A Story of Young Love

So, OK, let’s be honest. What do you look for in a story? Well, judging by our novels, films, and television shows, what people always seem to want is a love story. So let’s explore a story written by one of the finest novelists ever to write in English: James Joyce. In 1904, frustrated with Irish culture, Joyce abandoned his homeland. Yet every scene, every detail of his novels and stories is lodged in the gritty streets of Dublin (See James Joyce).

 Berenice Abbott. (1928). Portrait of James Joyce

Most of us can remember the magic of teenage love as it struck us with possibilities and heartbreak. Each generation discovers that passionate love is a young person’s ideal. Joyce’s short story “Araby” resonates with timeless themes of youth: youngsters playing on a Dublin street and the thrills and miseries of teenage passion.

James Joyce. (1904). 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 stories stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbors 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,[1] 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 somber. The space of sky above us was the color 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 odors 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.


[1] The listed books are those of a former resident, but would lodge in a literary lad’s mind: romance (Walter Scott, author of fictional romances),  a devotional text reflecting a strict Catholic education, and adventure (memoirs of Eugène François Vidocq, a pioneering French criminologist).

In a moment, we’ll return to the story. As we do so, notice how the story presents its events. Narrative can be defined as “a telling of some true or fictitious event or connected sequence of events, recounted by a narrator to a narratee.” Story-telling comprises three dimensions:

  • Story: a set of events unfolding in some imagined world
  • Narration (or discourse): the telling of the story to an audience
  • Narrator: a voice or medium (e.g. a cinematic camera) conveying the narration

To better understand the difference between story and narration, think of the difference between a novel and a film version of a story: e.g. J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings and Peter Jackson’s three films. Story characters and events are at least roughly the same. But the first is a literary prose narrative, the 2nd by a movie camera and editor.

The telling of a story comprises a Narrative Point of View which selects, arranges, and assesses story events. Stories are usually told from one of two viewpoints:

Our tale is told by the unnamed lad in love with Mangan’s sister. All our knowledge and experience is channeled through his eyes and sensibilities. In the following paragraphs, notice the sight lines, the literal viewpoint through which both the lad and we see the young woman: the curtained window, the striding figure seen from behind as the lad speeds up and then passes her.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlor 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 laborers, 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[2] about O’Donovan Rossa[3], 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.[4] 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.”


[2] Come-all-you: a traditional folk song from Ireland or Britain
[3] O’Donovan Rossa: O’Donovan Rossa (1831-1915) was an inspiring leader of the Fenians who sought Irish independence.
[4] Araby: everything in a Joyce fiction is firmly rooted in reality. Araby was a bazaar, a sort of indoor fair held in Dublin in May of 1894. The word bazaar is used in the Middle East to designate an extensive indoor marketplace.

Again, let’s pause. Point of View can be complicated. Think of the narrating voice as a Persona: the “assumed identity or fictional ‘I’ (literally a ‘mask’) assumed by a writer in a literary work” (Persona). So who tells the story? The young lover?

Well, not really. The story’s Persona is that of an older, wiser, perhaps disillusioned man reflecting on a poignant memory. “O, love! O love!” What a gap opens between the naïve passion of the youngster and the melancholy remembrance of one who has seen love vanish in smoke. As we continue, be sensitive to the story’s central Irony, the contrast between youth’s naivety and the gloom of age. For example, notice that the aged Persona judges the youth’s passions as “Innumerable follies”:

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 a 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 parlor and lie at the window. I left the house in bad humor 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 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.

We approach the story’s end. As we do so, let’s invoke a term that Joyce borrowed from the Catholic Church calendar. Epiphany celebrates the recognition of Jesus Christ’s authority by the Magi, or Wise Men (Matthew 1.1-12). The word can more generally refer to a moment of profound, transformative discovery. Joyce explicitly designed the stories in the Dubliners collection to end in moments of Epiphany, not so much resolutions of plot conflict, but moments of discovery shared by character and audience:

Joyce’s notion of epiphany

“a ‘sudden spiritual manifestation’ in which the ‘whatness’ of a common object or gesture appears radiant to the observer. … Joyce’s fiction is built around such special moments of sudden insight” (epiphany).

Let’s see how Joyce builds to the final Epiphany.

I held a florin[5] 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 [6] 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 recognized a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the center 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[7] were written in colored 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.


[5] Florin: a British coin valued at “two bob,” or 2 shillings.
[6] A shilling: in 1894, a shilling was a lot of money to a Dublin lad from lower middle class background.
[7] Café Chantant: i.e. Enchanted Café, an actual café at the Araby bazaar, the name evoking the theme of exotic enchantment.

So “Araby” ends with an Epiphany: the young man—or the older narrator?—sees himself “as a creature driven and derided by vanity.” He had treasured love’s ideal only to see illusion’s folly evaporate into a darkening, cavernous hall. He is growing up. Many of us might relate.

References

Abbott, Berenice. (1928). Portrait of James Joyce. [Photograph]. Northampton, MA: Smith College Museum of Art. ARTstor https://library-artstor-org.ezproxy.bethel.edu/asset/ASMITHIG_10313665681.

Dubliners. [Article]. (2012).  In D. Birch, & K. Hooper, K. (Ed.s) The Concise Oxford Companion to English Literature. Oxford University Press. http://www.oxfordreference.com.ezproxy.bethel.edu/view/10.1093/acref/9780199608218.001.0001/acref-9780199608218-e-2341.

Joyce, James. (1914). “Araby.” In Dubliners. London: Grant Richards.  https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2814.

Joyce, James. [Article]. (2012).  Birch, D., & Hooper, K. (Ed.s). The Concise Oxford Companion to English Literature. Oxford University Press. Retrieved   from http://www.oxfordreference.com.ezproxy.bethel.edu/view/10.1093/acref/9780199608218.001.0001/acref-9780199608218-e-4088.

Epiphany. [Article].  (2015). In C. Baldick, (Ed.) The Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms. Oxford University Press. Retrieved from http://www.oxfordreference.com.ezproxy.bethel.edu/view/10.1093/acref/9780198715443.001.0001/acref-9780198715443-e-399.

First-person narrative. [Article].  (2015).  In C. Baldick, (Ed.) The Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms. Oxford University Press. http://www.oxfordreference.com.ezproxy.bethel.edu/view/10.1093/acref/9780198715443.001.0001/acref-9780198715443-e-462.

“Narrative.” [Article]. (2015). In C. Baldick, (Ed.) The Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms. Oxford University Press. Retrieved from http://www.oxfordreference.com.ezproxy.bethel.edu/view/10.1093/acref/9780198715443.001.0001/acref-9780198715443-e-760.

Persona.” [Article]. (2015). In C. Baldick, (Ed.) The Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms. Oxford University Press. https://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/acref/9780198715443.001.0001/acref-9780198715443-e-866.

 

 

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Encounters With the Arts: Readings for ARTC150 Copyright © 2020 by Dr. Mark Thorson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.

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