Chapter 18
poem eighteen of thirty american poems by various portrait of a lady by t s eliot this letter box recording is in the public domain reading by matt perard 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 poll transmit the preludes through his hair and finger-tips so intimate this
that i think his soul should be resurrected only among friends some two or three who will not touch the balloon that is rubbed and questioned in the concert-room and so the conversation slips among vellities 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 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 koshimar among the windings of the violins and the harrietts 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 and 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 box two now that lilacs are in bloom she has a bowl of lilacs in her room and twist one in her fingers while she talks ah my friend you do not know you do not know what life is you who 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 a smell of hyacinths across the garden recalling things that other people have desired are these ideas right or wrong three 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 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 brac perhaps you can write to me my self-possession 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 find expression dance dance like a dancing bear cry like a parrot chatter like an ape let us take the air and a tobacco trance well and what if she should die some afternoon afternoon gray and smoky evening yellow and rose should die and leave me sitting pen in hand with the smoke coming down above the house-tops 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 end of the poem this recording is in the public domain
