Part One
Appreciation of Selected Stories from British Literature

Unit 1
James Joyce： “Araby”

1.The Story

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， 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 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 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 layon 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 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 atmoments 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 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 playingbelow 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 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 Cafe Chantant 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.

2. The Author

Now we are going to introduce James Joyce （1882-1941）， the greatest novelist and one of the leading high modernists with special regard to his beautiful， heart breaking story “Araby”. In 1882， James Joyce was born in Dublin， Ireland， into a middle-class Catholic family. During Joyce's youth， the family was always on the move， from the southern suburbs to the relatively impoverished north side of the city. There Joyce briefly attended the Christian Brother's school in North Richmond Street， the setting of “Araby”. In 1904， when Joyce was twenty-two years old， he decided to leave his hometown， for good. The reason is simple： Ireland was a dead end and he wanted to get out. From then on， he went into a self-imposed exile， so typical of modernist writers， and lived most of his life abroad. But in a way， Joyce never left Ireland behind. Dublin remains the center of his attention and literary creation. It provides the artistic canvas of all his important works， including Dubliners （1914）， a collection of 15 short stories， the autobiographical A Portrait of the Artist as a Yong Man （1916）， the groundbreaking Ulysses （1922）， and lastly， the enigmatic Finnegans Wake （1939）. According to Joyce， the central theme of Dubliners， as well as the heart of the problem of Ireland， is “paralysis” or living dead. His great project， however， is not only presenting people's paralyzed states， but also affording Irish people “one good look at themselves” in the “nicely polished looking-glass” of his stories. That is， a revelation of the paralysis. The moment of his sudden revelation and realization is called “epiphany”. It is one of Joyce's most significant contribution to the development of modern narrative. According to M. H. Abrams， epiphany “has become the standard tern for the description...of the sudden flare into revelation of an ordinary object or scene.” Epiphany is particularly useful in the analysis of short story. This is because the plot of many short stories works toward a climatic revelation， or epiphany， which often comes at the end of a story. By interpreting the single moment， we may get the “point” of the whole story. Next， we are going to look at “Araby”， a story about an adolescent love， or something we call “puppy love”. But before that， please read the shot story by yourself and think over the following questions：

（1） Where does the boy live? What is the dominant impression that you receive about his living environment? （This is a question about setting.）

（2） How does the narrator represent the boy's “love”? （This is a question that directs to both the character and the theme.）

（3） How does the story end? （A related question： Is the ending foreshadowed in any way? This one is obviously about the plot.）

（4） Lastly， What is the boy's epiphany? （This question is related to the second question. We ask it separately because epiphany is named by Joyce and is best illustrated in his short stories.）

3.“Araby”： Analysis

The short story in focus today is “Araby”. It is probably the most read story from Dubliners. People like it because we all have similar experiences， when we realize something about ourselves one day and have to grow up.

The plot of the story is simple and easy to follow. An unnamed narrator， a young boy， makes a promise to the sister of his playmate Mangan： he will go to Araby， an open market， and bring her a present. At the end of the story， when he arrives at Araby， the bazaar is almost closed， and the boy attains some painful self-knowledge. Let's look at the questions one by one.

Question one： Where does the boy live?

The firstparagraph is revealing：

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.

It presents to us an unpleasant and grim environment. The street is “blind”， or a dead end， that is， it is closed at one end. The houses of the street are “imperturbable”， calm and collected. Both the street and the houses are personified. Their features suggest the life circumstances of their inhabitants. On the surface， life in the quiet neighborhood of North Richmond Street is decent and conventional； but that life may also be stultifying and oppressive. People watch each other for the slightest errors.

In the second paragraph， we learn about a former tenant in the boy's house， “a priest”， who “had died in the back drawing-room”. Now， “musty” air hangs throughout the room； “useless papers” litter “the waste room”. Again， these details crate a depressive and sad atmosphere， in which the boy begins his romantic quest of Mangan's sister. We become aware that the boy is “in love” with the girl.

So the second is： How does the narrator represent the boy's “love”?

