — Why does my pulse beat languid as I write this? and what made La Fleur, whose heart seemed only to be tun’d to joy, to pass the back of his hand twice across his eyes, as the woman stood and told it? I beckoned to the postillion to turn back into the road.

  When we had got within half a league of Moulines, at a little opening in the road leading to a thicket, I discovered poor Maria sitting under a poplar — she was sitting with her elbow in her lap, and her head leaning on one side within her hand — a small brook ran at the foot of the tree.

  I bid the postillion go on with the chaise to Moulines — and La Fleur to bespeak my supper — and that I would walk after him.

  She was dressed in white, and much as my friend described her, except that her hair hung loose, which before was twisted within a silk-net. — She had, superadded likewise to her jacket, a pale green riband, which fell across her shoulder to the waist; at the end of which hung her pipe. — Her goat had been as faithless as her lover; and she had got a little dog in lieu of him, which she had kept tied by a string to her girdle; as I looked at her dog, she drew him towards her with the string— “Thou shalt not leave me, Sylvio,” said she. I looked in Maria’s eyes, and saw she was thinking more of her father than of her lover or her little goat; for as she uttered them the tears trickled down her cheeks.

  I sat down close by her; and Maria let me wipe them away as they fell, with my handkerchief. — I then steep’d it in my own — and then in hers — and then in mine — and then I wip’d hers again — and as I did it, I selt such undescribable emotions within me, as I am sure could not be accounted for from any combinations of matter and motion.

  I am positive I have a soul; nor can all the books with which materialists have pestered the world ever convince me to the contrary.

  When Maria had come a little to herself, I asked her if she remembered a pale thin person of a man who had sat down betwixt her and her goat about two years before? She said, she was unsettled much at that time, but remembered it upon two accounts — that ill as she was, she saw the person pitied her; and next, that her goat had stolen his handkerchief, and she had beat him for the theft — she had wash’d it, she said, in the brook, and kept it ever since in her pocket to restore it to him in case she should ever see him again, which, she added, he had half promised her. As she told me this, she took the handkerchief out of her pocket to let me see it; she had folded it up neatly in a couple of vine leaves, tied round with a tendril — on opening it, I saw an S mark’d in one of the corners.

  She had since that, she told me, stray’d as far as Rome, and walk’d round St. Peter’s once — and return’d back — that she found her way alone across the Apennines — had travell’d over all Lombardy without money — and through the flinty roads of Savoy without shoes — how she had borne it, and how she had got supported, she could not tell — but God tempers the wind, said Maria, to the shorn lamb.

  Shorn indeed! and to the quick, said I; and wast thou in my own land, where I have a cottage, I would take thee to it and shelter thee: thou shouldst eat of my own bread, and drink of my own cup — I would be kind to thy Sylvio — in all thy weaknesses and wanderings I would seek after thee and bring thee back — when the sun went down I would say my prayers; and when I had done thou shouldst play thy evening song upon thy pipe, nor would the incense of my sacrifice be worse accepted for entering heaven along with that of a broken heart.

  Nature melted within me, as I utter’d this; and Maria observing, as I took out my handkerchief, that it was steep’d too much already to be of use, would needs go wash it in the stream — and where will you dry it, Maria? said I — I will dry it in my bosom, said she— ‘twill do me good.

  And is your heart still so warm, Maria? said I.

  I touch’d upon the string on which hung all her sorrows — she look’d with wistful disorder for sometime in my face; and then, without saying any thing, took her pipe, and play’d her service to the Virgin — The string I had touch’d ceased to vibrate — in a moment or two Maria returned to herself — let her pipe fall — and rose up.

  And where are you going, Maria? said I. — She said, to Moulines. — Let us go, said I, together. — Maria put her arm within mine, and lengthening the string, to let the dog follow — in that order we entered Moulines.

  Though I hate salutations and greetings in the market-place, yet when we got into the middle of this, I stopp’d to take my last look and last farewell of Maria.

  Maria, though not tall, was nevertheless of the first order of fine forms — affliction had touch’d her looks with something that was scarce earthly — still she was feminine — and so much was there about her of all that the heart wishes, or the eye looks for in woman, that could the traces be ever worn out of her brain, and those of Eliza’s out of mine, she should not only eat of my bread and drink of my own cup, but Maria should lie in my bosom, and be unto me as a daughter.

  Adieu, poor luckless maiden! — imbibe the oil and wine which the compassion of a stranger, as he journeyeth on his way, now pours into thy wounds — the Being who has twice bruised thee can only bind them up for ever.

  SENT. JOURNEY, PAGE 217.

  SENSIBILITY.

