My Last Duchess

My Last Duchess Robert Browning   Ferrara 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!     1842