My Last Duchess by ROBERT BROWNING
Tags:
Poetry
,
Robert Browning
My Last Duchess
ROBERT BROWNING
That’s
my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking
as if she were alive. I call
That
piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands
Worked
busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t
please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fra
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
Fra
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 choose
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 pretense
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!
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