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"Araby" is a short story by James Joyce published in his 1914 collection Dubliners. The story traces a young boy's infatuation with his friend's sister.
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Short Story | Araby by James Joyce Audiobook
Dubliners by James Joyce | Araby
Araby by James Joyce (Audiobook) | SHORT STORY | Performed by Frank Marcopolos
Transcription
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.
Through first-person narration, the reader is immersed at the start of the story in the drab life that people live on North Richmond Street, which seems to be illuminated only by the verve and imagination of the children who, despite the growing darkness that comes during the winter months, insist on playing "until [their] bodies glowed." Even though the conditions of this neighbourhood leave much to be desired, the children's play is infused with their almost magical way of perceiving the world, which the narrator dutifully conveys to the reader:
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.[1]
But though these boys "career" around the neighbourhood in a very childlike way, they are also aware of and interested in the adult world, as represented by their spying on the narrator's uncle as he comes home from work and, more importantly, on Mangan's sister, whose dress “swung as she moved” and whose “soft rope of hair tossed from side to side.” These boys are on the brink of sexual awareness and, awed by the mystery of another sex, are hungry for knowledge.
On one rainy evening, the boy secludes himself in a soundless, dark drawing-room and gives his feelings for her full release: "I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: O love! O love! many times." This scene is the culmination of the narrator's increasingly romantic idealization of Mangan's sister. By the time he actually speaks to her, he has built up such an unrealistic idea of her that he can barely put sentences together: “When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me if I was going to Araby. I forget whether I answered yes or no.” But the narrator recovers splendidly: when Mangan's sister dolefully states that she will not be able to go to Araby, he gallantly offers to bring something back for her.
The narrator now cannot wait to go to the Araby bazaar and procure for his beloved some grand gift that will endear him to her. And though his aunt frets, hoping that it is not “some Freemason affair,” and though his uncle, perhaps intoxicated, perhaps stingy, arrives so late from work and equivocates so much that he almost keeps the narrator from being able to go, the intrepid yet frustrated narrator heads out of the house, tightly clenching a florin, in spite of the late hour, toward the bazaar.
But the Araby market turns out not to be the most fantastic place he had hoped it would be. It is late; most of the stalls are closed. The only sound is "the fall of the coins" as men count their money. Worst of all, however, is the vision of sexuality—of his future—that he receives when he stops at one of the few remaining open stalls. The young woman minding the stall is engaged in a conversation with two young men. Though he is potentially a customer, she only grudgingly and briefly waits on him before returning to her frivolous conversation. His idealized vision of Araby is destroyed, along with his idealized vision of Mangan's sister—and of love. With shame and anger rising within him, he is alone in Araby.
the life of the mind versus poverty (both physical and intellectual)
the consequences of idealization
the Catholic Church's influence to make Dublin a place of asceticism where desire and sensuality are seen as immoral[2]
the pain that often comes when one encounters love in reality instead of its elevated form
paralysis
These themes build on one another entirely through the thoughts of the young boy, who is portrayed by the first-person narrator, who writes from memory.
Romantic elements
"Araby" contains many themes and traits common to Joyce in general and Dubliners in particular. As with many of the stories in the collection, "Araby" involves a character going on a journey, the end result of which is fruitless, and ends with the character going back to where he came from. "Eveline" is just one other story in Dubliners to feature a circular journey in this manner. Also, the narrator lives with his aunt and uncle, although his uncle appears to be a portrait of Joyce's father, and may be seen as a prototype for Simon Dedalus of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Ulysses. The scorn the narrator has for his uncle is certainly consistent with the scorn Joyce showed for his father, and the lack of "good" parents is pertinent.[citation needed]
In "The Structure of Araby," Jerome Mandel notes the shared plot archetypes between “Araby” and traditional medieval romantic literature, positing that Joyce deliberately “structured with rigorous precision upon a paradigm of medieval romance.”[3]
Later influence
Among later writers influenced by "Araby" was John Updike, whose oft-anthologized short story, "A&P", is a 1960s American reimagining of Joyce's tale of a young man, lately the wiser for his frustrating infatuation with a beautiful but inaccessible girl. Her allure has excited him into confusing his emergent sexual impulses for those of honor and chivalry, and brought about disillusionment and a loss of innocence.[4]
Araby public domain audiobook at LibriVox
This page was last edited on 22 February 2021, at 18:44