A Game of Chess
By Thomas Stearns Eliot
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion.
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
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
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” to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
“My nerves are bad to-night. 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.”
I think we are 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?”
Nothing again nothing.
“Do
“You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
“Nothing?”
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag —
It’s so elegant
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?”
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said —
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 done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
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’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
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, pulling a long face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be all right, 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,
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
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
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
Poem Analysis:
In the second section of The Waste Land, titled “A Game of Chess”, T.S. Eliot presents a vivid contrast between two domestic settings: an opulent, claustrophobic room and a cramped, anxious middle-class apartment. Through these scenes, Eliot explores themes of emotional paralysis, sterile intimacy, societal decay, and spiritual emptiness. Alongside Dr. Freud’s influence and classical allusions, the poem critiques modern relationships and inner turmoil.
The Venetian Interior: Glamour and Despair
Opening Symbolism
The poem begins with an image of a richly appointed room—“The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne…”—evoking regal luxury that masks a deep emotional void. The detailed inventory—perfume bottles, jewels, candelabra—creates an oppressive richness, where sensory overflow creates artificial comfort, not genuine connection.
Phantom Figures and Myth
Louis XIV-style decoration meets allegory in the Philomel tapestry, referencing the myth of Procne, raped by Tereus. The nightingale’s repeated “Jug, jug” arrests attention as an "inviolable voice in the desert", an isolated call ignored by those deaf to suffering—hinting at sexual violence both mythic and modern.
Stasis and Staleness
The woman’s trait of “bad nerves”, her incessant demand—“Speak to me… Think.”—reveals deep anxiety and emotional exhaustion. Speech and thought fail her; the room is a gilded cage.
Emotional Breakdown and The “Rats’ Alley” Interlude
In a shocking abrupt shift, the speaker whispers:
“I think we are in rats’ alley / Where the dead men lost their bones.”
This introduces The Waste Land’s modern urban analogy to claustrophobic decay. The reference to “rats’ alley” lunges us into a place of death, waste, and crooked side-streets—a world outside the chamber’s illusions.
From Past to Present: The Middle-Class Apartment
Constricting Domesticity
The narrative flips to a lower-middle-class home. A woman chides Lil, returning from wartime service (“when Lil’s husband got demobbed”). Amid banal chatter—“HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME”—we glimpse post-war instability, financial struggles, and desperate attempts at societal normality.
Sexual Tension and Social Pressure
Conversations about missing teeth, abortion (“them pills I took, to bring it off”), and financial dependence reveal tenuous morality and gender dynamics. "HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME" recurs as an insistent mantra—symbolic of social demands and temporal anxiety.
Mechanical Closure and Resignation
The section ends with a mechanical repetition—“Good night, ladies, good night…”—echoing a disembodied lullaby. Instead of genuine closure, it signals emotional disconnection and the repetitive ritualization of life.
Key Themes
Sterile Affluence vs. Emotional Barrenness
The luxurious Venetian setting conceals deep malaise beneath its grandeur, while the modest home, though humble, is suffocated by routine and anxiety.
Disconnection and Disempowerment
Characters speak but don’t hear, demand but receive silence. Thought is fragmented—“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?”—highlighting profound isolation.
Femininity under Pressure
Eliot depicts female figures constrained by social expectation. Anxiety, abortion, reluctant motherhood, missing teeth, and wartime disruption create a portrait of women burdened by external demands and internal collapse.
Mythic Memory as Disruption
The Philomela myth surfaces as a haunting memory—violence rendered powerless, just as the nightingale’s song is ignored. Myth, for Eliot, is not history but a living presence reminding us of cyclical trauma.
Time as Tyranny
“HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME” iterates as both social compulsion and existential dread. Time is not a dimension for reflection but a deadline that punishes, leaving no room for growth or authenticity.
Language and Structure
- Imagery-rich detail contrasts with abrupt colloquial dialogue.
- Dramatic shifts and unrelated vignettes mimic the disjointed consciousness of modernity.
- Rhythmic repetition (e.g., “HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME”) evokes the inescapability of social ritual and the machine-like pace of postwar life.
“A Game of Chess” reveals Eliot’s conviction that modern life has become spiritually barren. Whether in gilded rooms or cramped apartments, people are trapped in emotional inertia, unable to speak meaningfully or connect. Through mythic allusion, psychological detail, banal dialogue, and broken structure, Eliot sketches a landscape of despair, where intimacy is frail, time oppressive, and meaning elusive.
This section sets the tone for much of The Waste Land’s exploration: a world skewed by trauma, disconnected by artifice, desperately longing for rebirth but weighed down by exhaustion—and the ticking clock of societal demand.