Thou hast committed —
Fornication: but that was in another country,
And besides, the wench is dead.
(The Jew of Malta)
I
1Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
2You have the scene arrange itself — as it will seem to do—
3With "I have saved this afternoon for you";
4And four wax candles in the darkened room,
5Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
6An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb
7Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
8We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole
9Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.
10"So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul
11Should be resurrected only among friends
12Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
13That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room."
14—And so the conversation slips
15Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
16Through attenuated tones of violins
17Mingled with remote cornets
18And begins.
19"You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
20And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
21In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
22(For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind!
23How keen you are!)
24To find a friend who has these qualities,
25Who has, and gives
26Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
27How much it means that I say this to you —
28Without these friendships — life, what cauchemar!"
29Among the winding of the violins
30And the ariettes
31Of cracked cornets
32Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
33Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
34Capricious monotone
35That is at least one definite "false note."
36— Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,
37Admire the monuments,
38Discuss the late events,
39Correct our watches by the public clocks.
40Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.
II
41Now that lilacs are in bloom
42She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
43And twists one in her fingers while she talks.
44"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
45What life is, you who hold it in your hands";
46(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
47"You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
48And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
49And smiles at situations which it cannot see."
50I smile, of course,
51And go on drinking tea.
52"Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall
53My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,
54I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
55To be wonderful and youthful, after all."
56The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune
57Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:
58"I am always sure that you understand
59My feelings, always sure that you feel,
60Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.
61You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel.
62You will go on, and when you have prevailed
63You can say: at this point many a one has failed.
64But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
65To give you, what can you receive from me?
66Only the friendship and the sympathy
67Of one about to reach her journey's end.
68I shall sit here, serving tea to friends ...."
69I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends
70For what she has said to me?
71You will see me any morning in the park
72Reading the comics and the sporting page.
73Particularly I remark.
74An English countess goes upon the stage.
75A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance,
76Another bank defaulter has confessed.
77I keep my countenance,
78I remain self-possessed
79Except when a street-piano, mechanical and tired
80Reiterates some worn-out common song
81With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
82Recalling things that other people have desired.
83Are these ideas right or wrong?
III
84The October night comes down; returning as before
85Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
86I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
87And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
88"And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
89But that's a useless question.
90You hardly know when you are coming back,
91You will find so much to learn."
92My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac.
93"Perhaps you can write to me."
94My self-possession flares up for a second;
95This is as I had reckoned.
96"I have been wondering frequently of late
97(But our beginnings never know our ends!)
98Why we have not developed into friends."
99I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark
100Suddenly, his expression in a glass.
101My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.
102"For everybody said so, all our friends,
103They all were sure our feelings would relate
104So closely! I myself can hardly understand.
105We must leave it now to fate.
106You will write, at any rate.
107Perhaps it is not too late.
108I shall sit here, serving tea to friends."
109And I must borrow every changing shape
110To find expression ... dance, dance
111Like a dancing bear,
112Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.
113Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance—
114Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,
115Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
116Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
117With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
118Doubtful, for quite a while
119Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
120Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon ...
121Would she not have the advantage, after all?
122This music is successful with a "dying fall"
123Now that we talk of dying—
124And should I have the right to smile?
T. S. Eliot's "Portrait of a Lady" is a long narrative poem that describes a young man's visits to the home of an older female acquaintance (the lady of the title). Their meetings, in the speaker's mind, are stilted and monotonous; though the lady wishes to form a deeper connection with the speaker, the social conventions of polite society seem to prevent either person from sharing how they truly feel, and their relationship remains shallow and strained. This free verse poem is divided into three parts, tracking the speaker's visits to this woman's home over the course of about a year, at which point he breaks things off and moves abroad. Written during Eliot's year in Paris from 1910-1911, "Portrait of a Lady" is an example of the Modernist poet's highly influential early work, which plays on themes such as social rituals, isolation, and unrequited love to explore the anxieties of the modern world.
"You have had extramarital sex, but it was in a different country, and the woman is dead anyways." — Quotation from The Jew of Malta, a play by Christopher Marlow.
