“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.
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 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 pervades 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 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.