ARABY
NORTH RICHMOND STREET, being blind, was a
quiet street except at the hour when the Christian
Brothers' School set the boys free.
An uninhabited house of two storeys stood
at the blind end, detached from its neighbours
in a square ground The other houses of the
street, conscious of decent lives within them,
gazed at one another with brown imperturbable
faces.
The former tenant of our house, a priest,
had died in the back drawing-room.
Air, musty from having been long enclosed,
hung in all the rooms, and the waste room
behind the kitchen was littered with old useless
papers.
Among these I found a few paper-covered books,
the pages of which were curled and damp: The
Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communicant
and The Memoirs of Vidocq.
I liked the last best because its leaves were
yellow.
The wild garden behind the house contained
a central apple-tree and a few straggling
bushes under one of which I found the late
tenant's rusty bicycle-pump.
He had been a very charitable priest; in his
will he had left all his money to institutions
and the furniture of his house to his sister.
When the short days of winter came dusk fell
before we had well eaten our dinners.
When we met in the street the houses had grown
sombre.
The space of sky above us was the colour of
ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps
of the street lifted their feeble lanterns.
The cold air stung us and we played till our
bodies glowed.
Our shouts echoed in the silent street.
The career of our play brought us through
the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where
we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from
the cottages, to the back doors of the dark
dripping gardens where odours arose from the
ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where
a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or
shook music from the buckled harness.
When we returned to the street light from
the kitchen windows had filled the areas.
If my uncle was seen turning the corner we
hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely
housed.
Or if Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep
to call her brother in to his tea we watched
her from our shadow peer up and down the street.
We waited to see whether she would remain
or go in and, if she remained, we left our
shadow and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly.
She was waiting for us, her figure defined
by the light from the half-opened door.
Her brother always teased her before he obeyed
and I stood by the railings looking at her.
Her dress swung as she moved her body and
the soft rope of her hair tossed from side
to side.
Every morning I lay on the floor in the front
parlour watching her door.
The blind was pulled down to within an inch
of the sash so that I could not be seen.
When she came out on the doorstep my heart
leaped.
I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed
her.
I kept her brown figure always in my eye and,
when we came near the point at which our ways
diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her.
This happened morning after morning.
I had never spoken to her, except for a few
casual words, and yet her name was like a
summons to all my foolish blood.
Her image accompanied me even in places the
most hostile to romance.
On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing
I had to go to carry some of the parcels.
We walked through the flaring streets, jostled
by drunken men and bargaining women, amid
the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies
of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels
of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers,
who sang a come-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa,
or a ballad about the troubles in our native
land.
These noises converged in a single sensation
of life for me: I imagined that I bore my
chalice safely through a throng of foes.
Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange
prayers and praises which I myself did not
understand.
My eyes were often full of tears (I could
not tell why) and at times a flood from my
heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom.
I thought little of the future.
I did not know whether I would ever speak
to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I
could tell her of my confused adoration.
But my body was like a harp and her words
and gestures were like fingers running upon
the wires.
One evening I went into the back drawing-room
in which the priest had died.
It was a dark rainy evening and there was
no sound in the house.
Through one of the broken panes I heard the
rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant
needles of water playing in the sodden beds.
Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed
below me.
I was thankful that I could see so little.
All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves
and, feeling that I was about to slip from
them, I pressed the palms of my hands together
until they trembled, murmuring: "O love!
O love!" many times.
At last she spoke to me.
When she addressed the first words to me I
was so confused that I did not know what to
answer.
She asked me was I going to Araby.
I forgot whether I answered yes or no.
It would be a splendid bazaar, she said; she
would love to go.
"And why can't you?"
I asked.
While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet
round and round her wrist.
She could not go, she said, because there
would be a retreat that week in her convent.
Her brother and two other boys were fighting
for their caps and I was alone at the railings.
She held one of the spikes, bowing her head
towards me.
The light from the lamp opposite our door
caught the white curve of her neck, lit up
her hair that rested there and, falling, lit
up the hand upon the railing.
It fell over one side of her dress and caught
the white border of a petticoat, just visible
as she stood at ease.
"It's well for you," she said.
"If I go," I said, "I will bring you something."
What innumerable follies laid waste my waking
and sleeping thoughts after that evening!
I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening
days.
I chafed against the work of school.
At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom
her image came between me and the page I strove
to read.
The syllables of the word Araby were called
to me through the silence in which my soul
luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment
over me.
I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday
night.
