15.ROBERT BROWNING POEMS- for TSPSC JL/DL
Robert Browning is naturally considered a Victorian poet, considering that he wrote during the time period of Victorian England. And yet Browning's work is simultaneously a revolt against some of the most well-defined aspects of that time, and a reflection of its characteristics.
Biography of Robert Browning
Henry James wrote of Robert Browning, in relation to the poet's burial at Canterbury: "None of the odd ones have been so great and none of the great ones so odd." One of the most enduring Victorian poets, Browning is renowned for both his virtuosity of language and eccentricity of subjects. His sense of psychology precedes Freud, and his refusal to commit to any prevailing worldview marks him as a precursor to modernist thought.
Robert Browning was born on May 7, 1812. Due to both his natural brilliance and the support of an educated father, he accomplished himself as a writer, scholar and musician early in life. He realized his calling as a poet when he was introduced to the work of P.B. Shelley. From Shelley, Browning developed the Romantic ideal, which sought to find transcendence through exploration of the individual's sensibility. Though he would later renounce it in favor of what he saw as a more sophisticated approach, Browning's early life and work was largely defined by this sensibility.
Browning's attempts at education proved unsuccessful; he tried several vocations and dropped out of university several times. His first published work, Pauline, was a great success in 1833. But his subsequent publication, a long, difficult poem called Sordello, was a great failure. It was the first time he would be labeled difficult and obscure, a charge that would haunt his reputation and his work for most of his life. His subsequent foray into writing stage plays saw brief success but ultimately led to him being criticized as unfit for the dramatic form because of his lyrical flourishes and overly intellectual approach.
He continued to publish – next through a series known as Bells and Pomegranates – to middling success, even though he was beginning to establish the dramatic monologue form that would ensure his legacy. This form uses a narrator, usually of dubious morality, who addresses someone in a high-stakes situation. His most famous works were written in this form, including "Porphyria's Lover" and "My Last Duchess." These works helped cement his interest in psychological complexity and the human tendency to constantly shift perspectives and opinions.
Browning's life greatly improved when, in 1845, he fell in love with poet Elizabeth Barrett through her work and began to visit her. Elizabeth was a long-time invalid who lived secluded in her London home under an extremely over-protective father, all circumstances that meant the two had to elope in order to marry; they were disowned by Mr. Barrett. Nevertheless, the poets lived a happy life together, mostly in Italy, where they had a son named Pen. In 1855, Browning published a collection called Men and Women, which contains most of his best known poems but was again only a modest success, especially when compared to Elizabeth's work, which was quite popular.
After Elizabeth died in 1861, a distraught Browning moved back to London, where he would finally achieve the success that had long eluded him. He published other collections like Dramatis Personae, but it was his long work The Ring and the Book that finally made him famous. His subsequent poetry, much of it long-form, continued to expand his fame in later years, to the point that a Browning Society was formed and he became a celebrity known for dining out in fashionable spots. At the time Browning died in 1889, he was perhaps the most famous poet in England next to William Wordsworth, and his legacy has only improved since that time.
Robert Browning: Poems
Though one of several Victorian poets whose legacies have endured, Robert Browning is arguably the hardest of his contemporaries to classify. His work equally reflects his remarkable intellectualism, his interest in grotesqueness, and his refusal to espouse any consistent worldview. These disparate elements make it difficult to categorize his oeuvre under any simple classification. Browning did not find much popular success until later in his life, largely because the public either found his work obscure and difficult, or because they considered imperfect some of the very qualities that are now lauded. Examples of these elements are irregular rhyme schemes, contradictory characters, and imprecision about character motives. Perhaps this lack of success has proven a boon to Browning's legacy, however, since it allowed him to continue to follow his own eccentricities without the pressure of having to subscribe to popular taste, thereby creating work now appreciated for its uniqueness.
Browning is perhaps most famous for his use of the dramatic monologue, a poem written from the point of view of someone who has dramatic imperative to argue for him or herself. This form fits Browning's interests perfectly, since it allows him to empathize with perspectives he likely did not hold himself, thereby considering myriad human perspectives, and to investigate the remarkable human facility for rationalizing our behaviors and beliefs.
Much of his poetry, however, has a deliberately philosophical edge. Again, Browning believed that humans are constantly changing, their attitudes subject to shifts day-by-day or hour-by-hour. However, by using the dramatic monologue, he was able to explore a philosophy in the moment, and some of his work, like "Death in the Desert" or "Rabbi Ben Ezra," is as much defined by a statement of belief as by any dramatic situation. Even some of the more dramatic poems are difficult to comprehend if the reader is not ready to engage in questions of existence, time, memory, or love.
Despite his pronounced interest in psychology, Browning's early influence came from the Romantic poets, particularly Shelley. Reflecting this interest in human emotions as the path to transcendence, Browning's collections continued to feature shorter meditations on love and individuality. While these poems tend to be easier to categorize than the more sophisticated monologues and philosophical poems, they too reflect his belief that a human is always "becoming," always changing.
