Tuesday Poem: “My Last Duchess” by Robert Browning
My Last Duchess
FERRARA
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will ‘t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Frà Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps
Over my Lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat”; such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart . . . how shall I say? . . . too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace—all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good; but thanked
Somehow . . . I know not how . . . as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—(which I have not)—to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
—E’en then would be some stooping; and I chuse
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will ‘t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your Master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Together down, Sir! Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.
—
Robert Browning, 1812-1889
First published in Dramatic Lyrics, 1842; given its present title in 1849 (Dramatic Romances and Lyrics).
This version obtained from the University of Toronto’s Library of Representative Poetry Online.
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I’ve always liked this poem – not just the fantastic technique, but the way he gets in the Duke’s character – particularly the way the Duke reduces his wife to an object, like any of his other works of art. Chilling!
Hi Kathleen,
It is chilling, isn’t it? The sheer ego of the man is also extremely well caught, without the poet’s voice intruding—we are completely shown, not told.
This is a lovely, subtle poem. I’m a bit afraid of Victorian poetry, but my friend Steph introduced me to this one and I found it wasn’t so scary at all.
Hi HelenR,
Victorian isn’t my favourite era either, but there are some poems that stand out and Browning’s “The Last Duchess” has always been one of those for me.
I read this for the first time last year and was impressed by the light touch with both the rhyme and the story development. Great choice!
Hi HelenH,
Thank you—this is my favourite Browning poem (although as a child I very much liked “The Pied Piper of Hamelin” as well.:-))
I think Browning is brilliant. Thanks for giving him a shout out! Great example of his mastery, as you say.
Thanks, Kay. I agree re Browning, but I feel “The Last Duchess” stands out, even amongst his other work.