This question is important because it remains the central concern of the boy and leads to his“mission” to Araby. The “love” is represented as a boyhood “crush”； or as the narrator calls it， “confused adorations”. The narrator vividly describes the boy's love. Every morning， the boy would peep under the blind to observe the girl departing the house， so that he can slyly follow her on his way to school， but when their ways separate， he'd pretend to quicken his pace and pass her. He is so passionately in love， even in the place most “hostile to romance”. In the noisy market place， he envisions himself as a brave knight， carrying a “chalice” to safety. Here we start to notice that while the boy's love is intense and passionate， it is also self-involved and even delusional. It is more likely infatuation or even bewilderment than real love. “Her name sprang to his lips at moments in strange prayers and praises”， but he “could not understand” their meanings； His “eyes were often full of tears，” but he “could not tell why”. Then this infatuation reaches its climax one evening， when Mangan's sister speaks to the boy and talks about the Araby bazaar. She regrets that she cannot go to the fair. Again， he is confused， but volunteers to attend and to bring her “something”， a present. Since then， Araby， together with the girl， becomes the center of his attention.

Our nest question is： How does the story end? Is the ending foreshadowed in any way?

We know the story ends with the boy's disappointment and failure： he misses the chance to by his gift. But this ending is foreshadowed from the moment he makes that promise. His uncle and aunt's attitude anticipates the boy's frustration. On Saturday evening， the very day he plans to go to Araby， his uncle fails to appear. He has forgotten the bazaar. His aunt is not encouraging either. “I am afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.” Later， the boy leaves for Araby. It is a pleasant journey. The train he gets on is “deserted”， and the delay “intolerable”. It travels among “ruinous houses”， and “draws up beside an improvised wooden platform”，-all suggestive of failure and decay. At last， when the boy arrives at the bazaar， it is too late. The bazaar is half closed. His lateness is a further indication of a lost opportunity or “love”. This leads to our last question：

What is the boy's epiphany?

It is easy to identify his epiphany. When finally all the lights are out and the market place becomes completely dark， the boy comes to a moment of truth in the last sentence：

Gazing up into the darknessI saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity； and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

This is a typical epiphany. Suddenly the boy comes to a self-knowledge， a kind of instant revelation of truth： he sees himself “driven and derided” by “vanity”； he feels afflicted and angry. Why is the boy so anguished and angry? Why does he call himself “vain”? Apparently the quest is in “vain”； he could not keep his promise to bring something special for Mangan's sister. But is there another layer of meaning of him being vain? Think about it.

So far we have analyzed the story in some detail. Neat， we are going to apply what we've learnt about symbol and the short story “Araby” to a more intensive study of the text. Please think about two questions before moving on.

（1）What symbols do you find in “Araby”?

（2）What do these symbols stand for?

4. Symbol

In this part， we are going to talk about two symbols： the symbol of darkness； the symbol of Araby.

First， the conventional symbol of darkness.

Throughout the story， we see images of darkness appear frequently. For example： The boy lives in a “blind” street， that is， a street with a dead-end. When “dusk” falls， the boy plays through “the dark muddy lanes” behind the houses， and runs “from the cottages”， to the dark odorous stables. Whenever a word or an object is repeated， likely it is a symbol. So， what does it represent? Darkness is not only literal， but also symbolic. First， the boy's world could be described as dark， blind and bleak. As we already mentioned， it is a world “hostile to romance”， filled with drunken men， bargaining women and cursing laborers. And it is exactly this harsh and grim environment that makes his romantic longings more intense. Second， the boy is “in the dark” too. That is， he is bind in love. Much of the action takes place in the evening， including the boy's ignorance and innocence. When the boy goes marketing with the aunt， it's “on Saturday evenings”. When he becomes absorbed in the idea of love， “murmuring： ‘O love! O love!’ Many times”， it is in a “dark raining evening”. And significantly， each time when he watches the girl， sees her or talks to her， he remains in the shadow. So in a sense darkness and blindness define the boy's character. He is a boy in need of and craving for illumination and enlightenment. In imaging himself as a romantic hero， he is incapable of distinguishing fantasy and reality. Eventually， the bazaar becomes dark and closes. “Nearly all the stalls were closed and greater part of the hall was in darkness.” Here， the literal and symbolic darkness work together to bring the story to the conclusion. The boy's expression is frustrated. The darkness reminds him of his own ignorance and foolishness. He realizes at last that he cannot honor his promise， and that he does not know anything about love. It is the boy's epiphany.

