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.