My Last Duchess: a man showing a stranger the wife he had killed

A man shows a visitor a portrait of his late wife and calls her my last Duchess. Is he a grieving widower? Read quickly, he can sound like one. But by the end of the conversation he has as good as admitted to having her killed, and moved straight on to the money for the next wife. Robert Browning based him on a real sixteenth-century Italian duke, whose teenage wife died within a few years of the wedding. And the speaker thinks this conversation is going rather well. He is pleased for a reason, and he gives it away without meaning to.

The whole poem is one man talking. That form is called a dramatic monologue: one speaker, a silent listener, and a speech that gives away more than the speaker means. "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." Last here means most recent, so there will be a next one. And the words as if she were alive tell you she is dead, two lines in, said like a tour guide. The Duke names the painter on purpose, because every stranger who sees that earnest look seems to want to ask how it got there. Countenance means face, and durst means dared. The spot of joy is a blush, and the Duke admits that his presence was not the only thing that called it into her cheek. A small compliment from the painter, about her cloak or the faint flush along her throat, was enough to make her blush. She took it as courtesy. He took it as competition. The portrait hangs behind a curtain, and the Duke says nobody opens it, "since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I". So the Duke now decides who may look at her. That is the control he could never manage while she was alive. Who is the Duke talking to: his new wife, the painter, or a messenger arranging his next marriage? A messenger arranging his next marriage. Near the end the Duke mentions the Count your master and a dowry, the money a bride's family pays, so the listener works for the next bride's father.

Now his complaint about her, in his own words, and it is a strange one. "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." Go back to the start of that movement. The whole charge against her is that she was pleased by things: a sunset, a bough of cherries, a white mule, a compliment. The pause, how shall I say, is performed for the visitor, not felt. His favour at her breast is a love token from the Duke. To her it was all one: his gift pleased her exactly as much as a sunset. What hurts his pride most is that she seemed to value him no more than anyone else, "as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift." So this is not grief. He is annoyed, and he is showing off the control he now has over who looks at her. One examiner's report puts the mistake plainly: Unfortunately, there were a significant minority of students who appeared to be under the misapprehension that the speaker in My Last Duchess is grieving the loss of his first wife, which means they missed the point of the poem entirely. The fix is to read his tone, not his topic. A man talking about a dead wife is not the same as a man mourning one. Now back to the line that ends her story. She smiled at everyone, he says, and "This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together." Why does he say I gave commands, and not a word more about what happened? Because a man with that much power never has to explain. The murder becomes half a line, told as an administrative detail, and the visitor understands perfectly. Straight after the murder, the Duke is back at the portrait: "There she stands As if alive." As a painting, the Duchess smiles only when he draws the curtain.

The poem's last lines turn back to business, as the Duke leads the visitor downstairs. "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 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." And on the stairs, he stops to point out one more piece of art: "Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!" Munificence means generosity. In plain words: your master is rich, so I expect a good dowry. Then the Duke insists that the daughter herself is his object, not the money. Coming straight after the dowry, that sounds like a man covering his tracks.

Now the visit makes sense. The whole speech is a warning to the next Duchess's family, delivered through their own messenger, and it is frightening because it works. The Duke keeps control of the room right up to the last line.

Six lines carry his self-portrait, and each one gives him away in a different way. The opening: "That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive." Last, and as if she were alive, tell you she is dead before he has finished his first sentence. The curtain, which only he draws. He controls who looks at her now, the control he never had while she lived. His complaint, that her heart was too soon made glad. He is accusing her of being happy, and the hesitation is a performance. His nine-hundred-years-old name. He values himself in centuries, and expects her to rank that gift above a bough of cherries. "I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together." Power here is not having to say what you did. And his last words: Neptune, the god of the sea, taming a sea-horse. What does ending on that bronze show about the Duke? A strong god mastering a weaker animal. The Duke ends on another picture of control, so he has learnt nothing and is still shopping. One more warning. The real Duke and his wife make a good clause, but no more, because an answer about power needs the way Browning lets the speaker give himself away, not the anecdote. In the cluster, My Last Duchess answers power, and it sits best beside a poem that shares that strand, such as Ozymandias or London.

Three lines from the Duke now, each with one word missing for you to supply. "That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were" what? Alive. Looking alive, which tells you the Duchess is not. Now his complaint: her heart was too soon made what? Glad. His complaint is that she was happy too easily. Try the murder line: I gave what, then all smiles stopped together? Commands. The murder is a command, and nothing more is said. Here's a line never unpacked: "I choose Never to stoop." Why commands, then, instead of talking to her? Because talking to her would mean stooping, and his pride will not allow that, so an order replaced a word with her. So he is not a grieving widower. He is a man showing a stranger what happens to wives who smile too freely, and he thinks it went well.

Name three things the Duke lets slip and you're solid on this; one thumbs-up keeps it off your re-watch pile. Not yet, save it: a few more speakers like him and spotting the slips gets routine.

Next in the chapter: The Prelude: the boy, the boat and the mountain that followed him home. Hopefully that's next in your feed, but if not, search for ScholaFly E L four oh, oh seven.

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