Part I
On a smoggy December afternoon, the setting appears to set itself up on its own, as it always does, with sayings like "I have reserved this time for you" and four candles casting halos of light on the ceiling of an otherwise dark room. Reminiscent of the tomb where Juliet (of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet) died, the ambiance of the room is perfect for all the things that will be said (or not said) there. Let's say that we just went to a performance by whichever Polish musician is now in fashion, and watched as his expression flowed through his body. "This piece by Chopin is so deep and personal that it should only be played in the company of two or three friends, people who won't agitate such a beautiful, delicate piece, which is disrupted in a larger venue." Our conversation meanders through the surface level of our thoughts and feelings, all while muffled horns and violins play in the background.
"You don't know how important my friends are to me, and how difficult it is, while leading a life made up of such random, meaningless activities (I don't love this sort of lifestyle... You were already aware? You do pay attention, after all! You're so perceptive!) to find a friend who has the right characteristics—someone who both possesses and gives the qualities necessary for a meaningful friendship. In fact, it's so important that I'll tell you this: without true friendships, life is a nightmare!" Amidst the winding violins and little melodies of damaged horns, a dull drum starts beating its own song inside my head. This song is prone to sudden changes, but it is still prolonged, boring, and inexpressive, with at least one incorrectly-played note. Let's get some air, all while in a gaze of tobacco smoke, and admire the local landmarks, talk about current events, adjust our watches using public clocks, and then sit around drinking beer for half an hour.
II
Now that lilacs are in season, the lady displays them in her room, fiddling with one as she speaks. "Oh, my friend, you don't really understand life, even though it's right in front of you." (She continues twisting the lilac stems.) "You go with the flow, letting life pass by. Youth is callous and doesn't feel guilt, and it brashly smiles in the face of things it does not recognize or understand." As one might expect, I continue smiling and sipping my tea. "Still, the sunsets in April remind me of my own youth, long gone, and Paris during Spring, so I feel extremely peaceful, and find that the world is actually delightful and youthful in the end."
Her voice starts again like the unrelenting, off-key song of a broken violin on an afternoon in August. "I'm always certain that you understand my emotions, always certain that you perceive them, certain that you reach out to me across this gap.
"Nothing can hurt you, because you have no fatal flaw. You'll just keep living your life, and when you have succeeded, you can say: many other people have failed at this point.
"But what do I have, what do I have, to offer you, my friend? What can you glean from me? Just the companionship and compassion of someone nearing death.
"So I'll keep sitting here, drinking tea with my friends."
I got my hat, preparing to leave. How can I timidly make up for what she's just told me? I spend each morning in the park, reading the comics and sports sections of the newspaper. In particular, I've noticed the following headlines: an English noblewoman is becoming an actress, a Greek person was killed at a Polish dance, and another person who failed to repay a bank loan has admitted wrongdoing. I maintain my outward composure and control over my emotions—that is, until a worn-out, mechanized piano on the street starts reciting a stale and overplayed song. Its tune mingles with the fragrance of hyacinths, reminding me of things that other people long for. I'm left wondering whether their romantic desires are right or wrong.
III
The October evening descends, and I go back to her home. This trip is similar to those before, except that I feel slight discomfort. I climb the stairs and open the door, feeling defeated, like I've been brought to my hands and knees. "So, you'll be traveling abroad. When will you get back? But that's a silly thing to ask, as you probably don't know, and you'll find so much to explore while you're away." With great effort, I smile at all her knickknacks.
"Maybe you'll be able to write me letters." My self-assurance comes back in a momentary flash, as I'd expected this sort of romantic advance. "I've been wondering lately (but when we start something, we never know how it will turn out in the end!) why the two of us haven't developed a real friendship." I feel like a person who smiles and turns around only to be suddenly taken aback by the expression he sees in the mirror. My self-assurance falters; we're in a state of complete ignorance.