Let's move on to our second symbol， Araby.

It is a private symbol.To understand the symbolism of Araby， we may first consider the following question： Why does the boy want to go to the bazaar， or the “Araby”， so desperately? The first time the boy hears about Araby is from Mangan's sister. According to her， it is a “splendid bazaar”； and she “would love to go”. Without knowing any particulars， the boy detects from the very sound of the word Araby something most charming， even magical. To quote his own words：

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.

It is an “Eastern” thing， because Araby in late 19^th century was read as a variation the term Arabia， a mysterious and distant land. It is called an “enchantment”， a magic spell， which usually works in the realm of illusion. For the boy， Araby is more than a “bazaar”； it stands for something exotic， exciting and splendid. Besides， the boy has to go to Araby because he promises to bring a gift for the girl. Araby， like the girl， acquires significance for him. Their meanings become identical. Both of them represent something romantic and magic， an escape from the harsh reality of his daily life. Araby， in short， is his dream world. But what does he find in Araby? At the end of the story， we find the symbolism of Araby changes. Araby turns out to be a simple market， a fair where money and goods are exchanged. It is a place， “a large building”， where one could visit for one shilling. There， people are counting money. When the boy “listens to the fall of the coins”， he comes to understand the commercial nature of the bazaar. When he lets “the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in his pocket”， he accepts the fact that he is too poor to buy anything. In the end， the boy come to the epiphany that we have discuss before. Now let's think about another question： what triggers off the revelation? In what way does it relate to his realization of him “being vain”? the answer is obvious. The banal conversation between the shop-girl and two men triggers off the epiphany. Let's hear it.

“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!”

So in this silent half-dark hall， a young shop-girl is flirting with two young men. Their conversation gives the boy a glimpse into the romantic relation of the adult world， where love very often is just a “fib”， a childish lie. This contrasts sharply with his “adorations” for Mangan's sister. Then the boy realizes that his emotions are more “confused” than sincere， and that he is so “vain” that he has fantasized a relationship with her. And the girl， in fact， like the young lady， probably thinks nothing about him at all. The boy grows up. A mixed feeling of disappointment， frustration， humiliation and shame overwhelms him. Araby eventually becomes a place that coldly rejects his childish romance. It is more like a “vanity fair”， in which goods are exchanged and a person is judged by his appearance and wealth. The boy， with no money， is slightly dismissed. The enchanted dream is broken， and the harsh， mundane reality intrudes. The boy painfully comes to some sort of self-knowledge. This is the end of his childhood. This is also the end of our discussion of “Araby”. I am sure you will find more examples of symbols in the story.

5. After-Class Discussion

Why does the boy isolate himself in his room reading books and why dose he retreat into dreams of idealized love? Find the contrast between his real life and the imagined perfection.

Answer 1： Because the whole world is desperately mundane， bleak， oppressive， dull and dark，that the boy buried himself in books， had a crush on the girl， and fantasized about Araby， can all be interpreted to be the actions he took to fight against and escape from the actual world to have fun in the realm of illusion.

Answer 2： Araby is the name of the market， which has the same root as Arab with strong Oriental color.The name of the market has the exotic flavor of Arabia and the infinite charm of the eastern world， which makes the whole article full of mysterious and hazy colors and implies the protagonist's vague yearning and pursuit for love.

Answer 3： Because of the boy's life with his uncle and aunt， not his parents， it means that he might be isolated and neglected， and sometimes lacked the right relationship between his parents and his children. After he shut himself in his room， he would be able to feel the love from the society and feel the warmth.

Answer 4： Because idealized love is perfect in the boy's heart and the boy doesn't want to face the love in reality. When the teenager came to Araby at night to buy gifts， he saw a girl flirting with two British men. Their frivolous and presumptuous words are in sharp contrast to the sacred， pure and repressed love in his heart.

Answer 5： Because the boy is an innocent and sensitive boy， at this time he is looking forward to a great and sweet love.He is reading alone in the room， and it is from the side that he depicts a simple and innocent figure that has not been affected by the cruelty of social reality. But reality and ideal are different. The scene of a woman and two men flirting with each other that he has seen in Araby impacts his original pure love concept.

