SoliloquyVictorian · 18424 min · 2 passagesSteady

My Last Duchess

A Renaissance duke shows a guest a portrait and explains, calmly, what had to be done about his wife's smile. He never says the word murder.

Power Gender Art & Imagination

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The portrait

Dramatic monologue

That's my last 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 , for never read Strangers like you that pictured , The depth and 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.

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Plain English

That's my last Duchess on the wall, looking as if she were alive. I call the painting a wonder now — Fra Pandolf worked a busy day on it, and there she stands. Will you sit and look at her? I mentioned the painter on purpose, because strangers never read that face, the depth and passion of that earnest glance, without turning to me (since nobody draws that curtain but me) and seeming to ask how such a glance got there. So you're not the first to ask.

I gave commands

Understatement

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 With anybody's gift.

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Plain English

She had a heart — how to put this — too easily pleased. She liked whatever she looked at, and she looked at everything. It was all the same to her: my favour at her breast, the sunset, a branch of cherries some fool broke for her, the white mule she rode round the terrace — each one got the same approval, or a blush. She thanked men — fine! — but thanked them somehow as if my gift of a nine-hundred-year-old name ranked the same as anybody's gift.

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The Street · Victorian literature

Doubt, respectability, and the noise of a city. Every answer comes with the reason and the line that proves it.

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