"Because everyone said we would, all of our mutual friends. They were all certain that we would empathize with one another! I struggle to understand it myself. But now, we must leave our relationship in the hands of fate. Besides, you will write, and maybe our relationship can be salvaged yet. In the meantime, I'll keep sitting here, drinking tea with my friends." I have to adopt the behavior of others in order to express myself, dancing like a dancing bear, crying out like a parrot, and babbling like an ape. Let's get some air in a haze of tobacco smoke. Well then! What if she dies on a gray and hazy afternoon and enters a more pleasant, yellow and pink evening atmosphere? What if she leaves me sitting with a pen in my hand, smog drifting down from the rooftops, unsure of my feelings, my knowledge, my wisdom or foolishness, hastiness or lateness... If that were to happen, wouldn't she have the upper-hand in the end? The music gradually decreases in volume, in a "dying fall," as this talk of death has reminded me... And should I be entitled to smile?
The speaker of “Portrait of a Lady” reflects on his last three meetings with an older female acquaintance. Though they enjoy the benefits of modern society—especially its emphasis on intellectualism, the arts, and leisure—both figures’ daily lives are repetitive and tiresome, and they seem to drift through their cultured routines in a disconnected haze. The meaninglessness of their day-to-day existences leaves both the speaker and the lady feeling dissatisfied, and through this, the poem suggests that modern life is a tedious, shallow, and ultimately unfulfilling affair.
Both the speaker and the lady partake in fashionable modern activities, yet their lifestyles are boring and repetitive:
Boredom and repetition are not confined to the speaker and the lady’s visits, either, but pervade these characters’ daily lives:
Again, then, it seems that the leisurely activities of modern life blend together, becoming nothing but expected routines that leave both the speaker and the lady feeling unimpressed and unfulfilled:
The poem thus suggests that modern life, though full of culture and leisure, can’t give the speaker or the lady the sense of meaning or fulfillment they crave. Instead, the tedium and superficiality of the speaker and the lady’s daily lives leave them feeling jaded and listless.
The poem suggests that emotional intimacy offers a reprieve from the meaninglessness of high society life, yet the interactions between the young man and the lady are as superficial and dull as the monotonous activities that fill their days. Throughout their awkward interactions, it becomes clear that their commitment to being polite and “proper” holds them back from open and honest communication, and thus from experiencing the intimacy required to form fulfilling relationships.
Genuine relationships appear to be the only hope for a break from the superficiality and meaninglessness of both characters’ social lives:
Yet even as these characters seem to crave emotional connection, such connection is “rare and strange” in upper-class circles that reward propriety and formality:
Because neither party is able to speak openly and honestly, both miss out on the chance for what might have been a meaningful relationship:
The one thing the lady does seem to be upfront about is their failure to form an emotional connection. But when the young man is faced with his own lack of emotional intelligence, he remarks, “I must borrow every changing shape / to find expression…” In other words, he is so unsure of how to handle emotional expression—and so mired in social convention—that he resorts to mimicking the behaviors of others.
In the end, it’s clear that the value that their social circles place on respectability, politeness, and formality prevents the young man and the lady from the communication required of genuine relationships. Both characters display a profound discomfort and distaste for sincerity and authenticity, which prevents them from finding the emotional intimacy they crave.
The older lady of the poem’s title suggests that the speaker’s nonchalant approach to life is immature and dangerous. Young people, the lady implies, aren’t nearly as invincible as they think they are—and are in fact dangerously blind to the struggles that the future may hold. By contrast, the lady says that old age grants wisdom and perspective that the speaker would do well to heed—lest he end up lonely and regretful like her. Ultimately, the poem implies, young people lack the experience required to make the most of their lives while they still can. In other words, youth is wasted on the young.
The lady believes that young people take their youth for granted and don’t fully think through the repercussions of their decisions:
The lady’s own loneliness late in life is a testament to the perils of a wasted youth. The lady suggests that she was never able to find meaning and connection as a younger woman, and thus is left sitting in the same spot mournfully “serving tea to friends” throughout her final days. This might be the young man’s fate too, should he disregard her warning to live more thoughtfully.
