35
We’d just gone up the alley, a fly cop came along,
Looking for trouble; committing a nuisance, he said,
You come on to the station. I’m sorry, I said,
It’s no use being sorry, he said; let me get my hat, I said.
Well by a stroke of luck who came by but Mr. Donavan.
40
What’s this, officer. You’re new on this beat, aint you?
I thought so. You know who I am? Yes, I do,
Said the fresh cop, very peevish. Then let it alone,
These gents are particular friends of mine.
—Wasn’t it luck? Then we went to the German Club,
45
We and Mr. Donavan and his friend Joe Leahy,
Found it shut. I want to get home, said the cabman,
We all go the same way home, said Mr. Donavan,
Cheer up, Trixie and Stella; and put his foot through the window.
The next I know the old cab was hauled up on the avenue,
50
And the cabman and little Ben Levin the tailor,
The one who read George Meredith,
Were running a hundred yards on a bet,
And Mr. Donavan holding the watch.
So I got out to see the sunrise, and walked home. [end of leaf ]
[Commentary I 595–99 · Textual History II 372–73]
* * * *
55 [I] 1
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
[I] 5
Winter kept us warm, covering
60
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Königssee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
[I] 10
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
65
And drank coffee, talking an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
[I] 15
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
70
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
[Commentary I 599–604 · Textual History II 372–73]
* * * *
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
[I] 20
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
75
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
[I] 25
There is shadow under this red rock,
80
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
[I] 30
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
* * * *
85
Frisch schwebt der Wind
Der Heimat zu,
Mein Irisch’ Kind,
Wo weilest du?
[Commentary I 604–608 · Textual History II 373–74]
[I] 35
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
90
“They called me the hyacinth girl”.
—Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
[I] 40
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
95
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyant,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
[I] 45
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
100
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
[I] 50
The lady of situations, [end of leaf]
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
105
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I look in vain
[I] 55
For the Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
110
(I John saw these things, and heard them).
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself,
One must be so careful these days.
[Commentary I 608–16 · Textual History II 374–76]
[I] 60
Terrible city, I have sometimes seen and see
115
Under the brown fog of your winter dawn
A crowd flow over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were expired,
[I] 65
And each one kept his eyes before his feet.
120
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the time,
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson!
[I] 70
“You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
125
“That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
“Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
“Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
“Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s foe to men,
[I] 75
“Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
130
“You! hypocrite lecteur,—mon semblable,—mon frère!” [end of leaf]
[Interlude: Exequy. See “Uncollected Poems”.]
HE DO THE POLICE IN DIFFERENT VOICES: Part II.
IN THE CAGE.
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne
Glowed on the marble, where the swinging glass
Held up by standards wrought with golden vines
[II] 80
From which one tender Cupidon peeped out
135
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of seven-branched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
[II] 85
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
140
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
[II] 90
That freshened from the window, these ascended,
145
Fattening the candle flames, which were prolonged,
[Commentary I 616–26 · Textual History II 376–77]
And flung their smoke into the laquenaria,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Upon the hearth huge sea-wood fed with copper
[II] 95
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
&nbs
p; 150
In which sad light a carved dolphin swam;
Above the antique mantel was displayed
In pigment, but so lively, you had thought
A window gave upon the sylvan scene,
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
155 [II] 100
So rudely forced, yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice,
And still she cried (and still the world pursues)
Jug Jug, into the dirty ear of death;
And other tales, from the old stumps and bloody ends of time
160 [II] 105
Were told upon the walls, where staring forms
Leaned out, and hushed the room and closed it in.
There were footsteps on the stair,
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in little fiery points of will,
165 [II] 110
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
“My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
“I never know what you are thinking. Think”.
170 [II] 115
I think we met first in rats’ alley,
Where the dead men lost their bones.
“What is that noise?”
The wind under the door.
“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?” [end of leaf]
<
[Commentary I 626–33 · Textual History II 377–80]
175
Carrying
Away the little light dead people.
“Do you know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
“Nothing?”
I remember
180 [II] 125
The hyacinth garden. Those are pearls that were his eyes, yes!
“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant—
185 [II] 130
So intelligent—
“What shall I do now? What shall I do?
“I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
“With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
“What shall we ever do?”
190 [II] 135
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, the closed carriage at four.
And we shall play a game of chess:
The ivory men make company between us
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
[5-line space]
195
When Lil’s husband was coming back out of the Transport Corps
[II] 140
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME.
“Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
“He’ll want to know what you did with that money he gave you
200
“To get yourself some teeth”. He did, I was there.