Overall, what one can take from Browning's work is that the poet himself lived according to one of his more prevalent themes: the quest. A mercurial and intellectually adventurous man who sought to document his ever-changing attitudes and beliefs into art, Robert Browning saw the human struggle as a noble quest towards an impossible goal of perfection, and luckily thought to immortalize that struggle as best he could.
Robert Browning: Poems Summary
"My Last Duchess" is narrated by the duke of Ferrara to the envoy of his new intended bride. The duke shows the envoy a painting of his former wife, whom he had killed for having been so flirtatchurch
"Porphyria's Lover" is narrated by a man who has murdered his lover Porphyria in order to capture a moment in which they were both happy in love.
"Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister" is a resentful narration by a monk who watches his professed enemy, Brother Lawrence, as the latter plants flowers.
"Home-Thoughts, From Abroad" is a British expatriate's nostalgic thoughts of England, especially of how it must be beautiful in the newly arrived spring.
"Love Among the Ruins" is a contemplation of how a pastoral landscape, where the narrator's beloved is currently waiting for him, was once the setting of a great empire that has since fallen.
"Meeting at Night" is a description of a man's intense travel over land and sea to rendezvous with his beloved.
"My Star" is a lover's contemplation of how he loves a particular star even though others do not see in it the beauty he does.
"The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed's Church" is a rambling dramatic monologue in which a dying bishop speaks to young men he calls his "sons," asking them to build him a great tomb so that he can shame his rival who is buried nearby.
"Prospice" is a contemplation of impending death, in which the narrator bravely anticipates the journey to and through death so that he can be reunited with his beloved.
"Fra Lippo Lippi" is the narration of a Renaissance painter and monk whose talent is admired by the Church, but whose interest in naturalism – in painting the world as it really looks – is repudiated by the Church in favor of more moral, religious subjects. Lippo has been apprehended by some authority figures while prowling the red light district of Vienna, and defends both his behavior and his artistic aesthetic in the monologue.
"Two in the Campagna" is a contemplation of how a man cannot fully unite with his beloved because time constantly changes his feelings. As he contemplates the fall of Rome and how their bodies keep their souls from joining together, he finds the strength to persevere.
"A Toccata of Galuppi's" is spoken to Renaissance composer Galuppi. The narrator considers how Galuppi's music once brought pleasure to Venetians who later died, as everyone does. Considering the disconnect between pleasant art and impending death brings melancholy to the speaker.
"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" is a deeply symbolist poem that follows a traveling knight in search of a Dark Tower, which he knows will bring disappointment and probably death, but which he seeks nevertheless. In his search for the Dark Tower, Roland travels through a deserted landscape, a terrible setting almost as bad as Roland's own memories.
"Memorabilia" recounts a meeting between the narrator and another man who had once met the Romantic poet Shelley. The narrator is very excited about hearing the story and reflects on how small moments can stay with us forever.
"Andrea del Sarto" is narrated by a Renaissance painter renowned for creating "faultless" paintings, but who laments the lack of "soul" in his work. He blames his wife Lucrezia for not inspiring him to the soulful works of the other Renaissance greats, but ultimately changes his tone to accept his faults as his own doing.
"Caliban Upon Setebos" is a monologue spoken by Caliban, the humanoid creature from Shakespeare's The Tempest, about Setebos, whom he believes is his creator. He considers the apathy and resentment of God, and wonders how he can make the most of life without bringing Setebos's wrath down upon himself.
"Rabbi Ben Ezra" is a theological monologue spoken by a historical theologian about how one ought to exercise patience in life in preparation for greater quests to come. He praises old age as having the understanding that escapes youth, which attempts to constantly seize the day.
"Life in a Love" is a contemplation of love as fate, which the speaker must accept. No matter what happens, he knows he cannot help but continue to pursue his beloved.
"The Pied Piper of Hamelin" is a delightful adaptation of the classic folk tale, in which a flutist with the power to attract anyone to his music is hired to help a town overrun with rats get rid of its rodents. When the Mayor and Corporation of the town refuse him his promised fee, he uses his music to rob the town of its children.
"The Laboratory" is narrated by a young lady-in-waiting to an old apothecary who is preparing a poison for her to use on her romantic rivals at court.
"How They Brought the Good News From Ghent to Aix" follows several horsemen as they rush between the titular towns to bring important news. Only the narrator survives; he celebrates his horse for surviving the intense journey.
"Evelyn Hope" is narrated by a middle-aged man to the corpse of a young girl he had patiently loved from afar. He anticipates rejoining her in the afterlife.
"A Grammarian's Funeral" is narrated by a disciple of a grammarian who had renounced normal life in favor of a life fully devoted to lonely scholarship. The grammarian has died, and his body is being carried to a worthy resting place as his memory is celebrated by the speaker.
"Death in the Desert" is a recounting of the last days of St. John, who wrote the Fourth Gospel, and who has been accused of inventing details about Christ's life. John admits to having lied in order to relate the more important truth: people should accept faith based on the wonders of life rather than on rational observation.
The duke of Ferrara
The speaker of "My Last Duchess." A tyrannical but charming man who has had at least his previous wife put to death for flirtation.