Yet time also granted the lady the wisdom and experience that she once lacked. Through this, the lady seems to find peace and acceptance in her old age, saying in response to her past, “I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world / To be wonderful and youthful, after all.” The painful irony here is that the lady has learned to appreciate her life and see the wonder of youth only after it’s gone—and it seems she fears that the speaker will face the same fate.
The speaker’s response to the lady’s comments confirms her fears about his immaturity. Instead of taking her advice to heart, he seems to carry on with his frivolous routines:
Without the maturity and perspective necessary to put the lady’s teachings into practice, the speaker will continue to lead a rudderless existence—only understanding the preciousness of his youth after it’s gone.
Thou hast committed —
Fornication: but that was in another country,
And besides, the wench is dead.
(The Jew of Malta)
"Portrait of a Lady" makes two allusions that set up the poem before it even begins. These allusions introduce some of the poem's key themes and motifs, such as romance, guilt, class, and death.
The first allusion is the poem's title itself, which recalls Henry James's 1881 novel The Portrait of a Lady:
Like Isabel, the speaker of Eliot's poem tries to maintain his independence by traveling and rebuffing romantic advances, but, in doing so, he gives up the opportunity for fulfilling relationships and is left only with empty relationships and social rituals. The allusion to Isabel in the poem's title thus calls attention to her similarities with the speaker—and not with the lady, as one might expect! Indeed, this "Portrait of a Lady" shapes up to really be a portrait of the speaker, and it suggests that he will share Isabel's bleak fate if he doesn't heed the lady's warnings.
The poem itself then opens with an epigraph, which is adapted from Christopher Marlowe's play The Jew of Malta. This drama follows a Maltese Jewish Merchant named Barabas, who goes on a murder spree after having his fortunes stripped away by the local government. In this extract from Act IV, two friars confront Barabas, accusing him of murder. He responds by interrupting them and admitting to a number of lesser, unrelated crimes such as extramarital sex. The original quote thus has multiple speakers:
Friar Barnadine: Thou has committed—
Barabas: Fornication: but that was in another country;
And besides, the wench is dead.
Because the dialogue is combined in the epigraph, its speaker seems to interrupt and argue against himself. Fittingly enough, given this opening epigraph, the speaker of "Portrait of a Lady" will go on to question and contradict himself throughout the poem.
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.
Unlock all 447 words of this analysis of Lines 1-7 of “Portrait of a Lady,” and get the Line-by-Line Analysis for every poem we cover.
Plus so much more...
Get LitCharts A+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 winding 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 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 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 the smell of hyacinths across the garden
Recalling things that other people have desired.
Are these ideas right or wrong?
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?
"Portrait of a Lady" begins "[a]mong the smoke and fog of a December afternoon." Smoke and fog are common symbols of industrialization and modernization in Eliot's work, and here might be said to represent the ills of modern life—specifically the way that modern life, in his take, prevents genuine intimacy and communication.
The poem suggests that modernization leaves people feeling alienated and emotionally detached. To that end, the speaker repeatedly hopes to escape the lady’s sentimentality by disappearing into a hazy cloud of tobacco smoke. His desire for a "tobacco trance" implies that he's more comfortable with meaningless interactions than with attempts at connection; he'd rather remain alienated than make himself emotionally vulnerable.
However, as the poem closes, the speaker envisions the lady dying and leaving him alone on an "afternoon grey and smoky"—with only his empty routines and shallow friendships to comfort him. The smoke here reinforces the all-pervasive environment of loneliness and alienation—anxieties that "pollute" the modern world.
As each section of the poem opens, the speaker announces the time of year during which he visits the lady, allowing the audience to track the progression of their relationship. Because they mark time’s passage, the seasons might be interpreted as symbols for the phases of life: spring represents youth, while winter signifies old age and death. It's no coincidence, then, that the speaker visits the lady for the last time in October—shortly before winter's arrival. This final meeting marks the end of their relationship, as the speaker plans on traveling and implies that the lady will die soon.