  — DEAR Sensibility! source inexhausted of all that’s precious in our joys, or costly in our sorrows! thou chainest thy martyr down upon his bed of straw — and ’tis thou who lifts him up to HEAVEN — eternal fountain of our feelings! ’tis here I trace thee — and this is thy “divinity which stirs within me” — not, that in some sad and sickening moments, “my soul shrinks back upon herself, and startles at destruction” — mere pomp of words! — but that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself — all comes from thee, great — great SENSORIUM of the world! which vibrates, if a hair of our heads but falls upon the ground, in the remotest desert of thy creation. — Touch’d with thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I languish — hears my tale of symptoms, and blames the weather for the disorder of his nerves. Thou giv’st a portion of it sometimes to the roughest peasant who traverses the bleakest mountains — he finds the lacerated lamb of another’s flock — This moment I beheld him leaning with his head against his crook, with pi
teous inclination looking down upon it! — Oh! had I come one moment sooner! — it bleeds to death — his gentle heart bleeds with it —

  Peace to thee, generous swain! — I see thou walkest off with anguish — but thy joys shall balance it — for happy is thy cottage — and happy is the sharer of it — and happy are the lambs which sport about you.

  SENT. JOURNEY, P. 226.

  THE SUPPER.

  A SHOE coming loose from the fore-foot of the thill-horse, at the beginning of the ascent of mount Taurira, the postillion dismounted, twisted the shoe off, and put it in his pocket; as the ascent was of five or six miles, and that horse our main dependence, I made a point of having the shoe fasten’d on again, as well as we could; but the postillion had thrown away the nails, and the hammer in the chaisebox, being of no great use without them, I submitted to go on.

  He had not mounted half a mile higher, when coming to a flinty piece of road, the poor devil lost a second shoe, and from off his other fore-foot; I then got out of the chaise in good earnest; and seeing a house about a quarter of a mile to the left-hand, with a great deal to do, I prevailed upon the postillion to turn up to it. The look of the house, and of every thing about it, as we drew nearer, soon reconciled me to the disaster. — It was a little farm-house surrounded with about twenty acres of vineyard, about as much corn — and close to the house, on one side, was a potagerie of an acre and a half full of every thing which could make plenty in a French peasant’s house — and on the other side was a little wood which furnished wherewithal to dress it. It was about eight in the evening when I got to the house — so I left the postillion to manage his point as he could — and for mine, I walk’d directly into the house.

  The family consisted of an old grey-headed man and his wife, with five or six sons and sons-in-law and their several wives, and a joyous genealogy out of them.

  They were all sitting down together to their lentil-soup; a large wheaten loaf was in the middle of the table; and a flaggon of wine at each end of it promised joy thro’ the stages of the repast— ’twas a feast of love.

  The old man rose up to meet me, and with a respectful cordiality would have me sit down at the table; my heart was set down the moment I entered the room; so I sat down at once like a son of the family; and to invest myself in the character as speedily as I could, I instantly borrowed the old man’s knife, and taking up the loaf, cut myself a hearty luncheon; and as I did it, I saw a testimony in every eye, not only of an honest welcome, but of a welcome mix’d with thanks that I had not seem’d to doubt it.

  Was it this; or tell me, Nature, what else it was that made this morsel so sweet — and to what magic I owe it, that the draught I took of their flaggon was so delicious with it, that they remain upon my palate to this hour?

  If the supper was to my taste — the grace which followed it was much more so.

  THE GRACE.

  WHEN supper was over, the old man gave a knock upon the table with the haft of his knife, to bid them prepare for the dance: the moment the signal was given, the women and girls ran all together into the back apartment to tie up their hair — and the young men to the door to wash their faces, and change their sabots; and in three minutes every soul was ready upon a little esplanade before the house to begin — The old man and his wife came out last, and placing me betwixt them, sat down upon a sopha of turf by the door.

  The old man had some fifty years ago been no mean performer upon the vielle — and, at the age he was then of, touched it well enough for the purpose. His wife sung now-and-then a little to the tune — then intermitted — and joined her old man again, as their children and grand-children danced before them.

  It was not till the middle of the second dance, when for some pauses in the movement wherein they all seem’d to look up, I fancied I could distinguish an elevation of spirit different from that which is the cause or the effect of simple jollity. — In a word, I thought I beheld Religion mixing in the dance — but as I had never seen her so engaged, I should have look’d upon it now as one of the illusions of an imagination which is eternally misleading me, had not the old man, as soon as the dance ended, said, that this was their constant way; and that all his life long he made it a rule, after supper was over, to call out his family to dance and rejoice; believing, he said, that a cheerful and contented mind was the best sort of thanks to heaven that an illiterate peasant could pay —

  — Or a learned prelate either, said I.

  SENT. JOURNEY, P. 227.

  COTTAGE HAPPINESS.

