Tristram Shandy ts-4

by Laurence Sterne

  I understand thee perfectly, answered I—If thou takest a wrong step in this affair, he will cudgel thee to death—Well! a minute is but a minute, and if it saves a fellow-creature a drubbing, it shall not be set down as ill-spent.

  He was eating the stem of an artichoke as this discourse went on, and in the little peevish contentions of nature betwixt hunger and unsavouriness, had dropt it out of his mouth half a dozen times, and pick'd it up again—God help thee, Jack! said I, thou hast a bitter breakfast on't—and many a bitter day's labour,—and many a bitter blow, I fear, for its wages—'tis all—all bitterness to thee, whatever life is to others.—And now thy mouth, if one knew the truth of it, is as bitter, I dare say, as soot—(for he had cast aside the stem) and thou hast not a friend perhaps in all this world, that will give thee a macaroon.—In saying this, I pull'd out a paper of 'em, which I had just purchased, and gave him one—and at this moment that I am telling it, my heart smites me, that there was more of pleasantry in the conceit, of seeing how an ass would eat a macaroon—than of benevolence in giving him one, which presided in the act.

  When the ass had eaten his macaroon, I press'd him to come in—the poor beast was heavy loaded—his legs seem'd to tremble under him—he hung rather backwards, and as I pull'd at his halter, it broke short in my hand—he look'd up pensive in my face—'Don't thrash me with it—but if you will, you may'—If I do, said I, I'll be d....d.

  The word was but one-half of it pronounced, like the abbess of Andouillet's—(so there was no sin in it)—when a person coming in, let fall a thundering bastinado upon the poor devil's crupper, which put an end to the ceremony.

  Out upon it! cried I—but the interjection was equivocal—and, I think, wrong placed too—for the end of an osier which had started out from the contexture of the ass's panier, had caught hold of my breeches pocket, as he rush'd by me, and rent it in the most disastrous direction you can imagine—so that the

  Out upon it! in my opinion, should have come in here—but this I leave to be settled by

  The Reviewers of My Breeches,

  which I have brought over along with me for that purpose.

  Chapter 4.XIV.

  When all was set to rights, I came down stairs again into the basse cour with my valet de place, in order to sally out towards the tomb of the two lovers, &c.—and was a second time stopp'd at the gate—not by the ass—but by the person who struck him; and who, by that time, had taken possession (as is not uncommon after a defeat) of the very spot of ground where the ass stood.

  It was a commissary sent to me from the post-office, with a rescript in his hand for the payment of some six livres odd sous.

  Upon what account? said I.—'Tis upon the part of the king, replied the commissary, heaving up both his shoulders—

  —My good friend, quoth I—as sure as I am I—and you are you—

  —And who are you? said he.—Don't puzzle me; said I.

  Chapter 4.XV.

  —But it is an indubitable verity, continued I, addressing myself to the commissary, changing only the form of my asseveration—that I owe the king of France nothing but my good will; for he is a very honest man, and I wish him all health and pastime in the world—

  Pardonnez moi—replied the commissary, you are indebted to him six livres four sous, for the next post from hence to St. Fons, in your route to Avignon—which being a post royal, you pay double for the horses and postillion—otherwise 'twould have amounted to no more than three livres two sous—

  —But I don't go by land; said I.

  —You may if you please; replied the commissary—

  Your most obedient servant—said I, making him a low bow—

  The commissary, with all the sincerity of grave good breeding—made me one, as low again.—I never was more disconcerted with a bow in my life.

  —The devil take the serious character of these people! quoth I—(aside) they understand no more of Irony than this—

  The comparison was standing close by with his panniers—but something seal'd up my lips—I could not pronounce the name—

  Sir, said I, collecting myself—it is not my intention to take post—

  —But you may—said he, persisting in his first reply—you may take post if you chuse—

  —And I may take salt to my pickled herring, said I, if I chuse—

  —But I do not chuse—

  —But you must pay for it, whether you do or no.