Answer 6： Because his real life doesn't fit his idealized dream about his love. He is somehow powerless about the fact， so he retreats into his dreams. He lives in a stultifying and conventional place， being self-involved and delusional in love. The contrast between the darkness and the blindness is obvious. The boy feels “deserted and intolerable”， while the surroundings are “ruinous and improvised wooden platform”. The “splendid bazaar” strongly contrasts with the boy's frustration and humiliation.

Answer 7： The real world is too dark and heavy for him.He needs to look for good things as a sustenance in the illusion.

Answer 8： Because his living environment is dark and because he can not even buy a gift for the girl he likes， the ideal love can allow him to escape the cruel reality.

6. Extended Reading

The Dead

（Excerpts）

By James Joyce

Lily， the caretaker's daughter， was literally run off her feet. Hardly had she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind the office on the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoat than the wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had to scamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest. It was well for her she had not to attend to the ladies also. But Miss Kate and Miss Julia had thought of that and had converted the bathroom upstairs into a ladies' dressing-room. Miss Kate and Miss Julia were there， gossiping and laughing and fussing， walking after each other to the head of the stairs， peering down over the banisters and calling down to Lily to ask her who had come.

It was always a great affair， the Misses Morkan's annual dance. Everybody who knew them came to it， members of the family， old friends of the family， the members of Julia's choir， any of Kate's pupils that were grown up enough， and even some of Mary Jane's pupils too. Never once had it fallen flat. For years and years it had gone off in splendid style， as long as anyone could remember； ever since Kate and Julia， after the death of their brother Pat， had left the house in Stoney Batter and taken Mary Jane， their only niece， to live with them in the dark， gaunt house on Usher's Island， the upper part of which they had rented from Mr. Fulham， the corn-factor on the ground floor. That was a good thirty years ago if it was a day. Mary Jane， who was then a little girl in short clothes， was now the main prop of the household， for she had the organ in Haddington Road. She had been through the Academy and gave a pupils' concert every year in the upper room of the Antient Concert Rooms. Many of her pupils belonged to the better-class families on the Kingstown and Dalkey line. Old as they were， her aunts also did their share. Julia， though she was quite grey， was still the leading soprano in Adam and Eve's， and Kate， being too feeble to go about much， gave music lessons to beginners on the old square piano in the back room. Lily， the caretaker's daughter， did housemaid's work for them. Though their life was modest， they believed in eating well； the best of everything： diamond-bone sirloins， three-shilling tea and the best bottled stout. But Lily seldom made a mistake in the orders， so that she got on well with her three mistresses. They were fussy， that was all. But the only thing they would not stand was back answers.

Of course， they had good reason to be fussy on such a night. And then it was long after ten o'clock and yet there was no sign of Gabriel and his wife. Besides they were dreadfully afraid that Freddy Malins might turn up screwed. They would not wish for worlds that any of Mary Jane's pupils should see him under the influence； and when he was like that it was sometimes very hard to manage him. Freddy Malins always came late， but they wondered what could be keeping Gabriel： and that was what brought them every two minutes to the banisters to ask Lily had Gabriel or Freddy come.

“O， Mr. Conroy，” said Lily to Gabriel when she opened the door for him， “Miss Kate and Miss Julia thought you were never coming. Good night， Mrs. Conroy.”

“I'll engage they did，” said Gabriel， “but they forget that my wife here takes three mortal hours to dress herself.”

He stood on the mat， scraping the snow from his goloshes， while Lily led his wife to the foot of the stairs and called out：

“Miss Kate， here's Mrs. Conroy.”

Kate and Julia came toddling down the dark stairs at once. Both of them kissed Gabriel's wife， said she must be perished alive， and asked was Gabriel with her.

“Here I am as right as the mail， Aunt Kate! Go on up. I'll follow，” called out Gabriel from the dark.

He continued scraping his feet vigorously while the three women went upstairs， laughing， to the ladies' dressing-room. A light fringe of snow lay like a cape on the shoulders of his overcoat and like toecaps on the toes of his goloshes； and， as the buttons of his overcoat slipped with a squeaking noise through the snow-stiffened frieze， a cold， fragrant air from out-of-doors escaped from crevices and folds.