The envoy
The audience of "My Last Duchess." He represents the father of the duke's impending bride, and is there to negotiate terms for the marriage.
Porphyria
The woman who is murdered in "Porphyria's Lover." She seems to be a wealthy woman who has left a society party to see her lover.
Porphyria's Lover
The narrator of "Porphyria's Lover." A seemingly common man who is resentful of how Porphyria will chose society over him, and who kills her to stop that choice from happening.
Brother Lawrence
The hated monk of "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister." There is no evidence he is vindictive, hateful, or impious, though the poem's narrator sees him that way.
Narrator of "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister"
A resentful and petty monk who hates Brother Lawrence presumably for a lack of piety, but probably for less rational reasons.
The beloved
In Browning's love poems, the beloved tends to cause a dilemma for the speaker of that poem. Even in the poems where the speaker's love is pure and unfettered, he usually has some dilemma, either mental or physical, that he must overcome to reach her.
The bishop
The dying clergyman of "The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed's Church." A greedy man driven by jealousy and resentment toward his dead rival, and who tries to guilt his sons into building a large tomb.
The bishop's sons
The audience of "The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed's Church." If they are actually his sons, they would have to be illegitimate since he is a bishop, though they might also be nephews or younger clergy.
Fra Lippo Lippi
The speaker of "Fra Lippo Lippi." Based on a real Renaissance painter, he is an accomplished naturalist who is nevertheless forced to paint moral subjects by his supervisors. He considers his life a struggle between artistic freedom and worldly compromise.
The prior
Fra Lippo Lippi's supervisor. He represents the pressure on Lippi to paint moral, religious subjects even though the painter has a facility for painting the world as it really looks.
The narrator of "A Toccata of Galuppi's"
A man of science or mathematics who considers the meaning behind Galuppi's music.
Galuppi
Based on a real Venetian composer.
Childe Roland
A questing knight in search of the Dark Tower. He is haunted by memories of failure and impending doom, but committed to his quest nevertheless.
The hoary cripple
He gives Roland directions off the road on his quest for the Dark Tower. An untrustworthy figure whom the knight must trust anyway.
Cuthbert
A friend of Roland's who was shamed for having betrayed his friends in the past.
Giles
A friend of Roland's who was shamed for having betrayed his friends in the past.
Andrea del Sarto
The narrator of "Andrea del Sarto." Based on a real Renaissance painter renowned for creating "faultless" paintings, he considers his life a failure for never having developed the ability to put "soul" into his work like his better known contemporaries do.
Lucrezia
Andrea del Sarto's wife. Seemingly an unfaithful and demanding woman, and one Andrea blames for his failure in life.
Michel Agnolo
The name used by Andrea del Sarto to describe Renaissance painter Michelangelo. A painter renowned for putting "soul" into his art, of whom Andrea is jealous. He once complimented Andrea's talent.
Rafael
The name used by Andrea del Sarto to describe Renaissance painter Raphael. A painter renowned for putting "soul" into his art, of whom Andrea is jealous.
Caliban
The humanoid creature of Shakespeare's The Tempest, used by Browning in "Caliban Upon Setebos." He resents all those who control him and laments the misery of his life.
Setebos
The name Caliban gives to his creator in "Caliban Upon Setebos." By Caliban's estimation, a bored deity who creates and rules his creatures randomly, simply for the sake of it, and from no moral imperative.
Prospero
Caliban's master on the island in "Caliban Upon Setebos." A magician. Taken from Shakespeare's The Tempest.
Miranda
Prospero's daughter in "Caliban Upon Setebos." One of Caliban's masters. Taken from Shakespeare's The Tempest.
Rabbi Ben Ezra
The speaker of "Rabbi Ben Ezra." Based on a real historical theologian, he professes a strong philosophy that we ought use patience in our lives to prepare for later lives.
Pied Piper
The titular character of "The Pied Piper of Hamelin." He uses his flute to magically attract any creatures to follow him.
The Mayor
From "The Pied Piper of Hamelin." He promises the Piper payment for ridding the town of rats, then reneges.
The Corporation
In "The Pied Piper of Hamelin," the corporation works with the mayor to promise the Piper payment for ridding the town of rats.
The lame boy
The one child who did not get taken away by the Pied Piper, because he could not keep up. He spends the rest of his life depressed because he was left behind.
The apothecary
The old man and audience in "The Laboratory," who is making the poison.
The narrator of "The Laboratory"
A lady-in-waiting from a nearby court. She has come to the apothecary to buy poison to kill her rivals for a man at court.
Roland
The narrator's horse in "How They Brought the Good News From Ghent to Aix," who survives the journey and is celebrated as he dies.
The narrator of "How They Brought the Good News From Ghent to Aix"
One of three men tasked with bringing important news quickly. He is the only one whose horse survives the journey.
Dirck
One of the three riders in "How They Brought the Good News From Ghent to Aix." His horse falters along the way and he does not make it.
Joris
One of the three riders in "How They Brought the Good News From Ghent to Aix." His horse falters along the way and he does not make it.