  Aye! for the salt; said I (I know)—

  —And for the post too; added he. Defend me! cried I—

  I travel by water—I am going down the Rhone this very afternoon—my baggage is in the boat—and I have actually paid nine livres for my passage—

  C'est tout egal—'tis all one; said he.

  Bon Dieu! what, pay for the way I go! and for the way I do not go!

  —C'est tout egal; replied the commissary—

  —The devil it is! said I—but I will go to ten thousand Bastiles first—

  O England! England! thou land of liberty, and climate of good sense, thou tenderest of mothers—and gentlest of nurses, cried I, kneeling upon one knee, as I was beginning my apostrophe.

  When the director of Madam Le Blanc's conscience coming in at that instant, and seeing a person in black, with a face as pale as ashes, at his devotions—looking still paler by the contrast and distress of his drapery—ask'd, if I stood in want of the aids of the church—

  I go by Water—said I—and here's another will be for making me pay for going by Oil.

  Chapter 4.XVI.

  As I perceived the commissary of the post-office would have his six livres four sous, I had nothing else for it, but to say some smart thing upon the occasion, worth the money:

  And so I set off thus:—

  —And pray, Mr. Commissary, by what law of courtesy is a defenceless stranger to be used just the reverse from what you use a Frenchman in this matter?

  By no means; said he.

  Excuse me; said I—for you have begun, Sir, with first tearing off my breeches-and now you want my pocket—

  Whereas—had you first taken my pocket, as you do with your own people—and then left me bare a..'d after—I had been a beast to have complain'd—

  As it is—

  —'Tis contrary to the law of nature.

  —'Tis contrary to reason.

  —'Tis contrary to the Gospel.

  But not to this—said he—putting a printed paper into my hand,

  Par le Roy.

  —'Tis a pithy prolegomenon, quoth I—and so read on....

  —By all which it appears, quoth I, having read it over, a little too rapidly, that if a man sets out in a post-chaise from Paris—he must go on travelling in one, all the days of his life—or pay for it.—Excuse me, said the commissary, the spirit of the ordinance is this—That if you set out with an intention of running post from Paris to Avignon, &c. you shall not change that intention or mode of travelling, without first satisfying the fermiers for two posts further than the place you repent at—and 'tis founded, continued he, upon this, that the Revenues are not to fall short through your fickleness—

  —O by heavens! cried I—if fickleness is taxable in France—we have nothing to do but to make the best peace with you we can—

  And So the Peace Was Made;

  —And if it is a bad one—as Tristram Shandy laid the corner-stone of it—nobody but Tristram Shandy ought to be hanged.

  Chapter 4.XVII.

  Though I was sensible I had said as many clever things to the commissary as came to six livres four sous, yet I was determined to note down the imposition amongst my remarks before I retired from the place; so putting my hand into my coat-pocket for my remarks—(which, by the bye, may be a caution to travellers to take a little more care of their remarks for the future) 'my remarks were stolen'—Never did sorry traveller make such a pother and racket about his remarks as I did about mine, upon the occasion.

  Heaven! earth! sea! fire! cried I, calling in every th
ing to my aid but what I should—My remarks are stolen!—what shall I do?—Mr. Commissary! pray did I drop any remarks, as I stood besides you?—

  You dropp'd a good many very singular ones; replied he—Pugh! said I, those were but a few, not worth above six livres two sous—but these are a large parcel—He shook his head—Monsieur Le Blanc! Madam Le Blanc! did you see any papers of mine?—you maid of the house! run up stairs—Francois! run up after her—

  —I must have my remarks—they were the best remarks, cried I, that ever were made—the wisest—the wittiest—What shall I do?—which way shall I turn myself?

  Sancho Panca, when he lost his ass's Furniture, did not exclaim more bitterly.

  Chapter 4.XVIII.