“Is it snowing again， Mr. Conroy?” asked Lily.

She had preceded him into the pantry to help him off with his overcoat. Gabriel smiled at the three syllables she had given his surname and glanced at her. She was a slim； growing girl， palein complexion and with hay-colored hair. The gas in the pantry made her look still paler. Gabriel had known her when she was a child and used to sit on the lowest step nursing a rag doll.

“Yes， Lily，” he answered， “and I think we're in for a night of it.”

He looked up at the pantry ceiling， which was shaking with the stamping and shuffling of feet on the floor above， listened for a moment to the piano and then glanced at the girl， who was folding his overcoat carefully at the end of a shelf.

“Tell me. Lily，” he said in a friendly tone， “do you still go to school?”

“O no， sir，” she answered. “I'm done schooling this year and more.”

“O， then，” said Gabriel gaily， “I suppose we'll be going to your wedding one of these fine days with your young man， eh? ”

The girl glanced back at him over her shoulder and said with great bitterness：

“The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of you.”

Gabriel colored， as if he felt he had made a mistake and， without looking at her， kicked off his goloshes and flicked actively with his muffler at his patent-leather shoes.

He was a stout， tallish young man. The high color of his cheeks pushed upwards even to his forehead， where it scattered itself in a few formless patches of pale red； and on his hairless face there scintillated restlessly the polished lenses and the bright gilt rims of the glasses which screened his delicate and restless eyes. His glossy black hair was parted in the middle and brushed in a long curve behind his ears where it curled slightly beneath the groove left by his hat.

When he had flicked lustre into his shoes he stood up and pulled his waistcoat down more tightly on his plump body. Then he took a coin rapidly from his pocket.

“O Lily，” he said， thrusting it into her hands， “it's Christmastime， isn't it? Just... here's a little...”

He walked rapidly towards the door.

“O no， sir!” cried the girl， following him. “Really， sir， I wouldn't take it.”

“Christmas-time! Christmas-time!” said Gabriel， almost trotting to the stairs and waving hishand to her in deprecation.

The girl， seeing that he had gained the stairs， called out after him：

“Well， thank you， sir.”

He waited outside the drawing-room door until the waltz should finish， listening to the skirts that swept against it and to the shuffling of feet. He was still discomposed by the girl's bitter and sudden retort. It had cast a gloom over him which he tried to dispel by arranging his cuffs and the bows of his tie. He then took from his waistcoat pocket a little paper and glanced at the headings he had made for his speech. He was undecided about the lines from Robert Browning， for he feared they would be above the heads of his hearers. Some quotation that they would recognize from Shakespeare or from the Melodies would be better. The indelicate clacking of the men's heels and the shuffling of their soles reminded him that their grade of culture differed from his. He would only make himself ridiculous by quoting poetry to them which they could not understand. They would think that he was airing his superior education. He would fail with them just as he had failed with the girl in the pantry. He had taken up a wrong tone. His whole speech was a mistake from first to last， an utter failure.

Just then his aunts and his wife came out of the ladies' dressing-room. His aunts were two small， plainly dressed old women. Aunt Julia was an inch or so the taller. Her hair， drawn low over the tops of her ears， was grey； and grey also， with darker shadows， was her large flaccid face. Though she was stout in build and stood erect， her slow eyes and parted lips gave her the appearance of a woman who did not know where she was or where she was going. Aunt Kate was more vivacious. Her face， healthier than her sister's， was all puckers and creases， like a shriveled red apple， and her hair， braided in the same old-fashioned way， had not lost its ripe nut color.

They both kissed Gabriel frankly. He was their favorite nephew the son of their dead elder sister， Ellen， who had married T. J. Conroy of the Port and Docks.

“Gretta tells me you're not going to take a cab back to Monkstown tonight， Gabriel，” said Aunt Kate.

“No，” said Gabriel， turning to his wife， “we had quite enough of that last year， hadn't we? Don't you remember， Aunt Kate， what a cold Gretta got out of it? Cab windows rattling all the way， and the east wind blowing in after we passed Merrion. Very jolly it was. Gretta caught a dreadful cold.”

Aunt Kate frowned severely and nodded her head at every word.

“Quite right， Gabriel， quite right，” she said. “You can't be too careful.”