The narrator of "Evelyn Hope"
A middle-aged man who speaks to the corpse of Evelyn Hope, of the love he has harbored for her from afar.
Evelyn Hope
A young girl, now dead. She has been loved from afar by the narrator, without knowing anything about it.
The grammarian
The dead man in "A Grammarian's Funeral." He spent his life dedicated to studying grammar, even at the cost of living a normal life.
The narrator of "A Grammarian's Funeral"
A disciple of the grammarian. He leads the charge to bury the grammarian high up in the mountains away from normal life and praises the grammarian's memory and choices.
St. John
The speaker of much of "A Death in the Desert." He professes a philosophy that truth can be compromised in service of greater truth, and that the world has dedicated itself too much to reason when it should be more focused on faith.
Pamphylax
The man to whom the document of "A Death in the Desert" is attributed. If accurate, it means the main text is written by him, even though most of the words are spoken by St. John.
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Poem 1: Andrea del Sarto
But do not let us quarrel any more,
No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for
once:
Sit down and all shall happen as you
wish.
You turn your face, but does it bring
your heart?
I'll work then for your friend's
friend, never fear,
Treat his own subject after his own
way,
Fix his own time, accept too his own
price,
And shut the money into this small
hand
When next it takes mine. Will it?
tenderly?
Oh, I'll content him,—but to-morrow,
Love!
I often am much wearier than you
think,
This evening more than usual, and it
seems
As if—forgive now—should you let me
sit
Here by the window with your hand in
mine
And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole,
Both of one mind, as married people
use,
Quietly, quietly the evening through,
I might get up to-morrow to my work
Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us
try.
To-morrow, how you shall be glad for
this!
Your soft hand is a woman of itself,
And mine the man's bared breast she curls
inside.
Don't count the time lost, neither;
you must serve
For each of the five pictures we
require:
It saves a model. So! keep looking so—
My serpentining beauty, rounds on
rounds!
—How could you ever prick those
perfect ears,
Even to put the pearl there! oh, so
sweet—
My face, my moon, my everybody's moon,
Which everybody looks on and calls
his,
And, I suppose, is looked on by in
turn,
While she looks—no one's: very dear,
no less.
You smile? why, there's my picture
ready made,
There's what we painters call our
harmony!
A common greyness silvers everything,—
All in a twilight, you and I alike
—You, at the point of your first pride
in me
(That's gone you know),—but I, at
every point;
My youth, my hope, my art, being all
toned down
To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole.
There's the bell clinking from the
chapel-top;
That length of convent-wall across the
way
Holds the trees safer, huddled more
inside;
The last monk leaves the garden; days
decrease,
And autumn grows, autumn in
everything.
Eh? the whole seems to fall into a
shape
As if I saw alike my work and self
And all that I was born to be and do,
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in
God's hand.
How strange now, looks the life he
makes us lead;
So free we seem, so fettered fast we
are!
I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie!
This chamber for example—turn your
head—
All that's behind us! You don't
understand
Nor care to understand about my art,
But you can hear at least when people
speak:
And that cartoon, the second from the
door
—It is the thing, Love! so such things
should be—
Behold Madonna!—I am bold to say.
I can do with my pencil what I know,
What I see, what at bottom of my heart
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep—
Do easily, too—when I say, perfectly,
I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are
judge,
Who listened to the Legate's talk last
week,
And just as much they used to say in
France.
At any rate 'tis easy, all of it!
No sketches first, no studies, that's
long past:
I do what many dream of, all their
lives,
—Dream? strive to do, and agonize to
do,
And fail in doing. I could count
twenty such
On twice your fingers, and not leave
this town,
Who strive—you don't know how the
others strive
To paint a little thing like that you
smeared
Carelessly passing with your robes
afloat,—
Yet do much less, so much less,
Someone says,
(I know his name, no matter)—so much
less!
Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am
judged.
There burns a truer light of God in
them,
In their vexed beating stuffed and
stopped-up brain,
Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on
to prompt
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's
hand of mine.
Their works drop groundward, but
themselves, I know,
Reach many a time a heaven that's shut
to me,
Enter and take their place there sure
enough,
Though they come back and cannot tell
the world.
My works are nearer heaven, but I sit
here.
The sudden blood of these men! at a
word—
Praise them, it boils, or blame them,
it boils too.
I, painting from myself and to myself,
Know what I do, am unmoved by men's
blame
Or their praise either. Somebody
remarks
Morello's outline there is wrongly
traced,
His hue mistaken; what of that? or
else,
Rightly traced and well ordered; what
of that?
Speak as they please, what does the
mountain care?
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed
his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for? All is
silver-grey,
Placid and perfect with my art: the
worse!
I know both what I want and what might
gain,
And yet how profitless to know, to
sigh
"Had I been two, another and
myself,
"Our head would have o'erlooked
the world!" No doubt.
Yonder's a work now, of that famous
youth
The Urbinate who died five years ago.
('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it
me.)
Well, I can fancy how he did it all,
Pouring his soul, with kings and popes
to see,
Reaching, that heaven might so
replenish him,
Above and through his art—for it gives
way;
That arm is wrongly put—and there
again—
A fault to pardon in the drawing's
lines,
Its body, so to speak: its soul is
right,
He means right—that, a child may
understand.