My aunt was surprised and hoped it was not
some Freemason affair.
I answered few questions in class.
I watched my master's face pass from amiability
to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning
to idle.
I could not call my wandering thoughts together.
I had hardly any patience with the serious
work of life which, now that it stood between
me and my desire, seemed to me child's play,
ugly monotonous child's play.
On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that
I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening.
He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for
the hat-brush, and answered me curtly:
"Yes, boy, I know."
As he was in the hall I could not go into
the front parlour and lie at the window.
I left the house in bad humour and walked
slowly towards the school.
The air was pitilessly raw and already my
heart misgave me.
When I came home to dinner my uncle had not
yet been home.
Still it was early.
I sat staring at the clock for some time and,
when its ticking began to irritate me, I left
the room.
I mounted the staircase and gained the upper
part of the house.
The high cold empty gloomy rooms liberated
me and I went from room to room singing.
From the front window I saw my companions
playing below in the street.
Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct
and, leaning my forehead against the cool
glass, I looked over at the dark house where
she lived.
I may have stood there for an hour, seeing
nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by
my imagination, touched discreetly by the
lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand
upon the railings and at the border below
the dress.
When I came downstairs again I found Mrs.
Mercer sitting at the fire.
She was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's
widow, who collected used stamps for some
pious purpose.
I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table.
The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and
still my uncle did not come.
Mrs. Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry
she couldn't wait any longer, but it was after
eight o'clock and she did not like to be out
late as the night air was bad for her.
When she had gone I began to walk up and down
the room, clenching my fists.
My aunt said:
"I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for
this night of Our Lord."
At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey
in the halldoor.
I heard him talking to himself and heard the
hallstand rocking when it had received the
weight of his overcoat.
I could interpret these signs.
When he was midway through his dinner I asked
him to give me the money to go to the bazaar.
He had forgotten.
"The people are in bed and after their first
sleep now," he said.
I did not smile.
My aunt said to him energetically:
"Can't you give him the money and let him
go?
You've kept him late enough as it is."
My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten.
He said he believed in the old saying: "All
work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."
He asked me where I was going and, when I
had told him a second time he asked me did
I know The Arab's Farewell to his Steed.
When I left the kitchen he was about to recite
the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.
I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode
down Buckingham Street towards the station.
The sight of the streets thronged with buyers
and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose
of my journey.
I took my seat in a third-class carriage of
a deserted train.
After an intolerable delay the train moved
out of the station slowly.
It crept onward among ruinous houses and over
the twinkling river.
At Westland Row Station a crowd of people
pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters
moved them back, saying that it was a special
train for the bazaar.
I remained alone in the bare carriage.
In a few minutes the train drew up beside
an improvised wooden platform.
I passed out on to the road and saw by the
lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes
to ten.
In front of me was a large building which
displayed the magical name.
I could not find any sixpenny entrance and,
fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I
passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing
a shilling to a weary-looking man.
I found myself in a big hall girdled at half
its height by a gallery.
Nearly all the stalls were closed and the
greater part of the hall was in darkness.
I recognised a silence like that which pervades
a church after a service.
I walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly.
A few people were gathered about the stalls
which were still open.
Before a curtain, over which the words Cafe
Chantant were written in coloured lamps, two
men were counting money on a salver.
I listened to the fall of the coins.
Remembering with difficulty why I had come
I went over to one of the stalls and examined
porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets.
At the door of the stall a young lady was
talking and laughing with two young gentlemen.
I remarked their English accents and listened
vaguely to their conversation.
"O, I never said such a thing!"
"O, but you did!"
"O, but I didn't!"
"Didn't she say that?"
"Yes.
I heard her."
"O, there's a... fib!"
Observing me the young lady came over and
asked me did I wish to buy anything.
The tone of her voice was not encouraging;
she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense
of duty.
I looked humbly at the great jars that stood
like eastern guards at either side of the
dark entrance to the stall and murmured:
"No, thank you."
The young lady changed the position of one
of the vases and went back to the two young
men.
They began to talk of the same subject.
Once or twice the young lady glanced at me
over her shoulder.
I lingered before her stall, though I knew
my stay was useless, to make my interest in
her wares seem the more real.
Then I turned away slowly and walked down
the middle of the bazaar.
I allowed the two pennies to fall against
the sixpence in my pocket.
I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery
that the light was out.
The upper part of the hall was now completely
dark.
Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as
a creature driven and derided by vanity; and
my eyes burned with anguish and anger.