“But as for Gretta there，” said Gabriel， “she'd walk home in the snow if she were let.”

Mrs. Conroy laughed.

“Don't mind him， Aunt Kate，” she said. “He's really an awful bother， what with green shades for Tom's eyes at night and making him do the dumb-bells， and forcing Eva to eat the stirabout. The poor child! And she simply hates the sight of it!... O， but you'll never guess what he makes me wear now!”

She broke out into a peal of laughter and glanced at her husband， whose admiring and happy eyes had been wandering from her dress to her face and hair. The two aunts laughed heartily， too， for Gabriel's solicitude was a standing joke with them.

“Goloshes!” said Mrs. Conroy. “That's the latest. Whenever it's wet underfoot I must put on my galoshes. Tonight even， he wanted me to put them on， but I wouldn't. The next thing he'll buy me will be a diving suit.”

Gabriel laughed nervously and patted his tie reassuringly， while Aunt Kate nearly doubled herself， so heartily did she enjoy the joke. The smile soon faded from Aunt Julia's face and her mirthless eyes were directed towards her nephew's face. After a pause she asked：

“And what are goloshes， Gabriel?”

“Goloshes， Julia!” exclaimed her sister. “Goodness me， don't you know what goloshes are? You wear them over your... over your boots， Gretta， isn't it?”

“Yes，” said Mrs. Conroy. “Guttapercha things. We both have a pair now. Gabriel says everyone wears them on the Continent.”

“O， on the Continent，” murmured Aunt Julia， nodding her head slowly.

Gabriel knitted his brows and said， as if he were slightly angered：

“It's nothing very wonderful， but Gretta thinks it very funny because she says the word reminds her of Christy Minstrels.”

“But tell me， Gabriel，” said Aunt Kate， with brisk tact. “Of course， you've seen about the room. Gretta was saying...”

“O， the room is all right，” replied Gabriel. “I've taken one in the Gresham.”

“To be sure，” said Aunt Kate， “by far the best thing to do. And the children， Gretta， you're not anxious about them?”

“O， for one night，” said Mrs. Conroy. “Besides， Bessie will look after them.”

“To be sure，” said Aunt Kate again. “What a comfort it is to have a girl like that， one you can depend on! There's that Lily， I'm sure I don't know what has come over her lately. She's not the girl she was at all.”

Gabriel was about to ask his aunt some questions on this point， but she broke off suddenly to gaze after her sister， who had wandered down the stairs and was craning her neck over the banisters.

“Now， I ask you，” she said almost testily， “where is Julia going? Julia! Julia! Where are you going?”

Julia， who had gone half way down one flight， came back and announced blandly：

“Here's Freddy.”

At the same moment a clapping of hands and a final flourish of the pianist told that the waltz had ended. The drawing-room door was opened from within and some couples came out. Aunt Kate drew Gabriel aside hurriedly and whispered into his ear：

“Slip down， Gabriel， like a good fellow and see if he's all right， and don't let him up if he's screwed. I'm sure he's screwed. I'm sure he is.”

Gabriel went to the stairs and listened over the banisters. He could hear two persons talking in the pantry. Then he recognized Freddy Malins' laugh. He went down the stairs noisily.

“It's such a relief，” said Aunt Kate to Mrs. Conroy， “that Gabriel is here. I always feel easier in my mind when he's here... Julia， there's Miss Daly and Miss Power will take some refreshment. Thanks for your beautiful waltz， Miss Daly. It made lovely time.”

A tall wizen-faced man， with a stiff grizzled moustache and swarthy skin， who was passing out with his partner， said：

“And may we have some refreshment， too， Miss Morkan?”

“Julia，” said Aunt Kate summarily， “and here's Mr. Browne and Miss Furlong. Take them in， Julia， with Miss Daly and Miss Power.”

“I'm the man for the ladies，” said Mr. Browne， pursing his lips until his moustache bristledand smiling in all his wrinkles. “You know， Miss Morkan， the reason they are so fond of me is...”