Spring, by contrast, is a time of freshness in the poem, and the floral imagery throughout reinforces this symbolism. In the second section, for example, the lady twists fresh lilac stems while explaining the dangers of youthful ignorance, demonstrating the fragility of "new life" (represented here by those newly bloomed flowers).
In the same conversation, the lady explains that "April sunsets" and "Paris in the Spring" fill her with comfort and hope, stirring up her "buried life" (that is, her youth, her former dreams and desires). Spring and its flowers thus also represent the sort of openness that unsettles the speaker, who is bristles at such sentimentality. The speaker even finds himself losing his composure when he smells "hyacinths across the garden"—a fact that emphasizes his extreme aversion to intimacy or emotional vulnerability.
Music appears in several forms throughout the poem, usually during the speaker’s conversations with the lady: it's either playing in the background, used to describe the lady’s voice, or comes across a figment of the speaker’s imagination. All this music can be taken as a symbol of their social interactions, or perhaps of intimacy more generally.
At first, the speaker describes expressive classical music playing in the background of his conversations with the lady. His references to the Romantic-era virtuoso Chopin and a pianist whose tune flows "through his hair and finger-tips" play up the sentimental, intimate connotations of music.
However, as the speaker’s conversations with the lady go on—the lady revealing more personal information and discussing romantic subjects such as youth and relationships—the speaker starts to hear a "dull” and "out-of-tune" song pounding in his head. This mixes with the sound of "cracked coronets" (essentially, broken trumpets), suggesting a painful cacophony in the speaker's mind. He even compares the lady's voice to the sound of an "insistent out-of-tune / [...] broken violin" The speaker also feels tormented by the popular music played by a street-piano. The speaker's aversion to all this music reflects his aversion to romance and intimacy.
On the most basic level, alliteration adds sonic interest and music to the poem (we've highlighted some specific examples of alliteration here). It often mirrors the literal music that the speaker hears, in fact, and in doing so makes the poem all the more immediate and vivid for readers. Take, for example, the “cracked cornets” from line 31, the sharp alliteration of which reinforces the idea that a song “hammers” in the speaker’s head.
As with other forms of repetition, the reappearance of many similar sounds also makes the speaker and the lady’s interactions seem all the more predictable. Hearing the same sounds over and over again evokes the repetitive nature of their lives. In fact, alliteration actually appears within the two lines that the poem repeats directly, which describe each character’s typical routines:
Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends
Alliteration also just makes phrases like this more memorable, making them linger in the reader's mind. Consonance enhances the effect; note how sharp /k/ sounds echo in "take"/"tobacco," and how the /s/ sound of "trance" continues into the next line with "sit"/"serving."
Finally, alliteration can place additional emphasis on certain words and phrases. Take the lady's dialogue in line 19:
"You do not know, you do not know / How much they mean to me, my friends,
The clear alliteration here evokes the lady's sheer insistence on her point (that is, that friendship is deeply important to her).
Unlock all 539 words of this analysis of Allusion in “Portrait of a Lady,” and get the poetic device analyses for every poem we cover.
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Get LitCharts A+Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
Extramarital sex.
"Portrait of a Lady" is written in a stream of consciousness style, meaning that the language mimics the organic flow of the speaker's thoughts. This technique gives readers access to the speaker's mind in real-time. And as would make sense for such a loosely flowing poem, "Portrait of a Lady" is written in free verse. It does use rhyme and meter from time to time, but it never sticks to a particular meter or rhyme scheme for long. Instead, the poem's long, sprawling stanzas and uneven line lengths evoke the speaker's meandering thoughts.
That said, the poem is arranged into three parts of similar lengths, each of which represents one of the speaker's visits to the lady's home over the course of a year. These parts correspond with the changing seasons:
Each part also follows the same narrative structure:
These parallel narratives reinforce the repetitiveness of these meetings. And, as a result, any breaks from this narrative structure draw attention. In particular, throughout the third and final section, the speaker seems uncomfortable and struggles to maintain his composure throughout the entire interaction (presumably because his "self-possession" has already degraded beyond repair, and he feels guilty about how he's treated the lady by this point in their relationship).