[II] 145
“You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set”,
He said, “I swear, I can’t bear to look at you”.
“And no more can I”, I said, “and think of poor Albert,
[Commentary I 633–39 · Textual History II 381–83]
“He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
205
“And if you don’t give it him, there’s many another will”.
[II] 150
“Other women”, she said. “Something of that”, I said.
“Then I’ll know who to thank”, she said, and gave me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME.
“No, ma’am, you needn’t look old-fashioned at me”, I said,
210
“Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
[II] 155
“But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.
“You ought to be ashamed,” I said, “to look so antique”.
—(And her only thirty-one). “I can’t help it”, she said, putting on a long face,
215
“It’s that medicine I took, in order to bring it off”.
[II] 160
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George).
“The chemist said it would be allright, but I’ve never been the same”.
“You are a proper fool”, I said.
“Well if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is”, I said. [end of leaf]
220
“You want to keep him at home, I suppose”.
[II] 165
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME.
Well that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME.
225
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME.
[II] 170
Good night, Bill. Good night, Lou. Good night, George. Good night.
Ta ta. Good night. Good night.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night. [end of leaf]
[Interlude: Song. See “Uncollected Poems”.]
[Commentary I 639–40 · Textual History II 383–84]
THE FIRE SERMON.
Admonished by the sun’s inclining ray,
230
And swift approaches of the thievish day,
The white-armed Fresca blinks, and yawns, and gapes,
Aroused from dreams of love and pleasant rapes.
Electric summons of the busy bell
Brings brisk Amanda to destroy the spell;
235
With coarsened hand, and hard plebeian tread,
Who draws the curtain round the lacquered bed,
Depositing thereby a polished tray
Of soothing chocolate, or stimulating tea.
Leaving the bubbling beverage to cool,
240
Fresca slips softly to the needful stool,
Where the pathetic tale of Richardson
Eases her labour till the deed is done.
Then slipping back between the conscious sheets,
Explores a page of Gibbon as she eats.
245
Her hands caress the egg’s well-rounded dome,
She sinks in revery, till the letters come.
Their scribbled contents at a glance devours,
Then to reply devotes her practic’d powers.
“My dear, how are you? I’m unwell today,
250
And have been, since I saw you at the play.
I hope that nothing mars your gaity,
And things go better with you, than with me.
I went last night—more out of dull despair —
To Lady Kleinwurm’s party—who was there?
255
Oh, Lady Kleinwurm’s monde—no one that mattered—
Somebody sang, and Lady Kleinwurm chattered.
What are you reading? anything that’s new?
I have a clever book by Giraudoux.
[Commentary I 640–43 · Textual History II 384–85]
Clever, I think, is all. I’ve much to say—
260
But cannot say it—that is just my way—
When shall we meet—tell me all your manoeuvers;
And all about yourself and your new lovers—
And when to Paris? I must make an end,
My dear, believe me, your devoted
265
friend”.
This ended, to the steaming bath she moves,
Her tresses fanned by little flutt’ring Loves;
Odours, confected by the cunning French,
Disguise the good old hearty female stench. [end of leaf]
270
&n
bsp; Fresca! in other time or place had been
A meek and lowly weeping Magdalene;
More sinned against than sinning, bruised and marred,
The lazy laughing Jenny of the bard.
(The same eternal and consuming itch
275
Can make a martyr, or plain simple bitch);
Or prudent sly domestic puss puss cat,
Or autumn’s favourite in a furnished flat,
Or strolling slattern in a tawdry gown,
A doorstep dunged by every dog in town.
280
For varying forms, one definition’s right:
Unreal emotions, and real appetite.
Women grown intellectual grow dull,
And lose the mother wit of natural trull.
Fresca was baptised in a soapy sea
285
Of Symonds—Walter Pater—Vernon Lee.
The Scandinavians bemused her wits,
The Russians thrilled her to hysteric fits.
From such chaotic misch-masch potpourri
What are we to expect but poetry?
290
When restless nights distract her brain from sleep
She may as well write poetry, as count sheep.
[Commentary I 643–48 · Textual History II 385–86]
And on those nights when Fresca lies alone,
She scribbles verse of such a gloomy tone
That cautious critics say, her style is quite her own.
295
Not quite an adult, and still less a child,
By fate misbred, by flattering friends beguiled,
Fresca’s arrived (the Muses Nine declare)
To be a sort of can-can salonnière.
[III] 185
But at my back from time to time I hear
300
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
[III] 190
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse,
305
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground,
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
[III] 195
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.
The Poems of T. S. Eliot Volume I Page 26
