Or, creepiest poem I’ve read.
That’s my last duchess painted on the wall,
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 favor 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 make 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!
He totally killed her. Basically, for smiling too much. And now he’s negotiating for another duchess. *Shudder*
No related posts.
*shiver*
We “read” this poem (supposedly) in high school English class….but I DO NOT remember anything about killing!!! I really should’ve paid more attention…..lol.
That is one long poem and I don’t get it. Clueless!
I think you’re over-simplifying. The guy’s problem isn’t that she smiled too much. It’s that he felt that she ranked things too equally–he felt that she was just as happy with a sunset, some cherries, etc. as she was with his lineage– and that ticked him off.
I think the poem is based on someone who was suspected of poisoning his first wife, though. So yeah, he did most likely kill her or had it done.
Indeed, creepy. His wife wasn’t grateful enough to him, because she was grateful and happy about everything! Who is the author?
I had to analyze this poem in High School. My creepy teacher said he picked it out specially for me. To this day I have no idea what the hell he was trying to tell me by giving it to me.
I had to write a 3-page paper on this poem in college. Thanks for the memories!
So umm, have you ever read Porphyria’s Lover, also by Robert Browning. Guarantee you THAT poem is 2931218 times creepier!!
I was going to recommend Porphyria as well. Browning was a tremendously creepy dude, though one of my profs said that was before he met and eloped with E.B.B.
Of the two, I prefer Porphyria’s Lover because it…makes sense isn’t what I’m going for, but I get it in a horrifying way.
Poetry in the Victorian era didn’t do that well. It was competing with the rise of the novel at the time and few poets really made their mark. Browning however was one of them who did. In fact, I understand your horror at the poem and its creepiness. Robert Browning excelled in alarming his Victorian readers with psychological – and sometimes psychopathic – realism and his experiments with harsh-sounding language. But it is these very qualities that make poems like My Last Duchess stand the test of time.
Robert Browning. I think the poem’s based on the Duke of Ferrara? According to Wikipedia, Lucrezia de Medici may have been the “duchess” referred to in the poem. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucrezia_di_Cosimo_de%27_Medici
I read that poem based on your reccomendation, and wow – R. Browning can certainly put murder into poetic form! I can imagine both of his poems as movies, and really psychologically-chilling ones at that.