  When the first transport was over, and the registers of the brain were beginning to get a little out of the confusion into which this jumble of cross accidents had cast them—it then presently occurr'd to me, that I had left my remarks in the pocket of the chaise—and that in selling my chaise, I had sold my remarks along with it, to the chaise-vamper. I leave this void space that the reader may swear into it any oath that he is most accustomed to—For my own part, if ever I swore a whole oath into a vacancy in my life, I think it was into that—........., said I—and so my remarks through France, which were as full of wit, as an egg is full of meat, and as well worth four hundred guineas, as the said egg is worth a penny—have I been selling here to a chaise-vamper—for four Louis d'Ors—and giving him a post-chaise (by heaven) worth six into the bargain; had it been to Dodsley, or Becket, or any creditable bookseller, who was either leaving off business, and wanted a post-chaise—or who was beginning it—and wanted my remarks, and two or three guineas along with them—I could have borne it—but to a chaise-vamper!—shew me to him this moment, Francois,—said I—The valet de place put on his hat, and led the way—and I pull'd off mine, as I pass'd the commissary, and followed him.

  Chapter 4.XIX.

  When we arrived at the chaise-vamper's house, both the house and the shop were shut up; it was the eighth of September, the nativity of the blessed Virgin Mary, mother of God—

  —Tantarra-ra-tan-tivi—the whole world was gone out a May-poling—frisking here—capering there—no body cared a button for me or my remarks; so I sat me down upon a bench by the door, philosophating upon my condition: by a better fate than usually attends me, I had not waited half an hour, when the mistress came in to take the papilliotes from off her hair, before she went to the May-poles—

  The French women, by the bye, love May-poles, a la folie—that is, as much as their matins—give 'em but a May-pole, whether in May, June, July or September—they never count the times—down it goes—'tis meat, drink, washing, and lodging to 'em—and had we but the policy, an' please your worships (as wood is a little scarce in France), to send them but plenty of May-poles—

  The women would set them up; and when they had done, they would dance round them (and the men for company) till they were all blind.

  The wife of the chaise-vamper stepp'd in, I told you, to take the papilliotes from off her hair—the toilet stands still for no man—so she jerk'd off her cap, to begin with them as she open'd the door, in doing which, one of them fell upon the ground—I instantly saw it was my own writing—

  O Seigneur! cried I—you have got all my remarks upon your head, Madam!—J'en suis bien mortifiee, said she—'tis well, thinks I, they have stuck there—for could they have gone deeper, they would have made such confusion in a French woman's noddle—She had better have gone with it unfrizled, to the day of eternity.

  Tenez—said she—so without any idea of the nature of my suffering, she took them from her curls, and put them gravely one by one into my hat—one was twisted this way—another twisted that—ey! by my faith; and when they are published, quoth I,—

  They will be worse twisted still.

  Chapter 4.XX.

  And now for Lippius's clock! said I, with the air of a man, who had got thro' all his difficulties—nothing can prevent us seeing that, and the Chinese history, &c. except the time, said Francois—for 'tis almost eleven—then we must speed the faster, said I, striding it away to the cathedral.

  I cannot say, in my heart, that it gave me any concern in being told by one of the minor canons, as I was entering the west door,—That Lippius's great clock was all out of joints, and had not gone for some years—It will give me the more time, thought I, to peruse the Chinese history; and besides I shall be able to give the world a better account of the clock in its decay, than I could have done in its flourishing condition—

  —And so away I posted to the college of the Jesuits.

  Now it is with the project of getting a peep at the history of China in Chinese characters—as with many others I could mention, which strike the fancy only at a distance; for as I came nearer and nearer to the point—my blood cool'd—the freak gradually went off, till at length I would not have given a cherry-stone to have it gratified—The truth was, my time was short, and my heart was at the Tomb of the Lovers—I wish to God, said I, as I got the rapper in my hand, that the key of the library may be but lost; it fell out as well—

  For all the Jesuits had got the cholic—and to that degree, as never was known in the memory of the oldest practitioner.

  Chapter 4.XXI.