Still, what an arm! and I could alter
it:
But all the play, the insight and the
stretch—
(Out of me, out of me! And wherefore
out?
Had you enjoined them on me, given me
soul,
We might have risen to Rafael, I and
you!
Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I
think—
More than I merit, yes, by many times.
But had you—oh, with the same perfect
brow,
And perfect eyes, and more than
perfect mouth,
And the low voice my soul hears, as a
bird
The fowler's pipe, and follows to the
snare —
Had you, with these the same, but
brought a mind!
Some women do so. Had the mouth there
urged
"God and the glory! never care
for gain.
"The present by the future, what
is that?
"Live for fame, side by side with
Agnolo!
"Rafael is waiting: up to God,
all three!"
I might have done it for you. So it
seems:
Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules.
Beside, incentives come from the
soul's self;
The rest avail not. Why do I need you?
What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo?
In this world, who can do a thing,
will not;
And who would do it, cannot, I
perceive:
Yet the will's somewhat—somewhat, too,
the power—
And thus we half-men struggle. At the
end,
God, I conclude, compensates,
punishes.
'Tis safer for me, if the award be
strict,
That I am something underrated here,
Poor this long while, despised, to
speak the truth.
I dared not, do you know, leave home
all day,
For fear of chancing on the Paris
lords.
The best is when they pass and look
aside;
But they speak sometimes; I must bear
it all.
Well may they speak! That Francis,
that first time,
And that long festal year at
Fontainebleau!
I surely then could sometimes leave
the ground,
Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear,
In that humane great monarch's golden
look,—
One finger in his beard or twisted
curl
Over his mouth's good mark that made
the smile,
One arm about my shoulder, round my
neck,
The jingle of his gold chain in my
ear,
I painting proudly with his breath on
me,
All his court round him, seeing with
his eyes,
Such frank French eyes, and such a
fire of souls
Profuse, my hand kept plying by those
hearts,—
And, best of all, this, this, this
face beyond,
This in the background, waiting on my
work,
To crown the issue with a last reward!
A good time, was it not, my kingly
days?
And had you not grown restless... but
I know—
'Tis done and past: 'twas right, my
instinct said:
Too live the life grew, golden and not
grey,
And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun
should tempt
Out of the grange whose four walls
make his world.
How could it end in any other way?
You called me, and I came home to your
heart.
The triumph was—to reach and stay
there; since
I reached it ere the triumph, what is
lost?
Let my hands frame your face in your
hair's gold,
You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine!
"Rafael did this, Andrea painted
that;
"The Roman's is the better when
you pray,
"But still the other's Virgin was
his wife—"
Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge
Both pictures in your presence;
clearer grows
My better fortune, I resolve to think.
For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God
lives,
Said one day Agnolo, his very self,
To Rafael . . . I have known it all
these years . . .
(When the young man was flaming out
his thoughts
Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see,
Too lifted up in heart because of it)
"Friend, there's a certain sorry
little scrub
"Goes up and down our Florence,
none cares how,
"Who, were he set to plan and
execute
"As you are, pricked on by your
popes and kings,
"Would bring the sweat into that
brow of yours!"
To Rafael's!—And indeed the arm is
wrong.
I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to
see,
Give the chalk here—quick, thus, the
line should go!
Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it
out!
Still, all I care for, if he spoke the
truth,
(What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo?
Do you forget already words like those?)
If really there was such a chance, so
lost,—
Is, whether you're—not grateful—but
more pleased.
Well, let me think so. And you smile
indeed!
This hour has been an hour! Another
smile?
If you would sit thus by me every
night
I should work better, do you
comprehend?
I mean that I should earn more, give
you more.
See, it is settled dusk now; there's a
star;
Morello's gone, the watch-lights show
the wall,
The cue-owls speak the name we call
them by.
Come from the window, love,—come in,
at last,
Inside the melancholy little house
We built to be so gay with. God is
just.
King Francis may forgive me: oft at
nights
When I look up from painting, eyes
tired out,
The walls become illumined, brick from
brick
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce
bright gold,
That gold of his I did cement them
with!
Let us but love each other. Must you
go?
That Cousin here again? he waits
outside?
Must see you—you, and not with me?
Those loans?
More gaming debts to pay? you smiled
for that?
Well, let smiles buy me! have you more
to spend?
While hand and eye and something of a
heart
Are left me, work's my ware, and
what's it worth?
I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit
The grey remainder of the evening out,
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly
How I could paint, were I but back in
France,
One picture, just one more—the
Virgin's face,
Not yours this time! I want you at my
side
To hear them—that is, Michel Agnolo—
Judge all I do and tell you of its
worth.
Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your
friend.
I take the subjects for his corridor,
Finish the portrait out of hand—there,
there,
And throw him in another thing or two
If he demurs; the whole should prove
enough
To pay for this same Cousin's freak.
Beside,
What's better and what's all I care
about,
Get you the thirteen scudi for the
ruff!
