Story 3 of Dublin eyes Arabi North Richmond Street, being blind was a quiet street except that the era when the Christian Brothers School set the boys free and 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. The priest had died in the back drawing-room are mostly from having been long and closed Hong and 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 cold and damp the Abbot by Walter Scott The Devout communicant and the Memoirs of vidocq. I like the last best because it's sleeves were yellow The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple tree and a few struggling bushes on a one of which I found the late tenants Rusty bicycle pump. He had been a very charitable priest in his will he left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister? Whether 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 toward the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air Stillness and we played to our bodies glowed. I'll shout 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 were old as a rose from the ash pits to the dark odorous tables where a coach man smooth and calm the horse. I shook music from the buckled harness. When we return to the street light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas if my uncle was saying turn in the corner we hid in the shadow until he had seen him safely housed on Earth magnet sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother into 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 now and if she remained we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan steps resignedly. She was waiting for us her figure defined by the light from the half-open door her brother always teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings looking at her her dress won't as she moved her body and the soft rope of our hair tossed from side to side. 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 he came near the point at which I always diverged I quickened my pace and pastor. This happened morning after morning. Well, I've 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 all you had to go to carry some of the parcels we walked through the flare and streets jostles boy drunken man and bag and women amid, the courses of laborers the shrill litanies of Shop Boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs cheeks the nasal chanting us treating us who sang A Kamali about O'Donovan Rossa or a ballad about it. 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's sprang to my lips at moments and strange prayers and Praises, which I myself did not understand my eyes were often full of tears. I cannot tell why and at times I float for 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 sudden beds some distant Land by loaded 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 I was about to slip from them. I press the palms of my hands together until they trembled more Merlin. Oh love. Oh love many times at last she spoke to me when she addressed the forest words to me. I was so confused that I did not know what answer. She asked me was I going to Arabi, but forgot whether I answered yes or no. It will be a splendid Bazaar. She said she would love to go. And why can't you I asked what 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 we can our 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 power and I head towards me the light from the lamp opposite our door called the white core of our neck lit up our hair that rested there and Fallen little the hand. on the railing it fell over one side of our dress and caught the white border of a petticoat just visible as she stood at ease. As well fire. She said if we go I said I would bring you something. What innumerable Follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening? I wish 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, but 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 a few questions in class. I watched my Master's face pass from Amy ability to sternness. He hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I'd hardly any patients with the serious work of Life, which know 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 wish to go to the Bazaar in the evening. He was forcing that the hard stand looking for the Hat brush and answered me courtly. 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 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 now and when it's taken began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house the holy cold empty gloomy roomed liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window. I saw my companions play and below in the street their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and Lena 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 touch the screen T by the Lamplight of the curved neck other 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 Pawnbrokers Widow who collected you stamps for some Poise porpoise. I had to enjoy the gossip of the tea-table the way it was prolonged Beyond an hour and still my uncle did not call. 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 a lie. There 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 have to put off your bizarre 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 here The hallstand Rockin 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 therefore sleep now. He said I did not smile man said to him energetically can't you give him the money and let him go you've kept him late enough as it is. Well, God 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 Arabs farewell to his steed? When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the peace to my aunt. I held a Florent tightly in my hand as I strolled down Buckingham Street towards the station the site of the street strong with bios and glaring with gas. We called 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 move them back saying that it was a special train for the bizarre. I remained alone in the bear carriage in a few minutes the train Drew up beside an impoverished wooden platform. I passed out onto the road and saw but 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 6-pin the entrance and fearing that the bizarre would be closed. I passed him quickly to a turnstile and initial into a weary local man. I found myself in a big Hall geared. Let half its height by a gallery. Nearly, all the Stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognized the silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the center of the bizarre timidly a few people were gathered about the Stalls which are still open before A-Courtin over which the words Kathy Shan Tong were written and coloured lamps two men were counting money on a Salva. I listened to the fall of the coins. Remember with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of the stars and examined porcelain vases and flower tea sets at the door of the stall young lady was talk and laugh and was too young gentleman an American English accents and isn't vaguely to that conversation. Oh, I never said such a thing. Oh, but you did. Oh by didn't didn't you say that. Yes. I heard her. Oh, there's afib observing me. The only 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 loved 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 man. 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 where it seemed the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walk down the middle of the bizarre. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the six pins 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. end of Story 3 araby end of Story 3 araby
Dubliners by James Joyce - Chapter 3 (Part 3 of 16 Full Audiobook) --- Dubliners is a collection of fifteen short stories by James Joyce, first published in 1914. They form a naturalistic depiction of Irish middle class  life in and around Dublin in the early years of the 20th century. The stories were written when Irish nationalism was at its peak, and a search for a national identity and purpose was raging; at a crossroads of history and culture, Ireland was jolted by various converging ideas and influences. --- Author: James Joyce Genre: Short Story Originally Published: June 1914 --- James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941) was an Irish novelist, short story writer, poet, teacher, and literary critic. Joyce is best known for Ulysses  (1922), a landmark work in which the episodes of Homer's Odyssey are paralleled in a variety of literary styles, most famously stream of consciousness --- Audiobooks Daily is a weekly podcast featuring the best of public domain short stories, novels, poetry, and plays. Every episode features a new chapter, full audiobook, or commentary of a great literary work. Authors included on our podcast: Edgar Allan Poe, Virginia Woolf, Jane Austen, Mark Twain, William Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, Charles Dickens, Ernest Hemingway, Arthur Conan Doyle, and many more! Join our community of literary lovers as we listen to some of the greatest fictional novels, stories, poems, and plays ever created! Episodes are uploaded four times a week. 