Every servant in the family, from high to low, wished Tom success, and I can fancy, an’ please your honour, I see him this moment with his white dimity waistcoat and breeches, and hat a little o’one side, passing jollily along the street, swinging his stick, with a smile and a cheerful word for every body he met.
But alas! Tom! thou smilest no more, cried the Corporal, looking on one side of him upon the ground, as if he apostrophised him in his dungeon.
Poor fellow! said my uncle Toby, feelingly.
He was an honest, light-hearted lad, an’ please your honour, as ever blood warm’d —
Then he resembled thee, Trim, said my uncle Toby, rapidly.
The Corporal blush’d down to his fingers ends — a tear of sentimental bashfulness — another of gratitude to my uncle. Toby — and a tear of sorrow for his brother’s misfortunes, started into his eye, and ran sweetly down his cheek together; my uncle Toby’s kindled as one lamp does at another; and taking hold of the breast of Trim’s coat (which had been that of Le Fever’s), as if to ease his lame leg, but in reality to gratify a finer feeling — he stood silent for a minute and a half; at the end of which he took his hand away, and the Corporal making a bow, went on with his story of his brother and the Jew’s widow.
When Tom, an’ please your honour, got to the shop, there was nobody in it, but a poor negro girl, with a bunch of white feathers slightly tied to the end of a long cane, flapping away flies — not killing them. —
’Tis a pretty picture! said my uncle Toby, — she had suffered persecution, Trim, and had learnt mercy —
— She was good, an’ please your honour, from nature, as well as from hardships; and there are circumstances in the story of that poor friendless slut, that would melt a heart of stone, said Trim; and some dismal winter’s evening when your honour is in the humour, they shall be told you with the rest of Tom’s story, for it makes a part of it
Then do not forget, Trim, said my uncle Toby.
A negro has a soul? an’ please your honour, said the Corporal, (doubtingly).
I am not much versed, Corporal, quoth my uncle Toby, in things of that kind; but I suppose, God would not leave him without one, any more than thee or me.
It would be putting one sadly over the head of another, quoth the Corporal.
It would so, said my uncle Toby.
Why then, an’ please your honour, is a black wench to be used worse than a white one?
I can give no reason, said my uncle Toby. —
— Only, cried the Corporal, shaking his head, because she has no one to stand up for her —
’Tis that very thing, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, — which recommends her to protection — and her brethren with her; ’tis the fortune of war which has put the whip into our hands now — where it may be hereafter, heaven knows! — but be it where it will, the brave, Trim, will not use it unkindly.
— God forbid, said the Corporal.
Amen, responded my uncle Toby, laying his hand upon his heart.
The Corporal returned to his story, and went on — but with an embarrassment in doing it, which here and there a reader in this world will not be able to comprehend; for by the many sudden transitions all along, from one kind and cordial passion to another, in getting thus far on his way, he had lost the sportable key of his voice, which gave sense and spirit to his tale: he attempted twice to resume it, but could not please himself; so giving a stout hem! to rally back the retreating spirits, and aiding nature at the same time with his left arm a-kimbo on one side, and with his right a little extended, supported her on the other — the Corporal got as near the note as he could; and in that attitude, continued his story.
As Tom, an’ please your honour, had no business at that time with the Moorish girl, he passed on into the room beyond, to talk to the Jew’s widow about love — and being, as I have told your honour, an open, cheary hearted lad, with his character wrote in his looks and carriage, he took a chair, and without much apology, but with great civility at the same time, placed it close to her at the table, and sat down.
Now a widow, an’ please your honour, always chooses a second husband as unlike the first as she can: so the affair was settled in her mind before Tom mentioned it.
She signed the capitulation — and Tom sealed it; and there was an end of the matter.
T. SHANDY, V. IV. c. 64.
THE BEGUINE.
