ARABY

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at thernhour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free. Anrnuninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached fromrnits neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the street,rnconscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brownrnimperturbable faces.rnrnThe former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the backrndrawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in allrnthe rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with oldrnuseless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, thernpages of which were curled and damp: _The Abbot_, by Walter Scott, _ThernDevout Communicant_ and _The Memoirs of Vidocq_. I liked the last bestrnbecause its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the houserncontained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes under one ofrnwhich I found the late tenant’s rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a veryrncharitable priest; in his will he had left all his money torninstitutions and the furniture of his house to his sister.rnrnWhen the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well eatenrnour dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. Thernspace of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet andrntowards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. Therncold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shoutsrnechoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us throughrnthe dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntlet of thernrough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark drippingrngardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorousrnstables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook musicrnfrom the buckled harness. When we returned to the street light from thernkitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning therncorner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or ifrnMangan’s sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to hisrntea we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. Wernwaited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained,rnwe left our shadow and walked up to Mangan’s steps resignedly. She wasrnwaiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-openedrndoor. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed and I stood by thernrailings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and thernsoft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.rnrnEvery morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching herrndoor. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that Irncould not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. Irnran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brownrnfigure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which ourrnways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happenedrnmorning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a fewrncasual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolishrnblood.rnrnHer image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. OnrnSaturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry somernof the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled byrndrunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, thernshrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs’rncheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a _come-all-you_rnabout O’Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our nativernland. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: Irnimagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Herrnname sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises whichrnI myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I couldrnnot tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itselfrnout into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not knowrnwhether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how Irncould tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harprnand her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.rnrnOne evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest hadrndied. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house.rnThrough one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon thernearth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds.rnSome distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankfulrnthat I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veilrnthemselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressedrnthe palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: _“Ornlove! O love!”_ many times.rnrnAt last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I wasrnso confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was Irngoing to _Araby_. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be arnsplendid bazaar, she said; she would love to go.rnrn“And why can’t you?” I asked.rnrnWhile she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist.rnShe could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that weekrnin her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for theirrncaps and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes,rnbowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our doorrncaught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested therernand, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one sidernof her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visiblernas she stood at ease.rnrn“It’s well for you,” she said.rnrn“If I go,” I said, “I will bring you something.”rnrnWhat innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughtsrnafter that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious interveningrndays. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom andrnby day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strovernto read. The syllables of the word _Araby_ were called to me throughrnthe silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantmentrnover me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. Myrnaunt was surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. Irnanswered few questions in class. I watched my master’s face pass fromrnamiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I couldrnnot call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience withrnthe serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and myrndesire, seemed to me child’s play, ugly monotonous child’s play.rnrnOn Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to thernbazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for thernhat-brush, and answered me curtly:rnrn“Yes, boy, I know.”rnrnAs he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie atrnthe window. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly towardsrnthe school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.rnrnWhen I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it wasrnearly. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its tickingrnbegan to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase andrngained the upper part of the house. The high cold empty gloomy roomsrnliberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the frontrnwindow I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their criesrnreached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against therncool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may havernstood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure castrnby my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curvedrnneck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.rnrnWhen I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer sitting at the fire.rnShe was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker’s widow, who collectedrnused stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of therntea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle didrnnot come. Mrs Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn’t waitrnany longer, but it was after eight o’clock and she did not like to bernout late as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began tornwalk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:rnrn“I’m afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.”rnrnAt nine o’clock I heard my uncle’s latchkey in the halldoor. I heardrnhim talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it hadrnreceived the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs.rnWhen he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the moneyrnto go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.rnrn“The people are in bed and after their first sleep now,” he said.rnrnI did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:rnrn“Can’t you give him the money and let him go? You’ve kept him laternenough as it is.”rnrnMy uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believedrnin the old saying: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” Hernasked me where I was going and, when I had told him a second time hernasked me did I know _The Arab’s Farewell to his Steed_. When I left thernkitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to myrnaunt.rnrnI held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Streetrntowards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers andrnglaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took myrnseat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After anrnintolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It creptrnonward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At WestlandrnRow Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but thernporters moved them back, saying that it was a special train for thernbazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes therntrain drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on tornthe road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutesrnto ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magicalrnname.rnrnI could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaarrnwould be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing arnshilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girdledrnat half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed andrnthe greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognised a silencernlike that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into therncentre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about thernstalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which the wordsrn_Café Chantant_ were written in coloured lamps, two men were countingrnmoney on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.rnrnRemembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of thernstalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the doorrnof the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two youngrngentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely torntheir conversation.rnrn“O, I never said such a thing!”rnrn“O, but you did!”rnrn“O, but I didn’t!”rnrn“Didn’t she say that?”rnrn“Yes. I heard her.”rnrn“O, there’s a ... fib!”rnrnObserving me the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buyrnanything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to havernspoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jarsrnthat stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance tornthe stall and murmured:rnrn“No, thank you.”rnrnThe young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went backrnto the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once orrntwice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.rnrnI lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to makernmy interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowlyrnand walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies tornfall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from onernend of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hallrnwas now completely dark.rnrnGazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven andrnderided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.