Complete Works of Laurence Sterne

by Laurence Sterne

  I thought by her manner of speaking this, as well as by her dress, which I then began to consider more attentively — that the young woman could not be the daughter of the peasant.

  She was in black down to her toes, with her hair conceal’d under a cambric border, laid close to her forehead: she was one of those kind of nuns, an’ please your honour, of which, your honour knows, there are a good many in Flanders, which they let go loose — By thy description, Trim, said my uncle Toby, I dare say she was a young Beguine, of which there are none to be found anywhere but in the Spanish Netherlands — except at Amsterdam — they differ from nuns in this, that they can quit their cloister if they choose to marry; they visit and take care of the sick by profession — I had rather, for my own part, they did it out of good-nature.

  — She often told me, quoth Trim, she did it for the love of Christ — I did not like it. — I believe, Trim, we are both wrong, said my uncle Toby — we’ll ask Mr. Yorick about it to-night at my brother Shandy’s — so put me in mind; added my uncle Toby.

  The young Beguine, continued the corporal, had scarce given herself time to tell me “she would be my nurse,” when she hastily turned about to begin the office of one, and prepare something for me — and in a short time — though I thought it a long one — she came back with flannels, &c. &c., and having fomented my knee soundly for a couple of hours, &c., and made me a thin bason of gruel for my supper — she wish’d me rest, and promised to be with me early in the morning. — She wished me, an’ please your honour, what was not to be had. My fever ran very high that night — her figure made sad disturbance within me — I was every moment cutting the world in two — to give her half of it — and every moment was I crying, That I had nothing but a knapsack and eighteen florins to share with her — The whole night long was the fair Beguine, like an angel, close by my bedside, holding back the curtain and offering me cordials — and I was only awakened from my dream by her coming there at the hour promised, and giving them in reality. In truth, she was scarce ever from me; and so accustomed was I to receive life from her hands, that my heart sickened, and I lost colour when she left the room: and yet, continued the corporal (making one of the strangest reflections upon it in the world) —

  — “It was not love” — for during the three weeks she was almost constantly with me, fomenting my knee with her hand, night and day — I can honestly say, an’ please your honour — that * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * once.

  That was very odd, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby.

  I think so too — said Mrs. Wadman.

  It never did, said the corporal.

  CHAPTER XXI

  — But ’tis no marvel, continued the corporal — seeing my uncle Toby musing upon it — for Love, an’ please your honour, is exactly like war, in this; that a soldier, though he has escaped three weeks complete o’ Saturday night, — may nevertheless be shot through his heart on Sunday morning — It happened so here, an’ please your honour, with this difference only — that it was on Sunday in the afternoon, when I fell in love all at once with a sisserara — It burst upon me, an’ please your honour, like a bomb — scarce giving me time to say, “God bless me.”

  I thought, Trim, said my uncle Toby, a man never fell in love so very suddenly.

  Yes, an’ please your honour, if he is in the way of it — replied Trim.

  I prithee, quoth my uncle Toby, inform me how this matter happened.

  — With all pleasure, said the corporal, making a bow.

  CHAPTER XXII

  I had escaped, continued the corporal, all that time from falling in love, and had gone on to the end of the chapter, had it not been predestined otherwise — there is no resisting our fate.

  It was on a Sunday, in the afternoon, as I told your honour.

  The old man and his wife had walked out —

  Everything was still and hush as midnight about the house —

  There was not so much as a duck or a duckling about the yard —

  — When the fair Beguine came in to see me.

  My wound was then in a fair way of doing well — the inflammation had been gone off for some time, but it was succeeded with an itching both above and below my knee, so insufferable, that I had not shut my eyes the whole night for it.

  Let me see it, said she, kneeling down upon the ground parallel to my knee, and laying her hand upon the part below it — it only wants rubbing a little, said the Beguine; so covering it with the bed-clothes, she began with the forefinger of her right hand to rub under my knee, guiding her forefinger backwards and forwards by the edge of the flannel which kept on the dressing.

