Robert Browning

Italy

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 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

Nine hundred years

The Duke's aristocratic lineage goes back to the 1100s. His complaint: she valued a servant's cherry branch as much as centuries of noble blood.

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)—could 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 that would be some stooping, and I chuse
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 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! Notice Neptune, tho',
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.
Source Wikipedia Poetry Foundation

Reading Notes

The Dramatic Monologue's Trap

Browning invented the dramatic monologue as a way to let villains condemn themselves. The Duke thinks he's explaining reasonable grievances to a marriage broker—but every word reveals his psychopathy.

The situation: A Duke is negotiating to marry a Count's daughter. He's showing the envoy his art collection, including a portrait of his previous wife. What starts as art criticism becomes a confession of murder, then slides back into dowry negotiations without missing a beat.

Watch how Browning uses enjambment (lines that run over) to mimic actual speech. The Duke interrupts himself, circles back, drops hints then retreats. The couplet rhymes (wall/call, alive/I've) create a sing-song pleasantness that makes the content more horrifying—he's this comfortable discussing her death.

What the Duchess Did Wrong

CONTEXT In Renaissance Italy, noblewomen were expected to reserve their warmth for their husbands. Smiling at servants or blushing at compliments could suggest sexual availability.

The Duke's complaint list:

  • She blushed when Fra Pandolf (the painter) complimented her
  • She thanked a servant who brought her cherries
  • She smiled at sunset
  • She enjoyed riding her mule
  • She treated the Duke's nine-hundred-year-old name like any other gift
Notice what's absent: adultery, disobedience, any actual wrongdoing. Her crime was enjoying things. She had "A heart too soon made glad, / Too easily impressed." In his mind, joy itself was a betrayal.

The phrase "Who'd stoop to blame" is the Duke's twisted logic. He's too aristocratic to correct his wife's behavior—but not too aristocratic to have her killed. He "gave commands; / Then all smiles stopped together." The passive construction hides agency. He won't even own the murder directly.