Love, does that please you? Ah, but
what does he,
The Cousin! what does he to please you
more?
I am grown peaceful as old age
to-night.
I regret little, I would change still
less.
Since there my past life lies, why alter
it?
The very wrong to Francis!—it is true
I took his coin, was tempted and
complied,
And built this house and sinned, and
all is said.
My father and my mother died of want.
Well, had I riches of my own? you see
How one gets rich! Let each one bear
his lot.
They were born poor, lived poor, and
poor they died:
And I have laboured somewhat in my
time
And not been paid profusely. Some good
son
Paint my two hundred pictures—let him
try!
No doubt, there's something strikes a
balance. Yes,
You loved me quite enough. it seems
to-night.
This must suffice me here. What would
one have?
In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one
more chance—
Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,
Meted on each side by the angel's
reed,
For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me
To cover—the three first without a
wife,
While I have mine! So—still they
overcome
Because there's still Lucrezia,—as I
choose.
Summary(sparknotes)
This poem
represents yet another of Browning’s dramatic monologues spoken in the voice of
an historical Renaissance painter. Andrea del Sarto, like Fra Lippo Lippi,
lived and worked in Florence, albeit a little later than Lippo, and was later
appointed court painter by Francis, the King of France. Under the nagging
influence of his wife Lucrezia, to whom he speaks in this poem, he left the
French court for Italy but promised to return; he took with him some money that
Francis had given him to purchase Italian artworks for the court, and also the
money advanced to him for his own commissioned paintings. However, he spent all
of the money on a house for himself and his wife in Italy and never returned to
France. This poem finds Andrea in the house he has bought with the stolen
money, as he thinks back on his career and laments that his worldly concerns
have kept him from fulfilling his promise as an artist. As he and Lucrezia sit
at their window, he talks to her of his relative successes and failures:
although Michelangelo (here, Michel Agnolo) and Raphael (Rafael) enjoyed higher
inspiration and better patronage—and lacked nagging wives—he is the better
craftsman, and he points out to her the problems with the Great Masters’ work.
But while Andrea succeeds technically where they do not (thus his title “The
Faultless Painter”), their work ultimately triumphs for its emotional and
spiritual power. Andrea now finds himself in the twilight of his career and his
marriage: Lucrezia’s “Cousin”—probably her lover—keeps whistling for her to
come; she apparently either owes the man gambling debts or has promised to
cover his own. The fond, weary Andrea gives her some money, promises to sell
paintings to pay off her debts, and sends her away to her “Cousin,” while he
remains to sit quietly and dream of painting in Heaven.
Form
“Andrea del
Sarto” unrolls in pentameter blank verse, mostly iambic. It is a quiet poem,
the musings of a defeated man. Both in language and in form it is modest and
calm. Yet it also manages to mimic natural speech quite effectively, with
little interjections and asides.
Commentary
This poem has a
most compelling premise—an artist’s comparison of his own work to that of the
Great Masters. Andrea blames his disappointing career on his inability to match
his unparalleled technical skills with appropriate subject matter: all the
Virgins he paints look like his wife, and he has never had the time at court to
allow his work to blossom. While Raphael and Michelangelo often err in their
representations (while he speaks Andrea mentally “fixes” a figure’s arm in a
scene by Raphael), the intentions and the spirit behind their work shine
through so strongly that their work nonetheless surpasses his. This seems to
contradict what Browning asserts in other poems about the unconnectedness of
art on the one hand and morality or intention on the other. But perhaps we can
explain this seeming contradiction by interpreting the Great Masters’
motivation as not so much any specific spiritual or moral purpose, but rather
an all-consuming passion for their art. As Andrea notes, Raphael, Michelangelo,
and Leonardo did not have wives: they lived for their work. For Andrea, painting
is reduced to a means to make money; he has the avaricious Lucrezia to support.
Between trying to pay her debts, buying her the things she wants, and keeping
her attention, Andrea cannot afford to focus solely on his art. Is the creation
of art incompatible with a “normal” life, a life of mundane duties and
obligations?
It may be worth
considering why Browning chooses to write about painters rather than poets in
his discussions on art and the artist-figure. During the Renaissance era where
Browning sets his verses, poetry would have had a somewhat limited audience: it
would have been enjoyed by those who had both the extra money and time to spend
on books, not to mention the necessary literacy (although much poetry would
have been read aloud). Painting, on the other hand, was—and still is—a more
public art form. Whether a painting hangs in a museum or on the wall of a
church, it remains constantly accessible and on display to anyone who passes,
regardless of his or her education. Moreover, particularly since most
Renaissance art portrayed religious themes, painting had a specific didactic
purpose and thus an explicit connection to moral and spiritual issues. This
connection between art and morals is precisely what most interests Browning in
much of his work—indeed, it much preoccupied Victorian society in general.
Browning and his contemporaries asked, What can be forgiven morally in the name
of aesthetic greatness? Does art have a moral responsibility? Because
Renaissance painting was public and fairly representational, it highlights many
of these issues; poetry is always indirect and symbolic, and usually private,
and thus makes a harder test case than painting. Indeed, Andrea’s paintings in
particular, which often depict religious scenes, get right at the heart of the
art-morality question, especially given his works’ imbalance between technical
skill and lofty intentions.
