C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
In Languedoc: An Idyl
By Laurence Sterne (1713–1768)
’T
The sun was set—they had done their work; the nymphs had tied up their hair afresh, and the swains were preparing for a carousal. My mule made a dead point.—“’Tis the fife and tambourin,” said I.—“I’m frightened to death,” quoth he.—“They are running at the ring of pleasure,” said I, giving him a prick.—“By St. Boogar, and all the saints at the back-side of the door of purgatory,” said he (making the same resolution with the Abbess of Andouillets), “I’ll not go a step further.”—“’Tis very well, sir,” said I: “I will never argue a point with one of your family as long as I live.” So leaping off his back, and kicking off one boot into this ditch and t’other into that—“I’ll take a dance,” said I, “so stay you here.”
A sunburnt daughter of labor rose up from the group to meet me, as I advanced towards them; her hair—which was a dark chestnut, approaching rather to a black—was tied up in a knot, all but a single tress.
“We want a cavalier,” said she, holding out both her hands as if to offer them.—“And a cavalier ye shall have,” said I, taking hold of both of them.
“Hadst thou, Nannette, been arrayed like a duchess! But that cursed slit in thy petticoat!”
Nannette cared not for it.
“We could not have done without you,” said she, letting go one hand, with self-taught politeness, leading me up with the other.
A lame youth, whom Apollo had recompensed with a pipe, and to which he had added a tambourin of his own accord, ran sweetly over the prelude, as he sat upon the bank.—“Tie me up this tress instantly,” said Nannette, putting a piece of string into my hand. It taught me to forget I was a stranger.—The whole knot fell down. We had been seven years acquainted.
The youth struck the note upon the tambourin, his pipe followed, and off we bounded.—“The deuce take that slit!”…
The sister of the youth who had stolen her voice from heaven sung alternately with her brother, ’twas a Gascoigne roundelay—
I would have given a crown to have it sewed up: Nannette would not have given a sous; Viva la joia! was in her lips—Viva la joia! was in her eyes. A transient spark of amity shot across the space betwixt us. She looked amiable. Why could I not live and end my days thus? “Just Disposer of our joys and sorrows,” cried I, “why could not a man sit down in the lap of content here, and dance and sing, and say his prayers, and go to heaven with this nut-brown maid?” Capriciously did she bend her head on one side, and dance up insidious. “Then ’tis time to dance off,” quoth I.