Bells and Pomegranates, First Series/Italy

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Bells and Pomegranates, First Series
by Robert Browning

Italy

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sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item

"My Last Duchess" is narrated by a 16th century Duke of Ferrara, successor to a long-established dynasty and art patron of the Renaissance. He gives a description of his deceased wife, whose happy nature and universal kindliness were a perpetual affront to his exacting self-predominance. He accordingly orders her death - "then all smiles stopped together". Apparently oblivious to his own callousness and cruelty he displays her portrait to an envoy sent to negotiate a new marriage.

5672Bells and Pomegranates, First Series — ItalyRobert Browning

ITALY AND FRANCE.

I.—ITALY.

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,Looking as if she were alive; I callThat piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's handsWorked busily a day, and there she stands.Will't please you sit and look at her? I said"Frà Pandolf," by design, for never readStrangers like you that pictured countenance,The depth and passion of its earnest glance,But to myself they turned (since none puts byThe 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 firstAre you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas notHer husband's presence only, called that spotOf joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhapsFrà 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 stuffWas courtesy, she thought, and cause enoughFor calling up that spot of joy. She hadA heart . . how shall I say? . . too soon made glad,Too easily impressed; she liked whate'erShe 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 muleShe rode with round the terrace—all and eachWould draw from her alike the approving speech,Or blush, at least. She thanked men,—good; but thankedSomehow . . I know not how . . as if she rankedMy gift of a nine hundred years old nameWith anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blameThis sort of trifling? Even had you skillIn speech—(which I have not)—could make your willQuite 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 letHerself be lessoned so, nor plainly setHer wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,—E'en that would be some stooping, and I chuseNever to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,Whene'er I passed her; but who passed withoutMuch the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;Then all smiles stopped together. There she standsAs if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meetThe company below then. I repeat,The Count your master's known munificenceIs ample warrant that no just pretenceOf mine for dowry will be disallowed;Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowedAt starting, is my object. Nay, we'll goTogether down, Sir! Notice Neptune, tho',Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.