Andrea presents
us with a different kind of character than we are used to seeing in Browning’s
work. Unlike the Duke of “My Last Duchess,” Fra Lippo Lippi, or Porphyria’s
Lover, Andrea expresses a resigned, melancholy outlook; his wife keeps him
completely under her thumb. He lacks the hubris of these other characters, and
thus to some extent seems to represent Browning’s insecurities. The reader
should keep in mind that Browning did not enjoy public success until the late
in his career, and at the time that Men and Women was published critics
considered Browning’s wife, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the far greater poet.
While by every indication their relationship thrived on mutual respect and
support, it is nevertheless possible that Browning may have felt, as Andrea
does, that domestic life and his wife’s presence weakened his art.
Like “My Last
Duchess” and “Porphyria’s Lover” this poem “takes place” (is spoken) after the
fact: Andrea has long since left Francis’s court, and the money he stole has
long since disappeared into the house and Lucrezia’s wardrobe. While this
monologue comes across as dramatic in nature, it does not dramatize anyone’s
actions. Rather, it seeks to capture a mood and an attitude. In this way it has
more in common with Tennyson’s dramatic monologues (such as “Ulysses”) than it
does with other poems of Browning’s.
Themes, Motifs and Symbols
Themes
MULTIPLE PERSPECTIVES
ON SINGLE EVENTS
The dramatic
monologue verse form allowed Browning to explore and probe the minds of
specific characters in specific places struggling with specific sets of
circumstances. In The Ring and the Book, Browning tells a suspenseful story of
murder using multiple voices, which give multiple perspectives and multiple
versions of the same story. Dramatic monologues allow readers to enter into the
minds of various characters and to see an event from that character’s
perspective. Understanding the thoughts, feelings, and motivations of a
character not only gives readers a sense of sympathy for the characters but
also helps readers understand the multiplicity of perspectives that make up the
truth. In effect, Browning’s work reminds readers that the nature of truth or
reality fluctuates, depending on one’s perspective or view of the situation.
Multiple perspectives illustrate the idea that no one sensibility or
perspective sees the whole story and no two people see the same events in the
same way. Browning further illustrated this idea by writing poems that work
together as companion pieces, such as “Fra Lippo Lippi” and “Andrea del Sarto.”
Poems such as these show how people with different characters respond
differently to similar situations, as well as depict how a time, place, and
scenario can cause people with similar personalities to develop or change quite
dramatically.
THE PURPOSES OF
ART
Browning wrote
many poems about artists and poets, including such dramatic monologues as
“Pictor Ignotus” (1855) and “Fra Lippo Lippi.” Frequently, Browning would begin
by thinking about an artist, an artwork, or a type of art that he admired or
disliked. Then he would speculate on the character or artistic philosophy that
would lead to such a success or failure. His dramatic monologues about artists
attempt to capture some of this philosophizing because his characters speculate
on the purposes of art. For instance, the speaker of “Fra Lippo Lippi” proposes
that art heightens our powers of observation and helps us notice things about
our own lives. According to some of these characters and poems, painting
idealizes the beauty found in the real world, such as the radiance of a
beloved’s smile. Sculpture and architecture can memorialize famous or important
people, as in “The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed’s Church” (1845) and
“The Statue and the Bust” (1855). But art also helps its creators to make a
living, and it thus has a purpose as pecuniary as creative, an idea explored in
“Andrea del Sarto.”
THE RELATIONSHIP
BETWEEN ART AND MORALITY
Throughout his
work, Browning tried to answer questions about an artist’s responsibilities and
to describe the relationship between art and morality. He questioned whether
artists had an obligation to be moral and whether artists should pass judgment
on their characters and creations. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Browning
populated his poems with evil people, who commit crimes and sins ranging from
hatred to murder. The dramatic monologue format allowed Browning to maintain a
great distance between himself and his creations: by channeling the voice of a
character, Browning could explore evil without actually being evil himself. His
characters served as personae that let him adopt different traits and tell
stories about horrible situations. In “My Last Duchess,” the speaker gets away
with his wife’s murder since neither his audience (in the poem) nor his creator
judges or criticizes him. Instead, the responsibility of judging the
character’s morality is left to readers, who find the duke of Ferrara a
vicious, repugnant person even as he takes us on a tour of his art gallery.
Motifs
MEDIEVAL AND
RENAISSANCE EUROPEAN SETTINGS
Browning set many
of his poems in medieval and Renaissance Europe, most often in Italy. He drew
on his extensive knowledge of art, architecture, and history to fictionalize
actual events, including a seventeenth-century murder in The Ring and the Book,
and to channel the voices of actual historical figures, including a biblical
scholar in medieval Spain in “Rabbi Ben Ezra” (1864) and the Renaissance
painter in the eponymous “Andrea del Sarto.” The remoteness of the time period
and location allowed Browning to critique and explore contemporary issues
without fear of alienating his readers. Directly invoking contemporary issues
might seem didactic and moralizing in a way that poems set in the thirteenth,
fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries would not. For instance, the speaker of
“The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed’s Church” is an Italian bishop during
the late Renaissance. Through the speaker’s pompous, vain musings about
monuments, Browning indirectly criticizes organized religion, including the
Church of England, which was in a state of disarray at the time of the poem’s
composition in the mid-nineteenth century.