  In five or six minutes I felt slightly the end of her second finger — and presently it was laid flat with the other, and she continued rubbing in that way round and round for a good while; it then came into my head, that I should fall in love — I blush’d when I saw how white a hand she had — I shall never, an’ please your honour, behold another hand so white whilst I live —

  — Not in that place; said my uncle Toby —

  Though it was the most serious despair in nature to the corporal — he could not forbear smiling.

  The young Beguine, continued the corporal, perceiving it was of great service to me — from rubbing for some time, with two fingers — proceeded to rub at length, with three — till by little and little she brought down the fourth, and then rubb’d with her whole hand: I will never say another word, an’ please your honour, upon hands again — but it was softer than sattin —

  — Prithee, Trim, commend it as much as thou wilt, said my uncle Toby; I shall hear thy story with the more delight — The corporal thank’d his master most unfeignedly; but having nothing to say upon the Beguine’s hand but the same over again — he proceeded to the effects of it.

  The fair Beguine, said the corporal, continued rubbing with her whole hand under my knee — till I fear’d her zeal would weary her— “I would do a thousand times more,” said she, “for the love of Christ” — In saying which, she pass’d her hand across the flannel, to the part above my knee, which I had equally complain’d of, and rubb’d it also.

  I perceived, then, I was beginning to be in love —

  As she continued rub-rub-rubbing — I felt it spread from under her hand, an’ please your honour, to every part of my frame. —

  The more she rubb’d, and the longer strokes she took — the more the fire kindled in my veins — till at length, by two or three strokes longer than the rest — my passion rose to the highest pitch — I seiz’d her hand —

  — And then thou clapped’st it to thy lips, Trim, said my uncle Toby — and madest a speech.

  Whether the corporal’s amour terminated precisely in the way my uncle Toby described it, is not material; it is enough that it contained in it the essence of all the love romances which ever have been wrote since the beginning of the world.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  As soon as the corporal had finished the story of his amour — or rather my uncle Toby for him — Mrs. Wadman silently sallied forth from her arbour, replaced the pin in her mob, pass’d the wicker-gate, and advanced slowly towards my uncle Toby’s sentry-box: the disposition which Trim had made in my uncle Toby’s mind, was too favourable a crisis to be let slipp’d —

  — The attack was determin’d upon: it was facilitated still more by my uncle Toby’s having ordered the corporal to wheel off the pioneer’s shovel, the spade, the pick-axe, the picquets, and other military stores which lay scatter’d upon the ground where Dunkirk stood — the corporal had march’d — the field was clear.

  Now, consider, sir, what nonsense it is, either in fighting, or writing, or anything else (whether in rhyme to it, or not) which a man has occasion to do — to act by plan: for if ever Plan, independent of all circumstances, deserved registering in letters of gold (I mean in the archives of Gotham) — it was certainly the PLAN of Mrs. Wadman’s attack of my uncle Toby in his sentry-box, BY PLAN — Now the plan hanging up in it at this juncture, being
the Plan of Dunkirk — and the tale of Dunkirk a tale of relaxation, it opposed every impression she could make: and besides, could she have gone upon it — the manœuvre of fingers and hands in the attack of the sentry-box, was so outdone by that of the fair Beguine’s, in Trim’s story — that just then, that particular attack, however successful before — became the most heartless attack that could be made —

  O! let woman alone for this. Mrs. Wadman had scarce open’d the wicket-gate, when her genius sported with the change of circumstances.

  — She formed a new attack in a moment.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  — I am half distracted, captain Shandy, said Mrs. Wadman, holding up her cambrick handkerchief to her left eye, as she approach’d the door of my uncle Toby’s sentry-box — a mote — or sand — or something — I know not what, has got into this eye of mine — do look into it — it is not in the white —

  In saying which, Mrs. Wadman edged herself close in beside my uncle Toby, and squeezing herself down upon the corner of his bench, she gave him an opportunity of doing it without rising up — Do look into it — said she.

