Portrait Of A Lady
Thou
hast
committed—
Fornication:
but
that
was
in
another
country
And
besides,
the
wench
is
dead.
The
Jew
of
Malta.
I
Among
the
smoke
and
fog
of
a
December
afternoon
You
have
the
scene
arrange
itself—as
it
will
seem
to
do—
With
"I
have
saved
this
afternoon
for
you";
And
four
wax
candles
in
the
darkened
room,
Four
rings
of
light
upon
the
ceiling
overhead,
An
atmosphere
of
Juliet's
tomb
Prepared
for
all
the
things
to
be
said,
or
left
unsaid.
We
have
been,
let
us
say,
to
hear
the
latest
Pole
Transmit
the
Preludes,
through
his
hair
and
finger-tips.
"So
intimate,
this
Chopin,
that
I
think
his
soul
Should
be
resurrected
only
among
friends
Some
two
or
three,
who
will
not
touch
the
bloom
That
is
rubbed
and
questioned
in
the
concert
room."
—And
so
the
conversation
slips
Among
velleities
and
carefully
caught
regrets
Through
attenuated
tones
of
violins
Mingled
with
remote
cornets
And
begins.
"You
do
not
know
how
much
they
mean
to
me,
my
friends,
And
how,
how
rare
and
strange
it
is,
to
find
In
a
life
composed
so
much,
so
much
of
odds
and
ends,
(For
indeed
I
do
not
love
it…
you
knew?
you
are
not
blind!
How
keen
you
are!)
To
find
a
friend
who
has
these
qualities,
Who
has,
and
gives
Those
qualities
upon
which
friendship
lives.
How
much
it
means
that
I
say
this
to
you—
Without
these
friendships—life,
what
cauchemar!"
Among
the
windings
of
the
violins
And
the
ariettes
Of
cracked
cornets
Inside
my
brain
a
dull
tom-tom
begins
Absurdly
hammering
a
prelude
of
its
own,
Capricious
monotone
That
is
at
least
one
definite
"false
note."
—Let
us
take
the
air,
in
a
tobacco
trance,
Admire
the
monuments
Discuss
the
late
events,
Correct
our
watches
by
the
public
clocks.
Then
sit
for
half
an
hour
and
drink
our
bocks.
II
Now
that
lilacs
are
in
bloom
She
has
a
bowl
of
lilacs
in
her
room
And
twists
one
in
her
fingers
while
she
talks.
"Ah,
my
friend,
you
do
not
know,
you
do
not
know
What
life
is,
you
should
hold
it
in
your
hands";
(Slowly(twisting
the
lilac
stalks)
"You
let
it
flow
from
you,
you
let
it
flow,
And
youth
is
cruel,
and
has
no
remorse
And
smiles
at
situations
which
it
cannot
see."
I
smile,
of
course,
And
go
on
drinking
tea.
"Yet
with
these
April
sunsets,
that
somehow
recall
My
buried
life,
and
Paris
in
the
Spring,
I
feel
immeasurably
at
peace,
and
find
the
world
To
be
wonderful
and
youthful,
after
all."
The
voice
returns
like
the
insistent
out-of-tune
Of
a
broken
violin
on
an
August
afternoon:
"I
am
always
sure
that
you
understand
My
feelings,
always
sure
that
you
feel,
Sure
that
across
the
gulf
you
reach
your
hand.
You
are
invulnerable,
you
have
no
Achilles'
heel.
You
will
go
on,
and
when
you
have
prevailed
You
can
say:
at
this
point
many
a
one
has
failed.
But
what
have
I,
but
what
have
I,
my
friend,
To
give
you,
what
can
you
receive
from
me?
Only
the
friendship
and
the
sympathy
Of
one
about
to
reach
her
journey's
end.
I
shall
sit
here,
serving
tea
to
friends…."
I
take
my
hat:
how
can
I
make
a
cowardly
amends
For
what
she
has
said
to
me?
You
will
see
me
any
morning
in
the
park
Reading
the
comics
and
the
sporting
page.
Particularly
I
remark
An
English
countess
goes
upon
the
stage.
A
Greek
was
murdered
at
a
Polish
dance,
Another
bank
defaulter
has
confessed.
I
keep
my
countenance,
I
remain
self-possessed
Except
when
a
street
piano,
mechanical
and
tired
Reiterates
some
worn-out
common
song
With
the
smell
of
hyacinths
across
the
garden
Recalling
things
that
other
people
have
desired.
Are
these
ideas
right
or
wrong?
III
The
October
night
comes
down;
returning
as
before
Except
for
a
slight
sensation
of
being
ill
at
ease
I
mount
the
stairs
and
turn
the
handle
of
the
door
And
feel
as
if
I
had
mounted
on
my
hands
and
knees.
"And
so
you
are
going
abroad;
and
when
do
you
return?
But
that's
a
useless
question.
You
hardly
know
when
you
are
coming
back,
You
will
find
so
much
to
learn."
My
smile
falls
heavily
among
the
bric-à-brac.
"Perhaps
you
can
write
to
me."
My
self-possession
flares
up
for
a
second;
This
is
as
I
had
reckoned.
"I
have
been
wondering
frequently
of
late
(But
our
beginnings
never
know
our
ends!)
Why
we
have
not
developed
into
friends."
I
feel
like
one
who
smiles,
and
turning
shall
remark
Suddenly,
his
expression
in
a
glass.
My
self-possession
gutters;
we
are
really
in
the
dark.
"For
everybody
said
so,
all
our
friends,
They
all
were
sure
our
feelings
would
relate
So
closely!
I
myself
can
hardly
understand.
We
must
leave
it
now
to
fate.
You
will
write,
at
any
rate.
Perhaps
it
is
not
too
late.
I
shall
sit
here,
serving
tea
to
friends."
And
I
must
borrow
every
changing
shape
To
find
expression…
dance,
dance
Like
a
dancing
bear,
Cry
like
a
parrot,
chatter
like
an
ape.
Let
us
take
the
air,
in
a
tobacco
trance—
Well!
and
what
if
she
should
die
some
afternoon,
Afternoon
grey
and
smoky,
evening
yellow
and
rose;
Should
die
and
leave
me
sitting
pen
in
hand
With
the
smoke
coming
down
above
the
housetops;
Doubtful,
for
quite
a
while
Not
knowing
what
to
feel
or
if
I
understand
Or
whether
wise
or
foolish,
tardy
or
too
soon…
Would
she
not
have
the
advantage,
after
all?
This
music
is
successful
with
a
"dying
fall"
Now
that
we
talk
of
dying—
And
should
I
have
the
right
to
smile?
Thomas Stearns Eliot
T.S. Eliot (born September 26, 1888, St. Louis, Missouri, U.S.—died January 4, 1965, London, England) American-English poet, playwright, literary critic, and editor, a leader of the Modernist movement in poetry in such works as The Waste Land (1922) and Four Quartets (1943). Eliot exercised a strong influence on Anglo-American culture from the 1920s until late in the century. His experiments in diction, style, and versification revitalized English poetry, and in a series of critical essays he shattered old orthodoxies and erected new ones. The publication of Four Quartets led to his recognition as the greatest living English poet and man of letters, and in 1948 he was awarded both the Order of Merit and the Nobel Prize for Literature. Eliot advocates a traditionalism in religion, society, and literature that seems at odds with his pioneer activity as a poet. But although the Eliot of Notes towards the Definition of Culture (1948) is an older man than the poet of The Waste Land, it should not be forgotten that for Eliot tradition is a living organism comprising past and present in constant mutual interaction.