  NATURE! in the midst of thy disorders, thou art still friendly to the scantiness thou hast created — with all thy great works about thee, little hast thou left to give, either to the scythe or to the sickle — but to that little thou grantest safety and protection; and sweet are the dwellings which stand so shelter’d.

  SENT. JOURNEY, P. 233.

  ILLUSION.

  SWEET pliability of man’s spirit, that can at once surrender itself to illusions, which cheat expectation and sorrow of their weary moments! — Long — long since had ye number’d out my days, had I not trod so great a part of them upon this enchanted ground; when my way is too rough for my feet, or too steep for my strength, I get off it, to some smooth velvet path which fancy has scattered over with rose-buds of delights; and having taken a few turns in it, come back strengthen’d and refresh’d — When evils press sore upon me, and there is no retreat from them in this world, then I take a new course — I leave it — and as I have a clearer idea of the Elysian fields than I have of heaven, I force myself, like Aeneas, into them — I see him meet the pensive shade of his forsaken Dido — and wish to recognize it — I see the injured spirit wave her head, and turn off silent from the author of her miseries and dishonours — I lose the feelings for myself in her’s — and in those affections which were wont to make me mourn for her when I was at school.

  Surely this is not walking in a vain shadow — nor does man disquiet himself in vain by it — he oftener does so in trusting the issue of his commotions to reason only — I can safely say for myself, I was never able to conquer any one single bad sensation in my heart so decisively, as by beating up as fast as I could for some kindly and gentle sensation to fight it upon its own ground.

  SENT. JOURNEY, P. 165.

  LE DIMANCHE.

  IT was Sunday; and when La Fleur came in the morning, with my coffee and roll and butter, he had got himself so gallantly array’d, I scarce knew him.

  I had covenanted at Montriul to give him a new hat with a silver button and loop, and four Louis d’ors pour s’adoniser, when we got to Paris; and the poor fellow, to do him justice, had done wonders with it.

  He had bought a bright, clean, good scarlet coat, and a pair of breeches of the same — They were not a crown worse, he said, for the wearing — I wish’d him hang’d for telling me — They look’d so fresh, that though I knew the thing could not be done, yet I would rather have imposed upon my fancy with thinking I had bought them new for the fellow, than that they had come out of the Rue de Friperie.

  This is a nicety which makes not the heart sore at Paris.

  He had purchased moreover a handsome blue sattin waistcoat, fancifully enough embroidered — this was indeed something the worse for the service it had done, but ‘t was clean scour’d — the gold had been touch’d up, and upon the whole was rather showy than otherwise — and as the blue was not violent, it suited with the coat and breeches very well: he had squeez’d out of the money, moreover, a new bag and a solitaire; and had insisted with the Fripier, upon a gold pair of garters to his breeches knees — He had purchased muslin ruffles, bien brodées, with four livres of his own money, — and a pair of white silk stockings for five more — and, to top all, nature had given him a handsome figure, without costing him a sous.

  He entered the room thus set off, with his hair drest in the first stile, and with a handsome bouquet in his breast — in a word, there was that look of festivity in every thing about him, which at once put me in min
d it was Sunday — and by combining both together, it instantly struck me, that the favour he wish’d to ask of me the night before, was to spend the day as every body in Paris spent it besides. I had scarce made the conjecture, when LaFleur, with infinite humility, but with a look of trust, as if I should not refuse him, begg’d I would grant him the day, pour faire le galant vis-à-vis de sa maitresse.

  Now it was the very thing I intended to do myself vis-à-vis Madame de R**** — I had retained the remise on purpose for it, and it would not have mortified my vanity to have had a servant so well dress’d as La Fleur was, to have got up behind it: I never could have worse spared him.

  But we must feel, not argue in these embarrassments — the sons and daughters of service part with liberty, but not with Nature, in their contracts; they are flesh and blood, and have their little vanities and wishes in the midst of the house of bondage, as well as their task masters — no doubt, they have set their self-denials at a price — and their expectations are so unreasonable, that I would often disappoint them, but that their condition puts it so much in my power to do it.

  Behold! — Behold, I am thy servant — disarms me at once of the powers of a master. —

  — Thou shalt go, La Fleur! said I.

  — And what mistress, La Fleur, said I, canst thou have pick’d up in so little a time at Paris? La Fleur laid his hand upon his breast, and said ’twas a petite Demoiselle at Monsieur Le Count de B****’s — La Fleur had a heart made for society; and, to speak the truth of him, let as few occasions slip him as his master — so that some how or other; — but how — heaven knows — he had connected himself with the demoiselle upon the landing of the stair-case, during the time I was taken up with my passport; and as there was time enough for me to win the Count to my interest, La Fleur had contrived to make it do to win the maid to his. — The family, it seems, was to be at Paris that day, and he had made a party with her, and two or three more of the Count’s household, upon the boulevards.