He did not finish his sentence， but， seeing that Aunt Kate was out of earshot， at once led the three young ladies into the back room. The middle of the room was occupied by two square tables placed end to end， and on these Aunt Julia and the caretaker were straightening and smoothing a large cloth. On the sideboard were arrayed dishes and plates， and glasses and bundles of knives and forks and spoons. The top of the closed square piano served also as a sideboard for viands and sweets. At a smaller sideboard in one corner two young men were standing， drinking hop-bitters.

Mr. Browne led his charges thither and invited them all， in jest， to some ladies' punch， hot， strong and sweet. As they said they never took anything strong， he opened three bottles of lemonade for them. Then he asked one of the young men to move aside， and， taking hold of the decanter， filled out for himself a goodly measure of whisky. The young men eyed him respectfully while he took a trial sip.

“God help me，” he said， smiling， “it's the doctor's orders.”

His wizened face broke into a broader smile， and the three young ladies laughed in musical echo to his pleasantry， swaying their bodies to and fro， with nervous jerks of their shoulders. The boldest said：

“O， now， Mr. Browne， I'm sure the doctor never ordered anything of the kind.”

Mr. Browne took another sip of his whisky and said， with sidling mimicry：

“Well， you see， I'm like the famous Mrs. Cassidy， who is reported to have said： ‘Now， Mary Grimes， if I don't take it， make me take it， for I feel I want it.’”

His hot face had leaned forward a little too confidentially and he had assumed a very low Dublin accent so that the young ladies， with one instinct， received his speech in silence. Miss Furlong， who was one of Mary Jane's pupils， asked Miss Daly what was the name of the pretty waltz she had played； and Mr. Browne， seeing that he was ignored， turned promptly to the two young men who were more appreciative.

A red-faced young woman， dressed in pansy， came into the room， excitedly clapping her hands and crying：

“Quadrilles! Quadrilles!”

Close on her heels came Aunt Kate， crying：

“Two gentlemen and three ladies， Mary Jane!”

“O， here's Mr. Bergin and Mr. Kerrigan，” said Mary Jane. “Mr. Kerrigan， will you take Miss Power? Miss Furlong， may I get you a partner， Mr. Bergin. O， that'll just do now.”

“Three ladies， Mary Jane，” said Aunt Kate.

The two young gentlemen asked the ladies if they might have the pleasure， and Mary Jane turned to Miss Daly.

“O， Miss Daly， you're really awfully good， after playing for the last two dances， but really we're so short of ladies tonight.”

“I don't mind in the least， Miss Morkan.”

“But I've a nice partner for you， Mr. Bartell D'Arcy， the tenor. I'll get him to sing later on. All Dublin is raving about him.”

“Lovely voice， lovely voice!” said Aunt Kate.

As the piano had twice begun the prelude to the first figure Mary Jane led her recruits quickly from the room. They had hardly gone when Aunt Julia wandered slowly into the room， looking behind her at something.

“What is the matter， Julia?” asked Aunt Kate anxiously. “Who is it?”

Julia， who was carrying in a column of table-napkins， turned to her sister and said， simply， as if the question had surprised her：

“It's only Freddy， Kate， and Gabriel with him.”

In fact right behind her Gabriel could be seen piloting Freddy Malins across the landing. The latter， a young man of about forty， was of Gabriel's size and build， with very round shoulders. His face was fleshy and pallid， touched with colour only at the thick hanging lobes of his ears and at the wide wings of his nose. He had coarse features， a blunt nose， a convex and receding brow， tumid and protruded lips. His heavy-lidded eyes and the disorder of his scanty hair made him look sleepy. He was laughing heartily in a high key at a story which he had been telling Gabriel on the stairs and at the same time rubbing the knuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards into his left eye.

“Good-evening， Freddy，” said Aunt Julia.

Freddy Malins bade the Misses Morkan good-evening in what seemed an offhand fashion by reason of the habitual catch in his voice and then， seeing that Mr. Browne was grinning at him from the sideboard， crossed the room on rather shaky legs and began to repeat in an undertone the story he had just told to Gabriel.

“He's not so bad， is he?” said Aunt Kate to Gabriel.

Gabriel's brows were dark but he raised them quickly and answered：

“O， no， hardly noticeable.”

“Now， isn't he a terrible fellow!” she said. “And his poor mother made him take the pledge on New Year's Eve. But come on， Gabriel， into the drawing-room.”