  As I knew the geography of the Tomb of the Lovers, as well as if I had lived twenty years in Lyons, namely, that it was upon the turning of my right hand, just without the gate, leading to the Fauxbourg de Vaise—I dispatched Francois to the boat, that I might pay the homage I so long ow'd it, without a witness of my weakness—I walk'd with all imaginable joy towards the place—when I saw the gate which intercepted the tomb, my heart glowed within me—

  —Tender and faithful spirits! cried I, addressing myself to Amandus and Amanda—long—long have I tarried to drop this tear upon your tomb—I come—I come—

  When I came—there was no tomb to drop it upon.

  What would I have given for my uncle Toby, to have whistled Lillo bullero!

  Chapter 4.XXII.

  No matter how, or in what mood—but I flew from the tomb of the lovers—or rather I did not fly from it—(for there was no such thing existing) and just got time enough to the boat to save my passage;—and ere I had sailed a hundred yards, the Rhone and the Saon met together, and carried me down merrily betwixt them.

  But I have described this voyage down the Rhone, before I made it—

  —So now I am at Avignon, and as there is nothing to see but the old house, in which the duke of Ormond resided, and nothing to stop me but a short remark upon the place, in three minutes you will see me crossing the bridge upon a mule, with Francois upon a horse with my portmanteau behind him, and the owner of both, striding the way before us, with a long gun upon his shoulder, and a sword under his arm, lest peradventure we should run away with his cattle. Had you seen my breeches in entering Avignon,—Though you'd have seen them better, I think, as I mounted—you would not have thought the precaution amiss, or found in your heart to have taken it in dudgeon; for my own part, I took it most kindly; and determined to make him a present of them, when we got to the end of our journey, for the trouble they had put him to, of arming himself at all points against them.

  Before I go further, let me get rid of my remark upon Avignon, which is this: That I think it wrong, merely because a man's hat has been blown off his head by chance the first night he comes to Avignon,—that he should therefore say, 'Avignon is more subject to high winds than any town in all France:' for which reason I laid no stress upon the accident till I had enquired of the master of the inn about it, who telling me seriously it was so—and hearing, moreover, the windiness of Avignon spoke of in the country about as a proverb—I set it down, merely to ask the learned what can be the cause—the consequence I saw—for they are all Dukes, Marquisses, and Counts, there—the duce a Baron, in all Avignon—so that there is scarce any talking to them on a windy day.

  Prithee, friend, said I, t
ake hold of my mule for a moment—for I wanted to pull off one of my jack-boots, which hurt my heel—the man was standing quite idle at the door of the inn, and as I had taken it into my head, he was someway concerned about the house or stable, I put the bridle into his hand—so begun with the boot:—when I had finished the affair, I turned about to take the mule from the man, and thank him—

  —But Monsieur le Marquis had walked in—

  Chapter 4.XXIII.

  I had now the whole south of France, from the banks of the Rhone to those of the Garonne, to traverse upon my mule at my own leisure—at my own leisure—for I had left Death, the Lord knows—and He only—how far behind me—'I have followed many a man thro' France, quoth he—but never at this mettlesome rate.'—Still he followed,—and still I fled him—but I fled him cheerfully—still he pursued—but, like one who pursued his prey without hope—as he lagg'd, every step he lost, softened his looks—why should I fly him at this rate?

  So notwithstanding all the commissary of the post-office had said, I changed the mode of my travelling once more; and, after so precipitate and rattling a course as I had run, I flattered my fancy with thinking of my mule, and that I should traverse the rich plains of Languedoc upon his back, as slowly as foot could fall.

  There is nothing more pleasing to a traveller—or more terrible to travel-writers, than a large rich plain; especially if it is without great rivers or bridges; and presents nothing to the eye, but one unvaried picture of plenty: for after they have once told you, that 'tis delicious! or delightful! (as the case happens)—that the soil was grateful, and that nature pours out all her abundance, &c...they have then a large plain upon their hands, which they know not what to do with—and which is of little or no use to them but to carry them to some town; and that town, perhaps of little more, but a new place to start from to the next plain—and so on.