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
