PORTRAIT OF A LADY

Thou hast committed—Fornication: but that was in another country,And besides, the wench is dead.The Jew of Malta

Thou hast committed—

Fornication: but that was in another country,

And besides, the wench is dead.

The Jew of Malta

IAmongthe smoke and fog of a December afternoonYou 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 tombPrepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.We have been, let us say, to hear the latest PoleTransmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.“So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soulShould be resurrected only among friendsSome two or three, who will not touch the bloomThat is rubbed and questioned in the concert room.”—And so the conversation slipsAmong velleities and carefully caught regretsThrough attenuated tones of violinsMingled with remote cornetsAnd begins.“You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,And how, how rare and strange it is, to findIn 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 givesThose qualities upon which friendship lives.How much it means that I say this to you—Without these friendships—life, whatcauchemar!”Among the windings of the violinsAnd the ariettesOf cracked cornetsInside my brain a dull tom-tom beginsAbsurdly hammering a prelude of its own,Capricious monotoneThat is at least one definite “false note”.—Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,Admire the monumentsDiscuss the late events,Correct our watches by the public clocks.Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.IINow that lilacs are in bloomShe has a bowl of lilacs in her roomAnd twists them in her fingers while she talks.“Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not knowWhat life is, you who hold it in your hands;”(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)“You let it flow from you, you let it flowAnd youth is cruel, and has no remorseAnd smiles at situations which it cannot see.”I smile, of course,And go on drinking tea.“Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recallMy buried life, and Paris in the Spring,I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the worldTo be wonderful and youthful, after all.”The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tuneOf a broken violin on an August afternoon:“I am always sure that you understandMy 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 prevailedYou 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 sympathyOf 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 amendsFor what she has said to me?You will see me any morning in the parkReading the comics and the sporting page.Particularly I remarkAn 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-possessedExcept when a street piano, mechanical and tiredReiterates some worn-out common songWith the smell of hyacinths across the gardenRecalling things that other people have desired.Are these ideas right or wrong?IIIThe October night comes down; returning as beforeExcept for a slight sensation of being ill at easeI mount the stairs and turn the handle of the doorAnd 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;Thisis 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 remarkSuddenly, 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 relateSo 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 shapeTo find expression ... dance, danceLike 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 handWith the smoke coming down above the house-tops;Doubtful, for quite a whileNot knowing what to feel or if I understandOr 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?

Amongthe smoke and fog of a December afternoonYou 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 tombPrepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.We have been, let us say, to hear the latest PoleTransmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.“So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soulShould be resurrected only among friendsSome two or three, who will not touch the bloomThat is rubbed and questioned in the concert room.”—And so the conversation slipsAmong velleities and carefully caught regretsThrough attenuated tones of violinsMingled with remote cornetsAnd begins.

Amongthe 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 findIn 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 givesThose qualities upon which friendship lives.How much it means that I say this to you—Without these friendships—life, whatcauchemar!”Among the windings of the violinsAnd the ariettesOf cracked cornetsInside my brain a dull tom-tom beginsAbsurdly hammering a prelude of its own,Capricious monotoneThat is at least one definite “false note”.—Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,Admire the monumentsDiscuss the late events,Correct our watches by the public clocks.Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.

“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, whatcauchemar!”

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.

Now that lilacs are in bloomShe has a bowl of lilacs in her roomAnd twists them in her fingers while she talks.“Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not knowWhat life is, you who hold it in your hands;”(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)“You let it flow from you, you let it flowAnd youth is cruel, and has no remorseAnd smiles at situations which it cannot see.”I smile, of course,And go on drinking tea.

Now that lilacs are in bloom

She has a bowl of lilacs in her room

And twists them 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 recallMy buried life, and Paris in the Spring,I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the worldTo be wonderful and youthful, after all.”

“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-tuneOf a broken violin on an August afternoon:“I am always sure that you understandMy feelings, always sure that you feel,Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.

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 prevailedYou can say: at this point many a one has failed.

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 sympathyOf one about to reach her journey’s end.

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 amendsFor what she has said to me?

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 parkReading the comics and the sporting page.Particularly I remarkAn 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-possessedExcept when a street piano, mechanical and tiredReiterates some worn-out common songWith the smell of hyacinths across the gardenRecalling things that other people have desired.Are these ideas right or wrong?

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 beforeExcept for a slight sensation of being ill at easeI mount the stairs and turn the handle of the doorAnd feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.

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.

“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;Thisis 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.”

“Perhaps you can write to me.”

My self-possession flares up for a second;

Thisis 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 remarkSuddenly, his expression in a glass.My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.

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 relateSo 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.

“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 shapeTo find expression ... dance, danceLike a dancing bear,Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance—

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 handWith the smoke coming down above the house-tops;Doubtful, for quite a whileNot knowing what to feel or if I understandOr 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?

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 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?

Back to Index Next