My Last Duchess

There is currently a rather wonderful painting hanging in The National Gallery, London of Mrs Simmons by Gainsborough. It is part of The Blue Boy exhibition. Now I like art, rather a lot I must say, and some these paintings brought to mind a certain poem “My Last Duchess” by Robert Browning. I haven’t read this poem in a while, but at the sight of ‘Mrs Simmons’ I revisited it. And it thought i’d add it to todays post. the thing is, is that this painting is not based on Mrs Simmons, but Lucrezia di Cosimo de Medici, she and her family was considered ‘nouveau riche’ during their time. her new husband Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara came from a family whose reputation and dukedom had continued for over nine hundred years. Lucrezia met a tragic end, like our Duchess. Robert Browning has imagined the lasting effect her death had in this classic poem.

My Last Duchess is about a woman who has been immortalised in paint, but when you read and dig a little deeper, the poem ignites old jealousies, anxieties and madness. Beauty, power and love drove a man to murder. Its a goodie!

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive

Obviously, she is no longer alive. It is a curious way to open a poem, we think perhaps that the narrator is speaking to the reader. But that is simply not the case. There is an unseen character in all of this. And we, the reader, have no part in it. This mysterious third party in invited to relax, sit a while and observe this striking painting of a woman who has long since died. But there is a lot to read into in these first two lines. The speaker, refers to the duchess as ‘My’ last duchess. Not the last duchess. Implying a slight possessiveness of the lady painted on the wall. ‘Looking as if she were alive’ could imply that this painting haunts the speaker, if you have read ‘The Picture of Dorian Grey’ you’ll understand what I mean. A painting that preserves the youth, whilst the body died and decays (in the picture of dorian grey, it’s the other way round).

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)

There is a certain madness to possession. As the speaker doesn’t necessarily imply, but I am reading into this poem. The Duchess has been kept behind a curtain for no one but himself to see. No one is allowed to glance at her except for he speaker himself. She is a kept woman, quietly hidden away by jealousy as we’re about to see.

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.

It is of no fault of her own, but thought the speakers language we gauge that this lady was happy. But her happiness only drove the discontentedness of the speaker. Pride has been hurt here. A pride that is, I think inherited:

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.

Like is said, pride is inherited, a family that has lived and been going for over nine hundred years is nothing to joke about. Evidently the speaker, took his gift of a most distinguished heritage as a folly. It is only a name. We have to understand that this is all one sided, we don’t hear the story from her, obviously she is dead. Long dead by the sounds of it. But the lady was happy. She was happy with him as well, or so it is implied. But jealousy is a vicious enemy, it has clearly poisoned the mans mind.

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?

But there is one line is this next part that I find particularly chilling “and I choose never to stoop”.  Did the man believe that the lady had that much power over him? A lady who was popular, perhaps, during the time this poem was written, held a subtle threat. But, I believe that the man saw the smiles. And the smiles were not for him, but a few. He didn’t have the capacity to make her happy. Maybe he was just an incompetent husband. Actually he probably was. Let’s be honest here. It would explain a lot, like why he kept her hidden, only for him to see, to have, to gloat. As you can imagine the poem doesn’t end well for the lady hanging on the wall.

I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together.

I end with this, the notion and idea of beauty has caused people problems for thousands of years. The person who has beauty has it by chance, not by fate or design. Fortunate as they may be, beauty can be a catalyst. And in the case of My Last Duchess, it was the catalyst that boiled the anger of the speaker, it brought out toxicity, that pungent air of suspicion, jealousy, guilt and pride. Perhaps the duchess was lucky to die, rather that live with a monster.