My Last Duchess is a poem by the Victorian English poet Robert Browning. It appeared in a collection called Dramatic Lyrics (1842). “My Last Duchess” is written as a dramatic monologue, a form closely associated with Browning’s best work. In such monologues, Browning takes on the voice of a historical or invented character, and reveals aspects of the character’s personality through the story he tells. Often the character is unaware of the truths that are uncovered, and the reader plays an active part in discovering them.
The speaker of “My Last Duchess” is an Italian duke, describing his dead wife while he stands before a painting of her. As he speaks, he unintentionally reveals himself as monster of arrogance, who utterly failed to appreciate his wife’s qualities. With horror, we realize that he has actually arranged his wife’s death: “I gave commands; /Then all smiles stopped together.” Mere smiles—indications of the duchess’s charm and goodness—are motives for murder for this evil, petty man.
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 to 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, ‘t was 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, ‘t was 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 you 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 to 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, though a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
In his monologue, the duke has attempted to justify himself, and to portray his wife as shallow and ungrateful. But in fact he does the opposite, and the duchess is revealed as the innocent victim of the duke’s outraged pride. There is also the suggestion that other suitors (to whom she smiles, or from whom she accepts a bough of blossoms) have made a fool of the duke. But he cannot fully recognize that his wife might love another, and simply calls her “too easily impressed.” By the end of his monologue, the duke is already hinting at his next conquest—the count’s daughter (and her dowry). Such cold, calculating thought is perhaps the most horrifying revelation about the duke.
Much of the dramatic tension in Browning’s monologues lies in the contrast between the “truth” that the character tries to create and the real truth that is gradually revealed in the telling of his story. Often the language is evasive, suggesting the character’s reluctance to face reality. But although the poetry can sometimes be difficult, Browning proved himself a master at impersonating a wide range of characters through verse. In doing so, he demonstrated that the poet and the speaker of the poem need not be the same person.
For more information on Browning, see Browning, Robert. See also English literature (Later Victorian literature); Poetry (Dramatic poetry).
