They
seem to say, 'Fashion has not made us, nor ever do its caprices pass
our sand-cleaned doorsteps.
seem to say, 'Fashion has not made us, nor ever do its caprices pass
our sand-cleaned doorsteps.
Yeats
A few young men came round
to play sometimes. He went in, for among these provincial youths he
felt distinguished; besides, he was a really good player. As he came
in one of the players missed and swore. Howard reproved him with a
look. He joined the play for a time, and then catching sight through a
distant door of the hotel-keeper's wife putting a kettle on the hob he
hurried off, and, drawing a chair to the fire, began one of those long
gossips about everybody's affairs peculiar to the cloth.
As Sherman, having set his lines, returned home, he passed a
tobacconist's--a sweet-shop and tobacconist's in one--the only shop
in town, except public-houses, that remained open. The tobacconist
was standing in his door, and, recognizing one who dealt consistently
with a rival at the other end of the town, muttered: 'There goes that
Jack o' Dreams; been fishing most likely. Ugh! ' Sherman paused for a
moment as he repassed the bridge and looked at the water, on which now
a new-risen and crescent moon was shining dimly. How full of memories
it was to him! what playmates and boyish adventures did it not bring to
mind! To him it seemed to say, 'Stay near to me,' as to Howard it had
said, 'Go yonder, to those other joys and other sceneries I have told
you of. ' It bade him who loved stay still and dream, and gave flying
feet to him who imagined.
II
The house where Sherman and his mother lived was one of those bare
houses so common in country towns. Their dashed fronts mounting above
empty pavements have a kind of dignity in their utilitarianism.
They
seem to say, 'Fashion has not made us, nor ever do its caprices pass
our sand-cleaned doorsteps. ' On every basement window is the same dingy
wire blind; on every door the same brass knocker. Custom everywhere!
'So much the longer,' the blinds seem to say, 'have eyes glanced
through us'; and the knockers to murmur, 'And fingers lifted us. '
No. 15, Stephens' Row, was in no manner peculiar among its twenty
fellows. The chairs in the drawing-room facing the street were of heavy
mahogany with horsehair cushions worn at the corners. On the round
table was somebody's commentary on the New Testament laid like the
spokes of a wheel on a table-cover of American oilcloth with stamped
Japanese figures half worn away. The room was seldom used, for Mrs.
Sherman was solitary because silent. In this room the dressmaker sat
twice a year, and here the rector's wife used every month or so to
drink a cup of tea. It was quite clean. There was not a fly-mark on the
mirror, and all summer the fern in the grate was constantly changed.
Behind this room and overlooking the garden was the parlour, where
cane-bottomed chairs took the place of mahogany. Sherman had lived here
with his mother all his life, and their old servant hardly remembered
having lived anywhere else; and soon she would absolutely cease to
remember the world she knew before she saw the four walls of this
house, for every day she forgot something fresh. The son was almost
thirty, the mother fifty, and the servant near seventy.
to play sometimes. He went in, for among these provincial youths he
felt distinguished; besides, he was a really good player. As he came
in one of the players missed and swore. Howard reproved him with a
look. He joined the play for a time, and then catching sight through a
distant door of the hotel-keeper's wife putting a kettle on the hob he
hurried off, and, drawing a chair to the fire, began one of those long
gossips about everybody's affairs peculiar to the cloth.
As Sherman, having set his lines, returned home, he passed a
tobacconist's--a sweet-shop and tobacconist's in one--the only shop
in town, except public-houses, that remained open. The tobacconist
was standing in his door, and, recognizing one who dealt consistently
with a rival at the other end of the town, muttered: 'There goes that
Jack o' Dreams; been fishing most likely. Ugh! ' Sherman paused for a
moment as he repassed the bridge and looked at the water, on which now
a new-risen and crescent moon was shining dimly. How full of memories
it was to him! what playmates and boyish adventures did it not bring to
mind! To him it seemed to say, 'Stay near to me,' as to Howard it had
said, 'Go yonder, to those other joys and other sceneries I have told
you of. ' It bade him who loved stay still and dream, and gave flying
feet to him who imagined.
II
The house where Sherman and his mother lived was one of those bare
houses so common in country towns. Their dashed fronts mounting above
empty pavements have a kind of dignity in their utilitarianism.
They
seem to say, 'Fashion has not made us, nor ever do its caprices pass
our sand-cleaned doorsteps. ' On every basement window is the same dingy
wire blind; on every door the same brass knocker. Custom everywhere!
'So much the longer,' the blinds seem to say, 'have eyes glanced
through us'; and the knockers to murmur, 'And fingers lifted us. '
No. 15, Stephens' Row, was in no manner peculiar among its twenty
fellows. The chairs in the drawing-room facing the street were of heavy
mahogany with horsehair cushions worn at the corners. On the round
table was somebody's commentary on the New Testament laid like the
spokes of a wheel on a table-cover of American oilcloth with stamped
Japanese figures half worn away. The room was seldom used, for Mrs.
Sherman was solitary because silent. In this room the dressmaker sat
twice a year, and here the rector's wife used every month or so to
drink a cup of tea. It was quite clean. There was not a fly-mark on the
mirror, and all summer the fern in the grate was constantly changed.
Behind this room and overlooking the garden was the parlour, where
cane-bottomed chairs took the place of mahogany. Sherman had lived here
with his mother all his life, and their old servant hardly remembered
having lived anywhere else; and soon she would absolutely cease to
remember the world she knew before she saw the four walls of this
house, for every day she forgot something fresh. The son was almost
thirty, the mother fifty, and the servant near seventy.