SO, thou wast once in love, Trim! said my uncle Toby, smiling —
Souse! replied the Corporal — over head and ears! an’ please your honour. Prithee when? where? — and how came it to pass? — I never heard one word of it before, quoth my uncle Toby: — I dare say, answered Trim, that every drummer and serjeant’s son in the regiment knew of it — It’s high time I should — said my uncle Toby.
Your honour remembers with concern, said the Corporal, the total rout and confusion of our camp, and the army, at the affair of Landen; every one was left to shift for himself; and if it had not been for the regiments of Wyndham, Lumley, and Galway, which covered the retreat over the bridge of Neerspeeken, the King himself could scarce have gained it — he was pressed hard, as your honour knows, on every side of him —
Gallant mortal! cried my uncle Toby, caught up with enthusiasm — this moment, now that all is lost, I see him galloping across me, Corporal, to the left, to bring up the remains of the English horse along with him to support the right, and tear the laurel from Luxembourg’s brows, if yet ’tis possible — I see him with the knot of his scarf just shot off, infusing fresh spirits into poor Galway’s regiment — riding along the line — then wheeling about, and charging Conti at the head of it — Brave! brave, by heaven! cried my uncle Toby, he deserves a crown — as richly, as a thief a halter; shouted Trim.
My uncle Toby knew the Corporal’s loyalty; — otherwise the comparison was not at all to his mind — it did not altogether strike the Corporal’s fancy when he had made it — but it could not be recalled — so he had nothing to do, but proceed.
As the number of wounded was prodigious, and no one had time to think of any thing, but his own safety — Though Talmash, said my uncle Toby, brought off the foot with great prudence — but I was left upon the field, said the Corporal. Thou wast so; poor fellow! replied my uncle Toby — so that it was noon the next day, continued the Corporal, before I was exchanged, and put into a cart with thirteen or fourteen more, in order to be conveyed to our hospital. — The anguish of my knee, continued the Corporal, was excessive in itself; and the uneasiness of the cart, with the roughness of the roads which were terribly cut up — making bad still worse — every step was death to me: so that with the loss of blood, and the want of care taking of me, and a fever I felt coming on besides — (Poor soul! said my uncle Toby) all together, an’ please your honour, was more than I could sustain.
I was telling my sufferings to a young woman at a peasant’s house, where our cart, which was the last of the line, had halted, they had helped me in, and the young woman had taken a cordial out of her pocket and dropp’d it upon some sugar, and seeing it had cheer’d me, she had given it me a second and a third time — So I was telling her, an’ please your honour, the anguish I was in, and was saying it was so intolerable to me, that I had much rather lie down upon the bed, turning my face towards one which was in the corner of the room — and die, than go on — when, upon her attempting to lead me to it, I fainted away in her arms. She was a good soul! as your honour, said the Coporal, wiping his eyes, will hear.
I thought love had been a joyous thing, quoth my uncle Toby.
’Tis the most serious thing, an’ please your honour (sometimes), that is in the world.
By the persuasion of the young woman, continued the Corporal, the cart with the wounded men set off without me: she had assured them I should expire immediately if I was put into the cart. So when I came to myself — I found myself in a still quiet cottage, with no one but the young woman, and the peasant and his wife. I was laid across the bed in the corner of the room
, with my wounded leg upon a chair, and the young woman beside me, holding the corner of her handkerchief dipp’d in vinegar to my nose with one hand, and rubbing my temples with the other.
I took her at first for the daughter of the peasant; (for it was no inn) — so had offered her a little purse with eighteen florins, which my poor brother Tom (here Trim wip’d his eyes) had sent me as a token, by a recruit, just before he set out for Lisbon. —
The young woman called the old man and his wife into the room, to shew them the money, in order to gain me credit for a bed and what little necessaries I should want, till I should be in a condition to be got to the hospital — Come then! said she, tying up the little purse, — I’ll be your banker — but as that office alone will not keep me employ’d, I’ll be your nurse too.
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 concealed under a cambrick 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 any where 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.