  Honest soul! thou didst look into it with as much innocency of heart, as ever child look’d into a raree-shew-box; and ‘twere as much a sin to have hurt thee.

  — If a man will be peeping of his own accord into things of that nature — I’ve nothing to say to it —

  My uncle Toby never did: and I will answer for him, that he would have sat quietly upon a sofa from June to January (which, you know, takes in both the hot and cold months), with an eye as fine as the Thracian Rodope’s beside him, without being able to tell, whether it was a black or blue one.

  The difficulty was to get my uncle Toby to look at one at all.

  ’Tis surmounted. And

  I see him yonder with his pipe pendulous in his hand, and the ashes falling out of it — looking — and looking — then rubbing his eyes — and looking again, with twice the good-nature that ever Gallileo look’d for a spot in the sun.

  — In vain! for by all the powers which animate the organ — Widow Wadman’s left eye shines this moment as lucid as her right — there is neither mote, or sand, or dust, or chaff, or speck, or particle of opake matter floating in it — There is nothing, my dear paternal uncle! but one lambent delicious fire, furtively shooting out from every part of it, in all directions, into thine —

  — If thou lookest, uncle Toby, in search of this mote one moment longer — thou art undone.

  [Footnote 8.4: Rodope Thracia tam inevitabili fascino instructa, tam exactè oculus intuens attraxit, ut si in illam quis incidisset, fieri non posset, quin caperetur. — I know not who.]

  CHAPTER XXV

  An eye is for all the world exactly like a cannon, in this respect; That it is not so much the eye or the cannon, in themselves, as it is the carriage of the eye — and the carriage of the cannon, by which both the one and the other are enabled to do so much execution. I don’t think the comparison a bad one; However, as ’tis made and placed at the head of the chapter, as much for use as ornament, all I desire in return is, that whenever I speak of Mrs. Wadman’s eyes (except once in the next period), that you keep it in your fancy.

  I protest, Madam, said my uncle Toby, I can see nothing whatever in your eye.

  It is not in the white; said Mrs. Wadman: my uncle Toby look’d with might and main into the pupil —

  Now of all the eyes which ever were created — from your own, Madam, up to those of Venus herself, which certainly were as venereal a pair of eyes as ever stood in a head — there never was an eye of them all, so fitted to rob my uncle Toby of his repose, as the very eye, at which he was looking — it was not, Madam, a rolling eye — a romping or a wanton one — nor was it an eye sparkling — petulant or imperious — of high claims and terrifying exactions, which would have curdled at once that milk of human nature, of which my uncle Toby was made up — but ’twas an eye full of gentle salutations — and soft responses — speaking — not like the trumpet stop of some ill-made organ, in which many an eye I talk to, holds coarse converse — but whispering soft — like the last low accent of an expiring saint— “How can you live comfortless, captain Shandy, and alone, without a bosom to lean your head on — or trust your cares to?”

  It was an eye —

  But I shall be in love with it myself, if I say another word about it.

  — It did my uncle Toby’s business.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  There is nothing shews the character of my father and my uncle Toby, in a more entertaining light, than their different manner of deportment, under the same accident — for I call not love a misfortune, from a persuasion, that a man’s heart is ever the better for it — Great God! what must my uncle Toby’s have been, when ’twas all benignity without it.

  My father, as appears from many of his papers, was very subject to this passion, before he married — but from a little subacid kind of drollish impatience in his nature, whenever it befell him, he would never submit to it like a christian; but would pish, and huff, and bounce, and kick, and play the Devil, and write the bitterest Philippicks against the eye that ever man wrote — there is one in verse upon somebody’s eye or other, that for two or three nights together, had put him by his rest; which in his first transport of resentment against it, he begins thus:

  “A Devil ’tis — and mischief such doth work

  As never yet did Pagan, Jew, or Turk.”

