eh = pore mare ARABY* Sok gute fe North Richmond Street;? beiny except at the hour when set the boys ‘uninhabit ‘of decent lives within them, brown’ imperturbable faces, © The former tenant of use, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been Jong enclosed, hung in all the zooms, 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 Mem- oirs of Vidocg.* Vliked 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 lefe 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 at one another withDUBLINERS houses where we ran the gantlet 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 comer 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. Thi was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that Tecould notbe seen. When she ‘came out on the doorstep my heart leapesk 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 poirt at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. 1 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 lhostile 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, Dldmye el tice! loca Lizlhsse V8. blinetnars a ARABY 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-al-you"* about O'Donovan Rossa or _ Holsés: converged: inya:eingle ‘sensation of life for me:)3 imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of sfoes=!Her! name ‘sprang''to: miy’ lips jat'moments:in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not under- stand. 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 1 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 _ Pat nod Wa i : wines ‘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 lovet © lovel 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 goi whether I answered yes or no. It would be a t 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 23DUBLINERS would be a retreat™ that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps and Iwas 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. —Ie's well for you, she said. —If 1 go, | said, 1 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 luxuri- ated 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. 1 answered few questions in class. I watched my master’s face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped 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 thar it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monoton- ous 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, | 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 24 ARABY 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 weak- ened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I1may have stood there for an hour, “7 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: —1'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.** ‘At nine o'clock I heard. my uncle's lacchkey in the halldoor. I heard him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. 1 te interpret these signs. When he was to give me 25DUBLINERS —The people are in bed and after their first sleep now, he said: 1 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 had told him a second time he asked me did know The Arab’s Farewell to his Steed:? When 1 left tthe kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt. T 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. 1 took my seat in a ‘third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intoler- able delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It ‘crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twin- ‘Kling 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 ‘clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name. T 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. Ni ‘greater part 0 1 recognised a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. 1 walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few 26 ARABY people were gathered about the stalls which were stil ‘open. Before a curtain, over which the words Café Chant- ant™ 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 Teal seco and listened vaguely to their conversation. —O, I never said such a thing! —O, but you didt —O, bur 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 en- ‘trance 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 oF twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder. T 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 from one end of the gale ‘light was out. The — ‘Upper Part 27,DUBLINERS 0 thé darkness\I saw myself as a iguish and anger.