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Summary of My Last Duchess:
My Last Duchess by Robert Browning is one of the most important poems in English literature.
- My Last Duchess is published by Robert Browning in 1842.
- It is a dramatic monologue and Robert Browning is considered the master of dramatic monologue.
Dramatic Monologue is a type of poetry that is meant to read to the audience. The whole poem is narrated by a single speaker. In this type of poetry, the speaker is talking to one person however, it is meant to address the whole audience. |
- My Last Duchess is narrated by Duke of Ferrara who is talking to a minister whose rank is lower than him.
- At the beginning of the poem, the Duke shows a portrait of his previous duchess (his wife) to the minister whose daughter he is going to marry.
- The Duke tells the man that her portrait was painted by Fra Pandolf who was a monk and painter.
- Duke believes that Fra Pandolf has beautifully captured the Duchess’ glance in this portrait.
- However, he also believes that his wife’s glance was not only for her husband alone but also for other people too.
- He recalls that humans and nature both attracted her too much that he felt insulted as she did not reserve this favor to his prestigious family.
- He did not accept it and gave the command to kill her.
- The duke in the end says that he expects a huge dowry, although he is satisfied with marrying the minister’s daughter.
- He asks the minister to walk beside him although it is totally unacceptable that a higher rank person in the social circle would walk with the lower one.
- At the end of the poem, he shows off his precious and expensive collection to the minister which contains a bronze bust of the god Neptune.
My Last Duchess By Robert Browning 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! |