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
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 pretense
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!
Word-notes
- Duchess: The wife of a duke.
- Fra Pandolf: The name of the artist who painted the portrait of the Duke’s last duchess.
- Countenance: A person’s facial expression or demeanor.
- Earnest: Showing sincere and intense conviction.
- Durst: An archaic form of the past tense of “dare.”
- Mantle: A loose, sleeveless cloak or shawl, often worn as an outer garment.
- Officious: Assertive of authority in an annoyingly domineering way, especially with regard to petty or trivial matters.
- Terrace: A raised, flat area of ground, typically paved, adjoining a building.
- Approving: Expressing or indicating approval.
- Munificence: The quality or action of being extremely generous; generosity.
- Dowry: Property or money brought by a bride to her husband on their marriage.
- Object: In this context, it refers to the Duke’s aim or goal in marriage.
- Neptune: In Roman mythology, the god of the sea.
- Taming: Bringing something under control or discipline.
- Sea-horse: A mythical creature with the head and forelimbs of a horse and the tail of a fish.
- Rarity: The state or quality of being rare or uncommon.
Prose
Semester I
- An Astrologer’s Day – R K Narayan
- The Swami and Mother- Worship – Sister Nivedita
- Amarnath – Sister Nivedita
Semester II
- The Garden Party- Katherine Mansfield
- Alias Jimmy Valentine- o’ Henry
- Of Studies – Francis Bacon
- Nobel Lecture – Mother Teresa
Verse
Semester I
- Composed Upon Westminster Bridge- William Wordsworth
- The Bangle Sellers – Sarojini Naidu
- The Second Coming – W B Yeats
Semester II
Rapid Reader
Semester I
Semester II
