Araby Page #2

"Araby" is a short story by James Joyce that follows a young boy in Dublin who develops an infatuation with a friend's older sister. He promises to bring her a gift from the local bazaar, Araby, but due to various obstacles, he arrives at the market too late and can't buy the gift. The story reflects themes of love and disillusionment, as well as the harsh realities of life in Dublin.

• Children

								


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
Café 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.
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes