The former tenant3 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 Devout4 Communicant and The Memoirs5 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 rusty6 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 buckled7 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 diverged8, 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 marketing10 I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring11 streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill12 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 ballad13 about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged14 in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice15 safely through a throng16 of foes17. 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 bosom18. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke9 to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration19. But my body was like a harp20 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 panes21 I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant22 needles of water playing in the sodden23 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 bazaar24, she said; she would love to go.
“And why can’t you?” I asked.
While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet25 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 spikes26, 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 follies27 laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate28 the tedious intervening days. I chafed29 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 syllables30 of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment31 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 amiability32 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 monotonous33 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 curtly34:
“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 misgave35 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 liberated36 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 discreetly37 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 garrulous38 woman, a pawnbroker’s widow, who collected used stamps for some pious39 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, clenching40 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 Jack41 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 thronged42 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 deserted43 train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward44 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 improvised45 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 pervades46 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 porcelain47 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 vaguely48 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 humbly49 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 wares50 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 derided51 by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish52 and anger.
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收听单词发音
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1
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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9
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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10
marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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13
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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converged
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| v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的过去式 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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15
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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17
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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18
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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22
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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25
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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26
spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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27
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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28
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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29
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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30
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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31
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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32
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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33
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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34
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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35
misgave
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
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liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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38
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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39
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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40
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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41
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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42
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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44
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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45
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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46
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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48
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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49
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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50
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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51
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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