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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 felt 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 hall door. 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 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 girded at half its height by a

gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall

was in darkness. I recognized a silence like that which pervades a

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