While this poem does not follow a strict meter and is probably best deemed free verse, it is mostly made up of iambs (poetic feet with an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable, da-DUM). The actual number of syllables per line varies greatly, but this general iambic rhythm stays the same regardless. For example, here's a look at the meter in lines 29-31:
Among the winding of the violins
And the ariettes
Of cracked cornets
As readers can see here, even these lines aren't entirely iambic ("And the ar-" is a foot called an anapest, da-da-DUM), but, in general, there's a bouncy, rising rhythm, with unstressed beats being followed up by stressed beats throughout the poem. This makes the poem feel generally rhythmic and perhaps even a bit monotonous or stilted. In this way, the iambic rhythm subtly reflects the calculated, formal nature of the speaker and the lady's interactions.
At the same, there's nothing overly strict about this iambic meter. Lines switch things up all the time, which is in keeping with the poem's broader stream of consciousness style, and which keeps the poem feeling immediate and conversational.
This poem uses plenty of rhyme, but it doesn't follow a particular rhyme scheme. Most lines, in fact, rhyme will with another at some point in the poem, but there's no clear pattern to this. Some rhymes appear very close together, as in lines 12-13:
Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room."
Other rhymes are so far apart that readers might miss them, as in lines 23 and 28:
How keen you are!)
[...]
Without these friendships — life, what cauchemar!"
The poem is thus musical but still conversational; its rhyme aren't overly obvious or formulaic.
Occasionally, the appearance of several rhymes in rapid succession suggests a state of emotional frenzy. For instance, in lines 105-107, the lady assures the speaker that she can accept the fact that they haven't become friends even as her rapid, frantic statements suggest she's not all that happy about this turn of events:
We must leave it now to fate.
You will write, at any rate.
Perhaps it is not too late.
On the other hand, lines without a rhyming pair at all in the poem create a sense of discomfort—almost as if a word is out of place or going unacknowledged. Unrhymed lines tend to reinforce the suggestion that something is "off," such as when the speaker notices a "false note" in line 35, or imagines being surprised by "his expression in a glass" in line 100.
The speaker of "Portrait of a Lady" is a young man who pays frequent visits to an older woman who clearly wants to form a more intimate relationship with him. Despite the lady's attempts to grow closer, though, the speaker comes across as somewhat callous or—at the very least—unsure about the idea of forming a tight bond with her. Seeing these visits as little more than dreadful social obligations, the speaker makes every attempt to maintain a sense of emotional distance. Part of this means politely keeping his true feelings hidden, smiling regardless of his irritation or discomfort.
Since the lady and the speaker are engaged in a cat-and-mouse courtship governed by social conventions, it's reasonable to assume that the speaker is a man. Based on the lady’s comments, readers also understand that he's a young man, or at least notably younger than her. And given that he travels abroad, it's evident that he's an upper-class man—a member of "polite society."
The speaker is often thought to be an alter ego of Eliot himself, who moved in similar social circles and encountered many figures like both the lady and the speaker. Eliot also traveled abroad and corresponded at length with a woman named Emily Hale, who expected him to marry her (though he never did). Many scholars believe this poem is inspired by their relationship, which was known to be highly formal and polite.
The poem seems to take place at some point in the 19th or 20th century, when it would have been especially common for people to attend concerts to hear Frédéric Chopin's "Preludes." And though references to smog imply that "Portrait of a Lady" is set in a city, the majority of the poem's events take place in the lady's home, presumably in a drawing room or another intimate space for entertaining guests. This home is full of "bric-à-brac" (random, meaningless items of little worth), but she tries to set a romantic mood with music, candles, and flowers.
Tired of the lady's sentimentality and attempts at intimacy, the speaker seems to prefer spending time in public spaces like a park or garden. The lady's home, then, perhaps represents a kind of intimacy the speaker is hesitant to embrace, whereas public spaces represent a sense of emotional distance—something the speaker is more comfortable with.