Before leaving the room with Gabriel she signalled to Mr. Browne by frowning and shaking her forefinger in warning to and fro. Mr. Browne nodded in answer and， when she had gone， said to Freddy Malins：

“Now， then， Teddy， I'm going to fill you out a good glass of lemonade just to buck you up.”

Freddy Malins， who was nearing the climax of his story， waved the offer aside impatiently but Mr. Browne， having first called Freddy Malins' attention to a disarray in his dress， filled out and handed him a full glass of lemonade. Freddy Malins' left hand accepted the glass mechanically， his right hand being engaged in the mechanical readjustment of his dress. Mr. Browne， whose face was once more wrinkling with mirth， poured out for himself a glass of whisky while Freddy Malins exploded， before he had well reached the climax of his story， in a kink of high-pitched bronchitic laughter and， setting down his untasted and overflowing glass， began to rub the knuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards into his left eye， repeating words of his last phrase as well as his fit of laughter would allow him.

Gabriel could not listen while Mary Jane was playing her Academy piece， full of runs and difficult passages， to the hushed drawing-room. He liked music but the piece she was playing had no melody for him and he doubted whether it had any melody for the other listeners， though they had begged Mary Jane to play something. Four young men， who had come from the refreshment-room to stand in the doorway at the sound of the piano， had gone away quietly in couples after a few minutes. The only persons who seemed to follow the music were Mary Jane herself， her hands racing along the key-board or lifted from it at the pauses like those of a priestess in momentary imprecation， and Aunt Kate standing at her elbow to turn the page.

Gabriel's eyes， irritated by the floor， which glittered with beeswax under the heavy chandelier，wandered to the wall above the piano. A picture of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet hung there and beside it was a picture of the two murdered princes in the Tower which Aunt Julia had worked in red， blue and brown wools when she was a girl. Probably in the school they had gone to as girls that kind of work had been taught for one year. His mother had worked for him as a birthday present a waistcoat of purple tabinet， with little foxes' heads upon it， lined with brown satin and having round mulberry buttons. It was strange that his mother had had no musical talent though Aunt Kate used to call her the brains carrier of the Morkan family. Both she and Julia had always seemed a little proud of their serious and matronly sister. Her photograph stood before the pierglass. She held an open book on her knees and was pointing out something in it to Constantine who， dressed in a man-o-war suit， lay at her feet. It was she who had chosen the name of her sons for she was very sensible of the dignity of family life. Thanks to her， Constantine was now senior curate in Balbrigan and， thanks to her， Gabriel himself had taken his degree in the Royal University. A shadow passed over his face as he remembered her sullen opposition to his marriage. Some slighting phrases she had used still rankled in his memory； she had once spoken of Gretta as being country cute and that was not true of Gretta at all. It was Gretta who had nursed her during all her last long illness in their house at Monkstown.

He knew that Mary Jane must be near the end of her piece for she was playing again the opening melody with runs of scales after every bar and while he waited for the end the resentment died down in his heart. The piece ended with a trill of octaves in the treble and a final deep octave in the bass. Great applause greeted Mary Jane as， blushing and rolling up her music nervously， she escaped from the room. The most vigorous clapping came from the four young men in the doorway who had gone away to the refreshment-room at the beginning of the piece but had come back when the piano had stopped.

Lancers were arranged. Gabriel found himself partnered with Miss Ivors. She was a frank-mannered talkative young lady， with a freckled face and prominent brown eyes. She did not wear a low-cut bodice and the large brooch which was fixed in the front of her collar bore on it an Irish device and motto.

When they had taken their places she said abruptly：

“I have a crow to pluck with you.”

“With me?” said Gabriel.

She nodded her head gravely.

“What is it?” asked Gabriel， smiling at her solemn manner.

“Who is G. C.?” answered Miss Ivors， turning her eyes upon him.

Gabriel colored and was about to knit his brows， as if he did not understand， when she said bluntly：

“O， innocent Amy! I have found out that you write for The Daily Express. Now， aren't you ashamed of yourself?”

“Why should I be ashamed of myself?” asked Gabriel， blinking his eyes and trying to smile.

“Well， I'm ashamed of you，” said Miss Ivors frankly. “To say you'd write for a paper like that. I didn't think you were a West Briton.”

...