-
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
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 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,
though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of
Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.
(1842)
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