However, the city doesn't actually seem to satisfy the speaker all that much, since his activities—like reading the newspaper in the park and listening to people play the same old songs on a nearby piano—are empty and repetitive. Both of the poem's main settings (the lady's home and the surrounding city) are therefore characterized by oppressive boredom and anxiety, reflecting the universal horror of the modern world.
T. S. Eliot wrote "Portrait of a Lady" while studying abroad in Paris from 1910 to 1911. This was a productive time for the young poet—a period during which he also wrote "Preludes," "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and other key early works. In fact, these poems appear together in his 1917 collection Prufrock and Other Observations.
In the book, "Portrait of a Lady" appears directly after "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and is often discussed as its companion piece, since both satirize modern society through a stream-of-consciousness portrayal of failed romance. However, the gender dynamics are reversed; in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," the speaker (Prufrock) is a lonely older man who struggles to express his feelings and forge the intimate relationships he craves. Prufrock himself could thus be seen as an older version of the speaker in "Portrait of a Lady"—especially if that speaker ends up disregarding the lady's warnings and continues to lead a rudderless, emotionally detached life.
Before setting off for Paris, Eliot came across the works of the French Symbolists and was taken by the work of Jules Laforgue and Charles Baudelaire. He admired their vivid, symbolic images, which viscerally conveyed emotion while still leaving room for analysis. As Eliot turned towards Symbolism, he also turned away from the expressive ideals of Romanticism. This shift helped usher in Modernism, the largest and most influential artistic movement of the 20th century.
"Portrait of a Lady" contains quintessential elements of modernist literature, which often uses free verse, a detached speaker, and multiple cultural references. Eliot frequently alluded to great literary works of the past, borrowing images, phrases, and ideas. This called attention to obscure or largely forgotten works—like, for example, the Marlowe epigraph at the beginning of "Portrait of a Lady."
Born in St. Louis, Missouri in 1888, Eliot grew up during the Second Industrial Revolution and saw the rapid development of the midwestern United States. He also witnessed the resulting environmental devastation and the atmosphere of anxiety that came with such sudden mechanized change.
The late 1800s are now known as the “Gilded Age”—a time of excess and consumption for the rich, who became richer as the poor grew poorer. Eliot himself was a member of a well-to-do family with a prestigious reputation, and he traveled in Europe in the early 1900s, experiencing great leisure even in a time of growing economic inequality. These travels exposed him to the art and culture of international cities, but he also absorbed the urban landscapes, perhaps noticing the poverty present in even the most opulent cities. In other words, Eliot always saw—and portrayed—both sides of city life.
Given the status of Eliot’s family, he was intimately familiar with the restrictive norms and social practices of the upper class. For example, women were expected not to be too "forward" about their desires, and romantic advancements were supposed to be declined delicately—a convention that Eliot spotlights in "Portrait of a Lady."
Many scholars have concluded that the events of this poem are based on Eliot’s real-life relationship with a woman named Emily Hale. There was not a pronounced age gap between the two (Eliot was older by a few years), but Eliot and Hale had an extremely drawn-out courtship that included over 1,000 letters. Hale expected Eliot to marry her, but he never did.
T. S. Eliot Reads "Portrait of a Lady" — Listen to the author read the poem aloud.
First Edition — Look through digital scans of a first edition copy of "Prufrock and Other Observations," the 1917 collection in which this poem appears.
The Poet's Failed Romance — Learn more about Eliot’s recently unveiled correspondences with Emily Hale, which he did not want to become public.
Biography of the Poet — Browse this thorough profile of Eliot, which details his personal life, poetic output, and other cultural contributions.
The Turn of the 20th Century — Take a look at this snapshot of American life during the early 20th century.
An Introduction to Modernism — Read an overview of Modernism, the artistic movement that Eliot helped advance.
The Art of Poetry Interview — A conversation with the poet from 1959, launching the popular and long-running "Art of Poetry" interview series from literary magazine The Paris Review.