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, 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 wish’d 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 bed side, holding back my 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. — Love, an’ please your honour, is exactly like war, in this; that a soldier, though he has escaped three weeks complete o’ Saturdaynight — 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. 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 — Every thing 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 cloaths, she began with the fore-finger of her right-hand to rub under my knee, guiding her fore-finger 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 blushed when I saw how white a hand she had — I shall never, an’ please your honour, behold another hand so white whilst I live. —
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 rubbed with her whole hand: I will never say another word, an’ please your honour, upon hands again — but is was softer than satin. —
Prithee, Trim, commend it as much as thou wilt, said my uncle Toby; I shall hear thy story with the more delight — The Corporal thanked 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 feared her zeal would weary her— “I would do a thousand times more,” said she, “for the love of Christ.” As she continued rubbing — I felt it spread from under her hand, an’ please your honour, to every part of my frame. —
The more she rubbed, 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 seized 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.
T. SHANDY, VOL. 4, CHAP. 43.
MARIA.
— THEY were the sweetest notes I ever heard; and I instantly let down the fore-glass to hear them more distinctly— ’Tis Maria; said the postillion, observing I was listening — Poor Maria, continued he, (leaning his body on one side to let me see her, for he was in a line betwixt us), is sitting upon a bank playing her vespers upon her pipe, with her little goat beside her.
The young fellow utter’d this with an accent and a look so perfectly in tune to a feeling heart, that I instantly made a vow, I would give him a four-and-twenty sous piece, when I got to Moulines.
And who is poor Maria? said I.
The love and pity of all the villages around us; said the postillion — it is but three years ago, that the sun did not shine upon so fair, so quickwitted and amiable a maid; and better fate did Maria deserve, than to have her Banns forbid by the intrigues of the curate of the parish who published them —
He was going on, when Maria, who had made a short pause, put the pipe to her mouth, and began the air again — they were the same notes; — yet were ten times sweeter: It is the evening service to the Virgin, said the young man — but who has taught her to play it — or how she came by her pipe, no one knows; we think that heaven has assisted her in both; for ever since she has been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only consolation — she has never once had the pipe out of her hand, but plays that service upon it almost night and day.
The postillion delivered this with so much discretion and natural eloquence, that I could not help decyphering something in his face above his condition, and should have sifted out his history, had not poor Maria’s taken such full possession of me.
We had got up by this time almost to the bank whe
re Maria was sitting; she was in a thin white jacket, with her hair, all but two tresses, drawn up into a silk net, with a few olive leaves twisted a little fantastically on one side — she was beautiful; and if ever I felt the full force of an honest heart-ache, it was the moment I saw her —
— God help her! poor damsel! above a hundred masses, said the postillion, have been said in the several parish churches and convents around, for her, — but without effect; we have still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, that the Virgin at last will restore her to herself; but her parents who know her best, are hopeless upon that score, and think her senses are lost for ever.
As the postillion spoke this, Maria made a cadence so melancholy, so tender and querulous, that I sprung out of the chaise to help her, and found myself sitting betwixt her and her goat before I relapsed from my enthusiasm.
Maria look’d wistfully for some time at me, and then at her goat — and then at me — and then at her goat again, and so on, alternately —
— Well, Maria, said I, softly — What resemblance do you find?
I do entreat the candid reader to believe me, that it was from the humblest conviction of what a Beast man is, — that I ask’d the question; and that I would not have let fallen an unseasonable pleasantry in the venerable presence of Misery, to be entitled to all the wit that ever Rabelais scattered — and yet I own my heart smote me, and that I so smarted at the very idea of it, that I swore I would set up for wisdom, and utter grave sentences the rest of my days — and never — never attempt again to commit mirth with man, woman, or child, the longest day I had to live.
As for writing nonsense to them — I believe, there was a reserve — but that I leave to the world.
Adieu, Maria! — adieu, poor hapless damsel! some time, but not now, I may hear thy sorrows from thy own lips — but I was deceived; for that moment she took her pipe and told me such a tale of woe with it, that I rose up, and with broken and irregular steps walk’d softly to my chaise.
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 133