  In short, during the whole paroxism, my father was all abuse and foul language, approaching rather towards malediction — only he did not do it with as much method as Ernulphus — he was too impetuous; nor with Ernulphus’s policy — for tho’ my father, with the most intolerant spirit, would curse both this and that, and every thing under heaven, which was either aiding or abetting to his love — yet never concluded his chapter of curses upon it, without cursing himself in at the bargain, as one of the most egregious fools and coxcombs, he would say, that ever was let loose in the world.

  My uncle Toby, on the contrary, took it like a lamb — sat still and let the poison work in his veins without resistance — in the sharpest exacerbations of his wound (like that on his groin) he never dropt one fretful or discontented word — he blamed neither heaven nor earth — or thought or spoke an injurious thing of any body, or any part of it; he sat solitary and pensive with his pipe — looking at his lame leg — then whiffing out a sentimental heigh ho! which mixing with the smoke, incommoded no one mortal.

  He took it like a lamb — I say.

  In truth he had mistook it at first; for having taken a ride with my father, that very morning, to save if possible a beautiful wood, which the dean and chapter were hewing down to give to the poor; which said wood being in full view of my uncle Toby’s house, and of singular service to him in his description of the battle of Wynnendale — by trotting on too hastily to save it — upon an uneasy saddle — worse horse, &c. &c. . . it had so happened, that the serous part of the blood had got betwixt the two skins, in the nethermost part of my uncle Toby — the first shootings of which (as my uncle Toby had no experience of love) he had taken for a part of the passion — till the blister breaking in the one case — and the other remaining — my uncle Toby was presently convinced, that his wound was not a skin-deep wound — but that it had gone to his heart.

  [Footnote 8.5: This will be printed with my father’s Life of

  Socrates, &c. &c.]

  [Footnote 8.6: Mr. Shandy must mean the poor in spirit;

  inasmuch as they divided the money amongst themselves.]

  CHAPTER XXVII

  The world is ashamed of being virtuous — My uncle Toby knew little of the world; and therefore when he felt he was in love with widow Wadman, he had no conception that the thing was any more to be made a mystery of, than if Mrs. Wadman had given him a cut with a gap’d knife across his finger: Had it been otherwise — yet as he ever look’d upon Trim as a humble friend; and saw fresh reasons every day of his life, to treat him as such — i
t would have made no variation in the manner in which he informed him of the affair.

  “I am in love, corporal!” quoth my uncle Toby.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  In love! — said the corporal — your honour was very well the day before yesterday, when I was telling your honour the story of the King of Bohemia — Bohemia! said my uncle Toby - - - - musing a long time - - - What became of that story, Trim?

  — We lost it, an’ please your honour, somehow betwixt us — but your honour was as free from love then, as I am— ’twas just whilst thou went’st off with the wheel-barrow — with Mrs. Wadman, quoth my uncle Toby — She has left a ball here — added my uncle Toby — pointing to his breast —

  — She can no more, an’ please your honour, stand a siege, than she can fly — cried the corporal —

  — But as we are neighbours, Trim, — the best way I think is to let her know it civilly first — quoth my uncle Toby.

  Now if I might presume, said the corporal, to differ from your honour —

  — Why else do I talk to thee, Trim? said my uncle Toby, mildly —

  — Then I would begin, an’ please your honour, with making a good thundering attack upon her, in return — and telling her civilly afterwards — for if she knows anything of your honour’s being in love, before hand — L — d help her! — she knows no more at present of it, Trim, said my uncle Toby — than the child unborn —

  Precious souls! —

  Mrs. Wadman had told it, with all its circumstances, to Mrs. Bridget twenty-four hours before; and was at that very moment sitting in council with her, touching some slight misgivings with regard to the issue of the affairs, which the Devil, who never lies dead in a ditch, had put into her head — before he would allow half time, to get quietly through her Te Deum.