PSYCHOLOGICAL
PORTRAITS
Dramatic
monologues feature a solitary speaker addressing at least one silent, usually
unnamed person, and they provide interesting snapshots of the speakers and
their personalities. Unlike soliloquies, in dramatic monologues the characters
are always speaking directly to listeners. Browning’s characters are usually
crafty, intelligent, argumentative, and capable of lying. Indeed, they often
leave out more of a story than they actually tell. In order to fully understand
the speakers and their psychologies, readers must carefully pay attention to
word choice, to logical progression, and to the use of figures of speech,
including any metaphors or analogies. For instance, the speaker of “My Last
Duchess” essentially confesses to murdering his wife, even though he never
expresses his guilt outright. Similarly, the speaker of “Soliloquy of the
Spanish Cloister” inadvertently betrays his madness by confusing Latin prayers
and by expressing his hate for a fellow friar with such vituperation and
passion. Rather than state the speaker’s madness, Browning conveys it through
both what the speaker says and how the speaker speaks.
GROTESQUE IMAGES
Unlike other
Victorian poets, Browning filled his poetry with images of ugliness, violence,
and the bizarre. His contemporaries, such as Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and Gerard
Manley Hopkins, in contrast, mined the natural world for lovely images of
beauty. Browning’s use of the grotesque links him to novelist Charles Dickens,
who filled his fiction with people from all strata of society, including the
aristocracy and the very poor. Like Dickens, Browning created characters who
were capable of great evil. The early poem “Porphyria’s Lover” (1836) begins
with the lover describing the arrival of Porphyria, then it quickly descends
into a depiction of her murder at his hands. To make the image even more
grotesque, the speaker strangles Porphyria with her own blond hair. Although
“Fra Lippo Lippi” takes place during the Renaissance in Florence, at the height
of its wealth and power, Browning sets the poem in a back alley beside a
brothel, not in a palace or a garden. Browning was instrumental in helping
readers and writers understand that poetry as an art form could handle subjects
both lofty, such as religious splendor and idealized passion, and base, such as
murder, hatred, and madness, subjects that had previously only been explored in
novels.
Symbols
TASTE
Browning’s
interest in culture, including art and architecture, appears throughout his
work in depictions of his characters’ aesthetic tastes. His characters’
preferences in art, music, and literature reveal important clues about their
natures and moral worth. For instance, the duke of Ferrara, the speaker of “My
Last Duchess,” concludes the poem by pointing out a statue he commissioned of
Neptune taming a sea monster. The duke’s preference for this sculpture directly
corresponds to the type of man he is—that is, the type of man who would have
his wife killed but still stare lovingly and longingly at her portrait. Like
Neptune, the duke wants to subdue and command all aspects of life, including
his wife. Characters also express their tastes by the manner in which they
describe art, people, or landscapes. Andrea del Sarto, the Renaissance artist
who speaks the poem “Andrea del Sarto,” repeatedly uses the adjectives gold and
silver in his descriptions of paintings. His choice of words reinforces one of
the major themes of the poem: the way he sold himself out. Listening to his
monologue, we learn that he now makes commercial paintings to earn a
commission, but he no longer creates what he considers to be real art. His
desire for money has affected his aesthetic judgment, causing him to use
monetary vocabulary to describe art objects.
EVIL AND VIOLENCE
Synonyms for,
images of, and symbols of evil and violence abound in Browning’s poetry.
“Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister,” for example, begins with the speaker
trying to articulate the sounds of his “heart’s abhorrence” (1) for a fellow
friar. Later in the poem, the speaker invokes images of evil pirates and a man
being banished to hell. The diction and images used by the speakers expresses
their evil thoughts, as well as indicate their evil natures. “Childe Roland to
the Dark Tower Came” (1855) portrays a nightmarish world of dead horses and
war-torn landscapes. Yet another example of evil and violence comes in
“Porphyria’s Lover,” in which the speaker sits contentedly alongside the corpse
of Porphyria, whom he murdered by strangling her with her hair. Symbols of evil
and violence allowed Browning to explore all aspects of human psychology,
including the base and evil aspects that don’t normally appear in poetry.
Death
Much of
Browning's work contemplates death and the way that it frames our life choices.
Many poems consider the impending nature of death as a melancholy context to
balance the joy of life. Examples are "Love Among the Ruins" and
"A Toccata of Galuppi's." Other poems find strength in the acceptance
of death, like "Prospice,""Childe Roland to the Dark Tower
Came," and "Rabbi Ben Ezra." Some poems – like "My Last
Duchess,""Porphyria's Lover,""Caliban upon Setebos,"
or "The Laboratory" – simply consider death as an ever-present
punishment.
Truth/Subjectivity
If any prevailing
philosophy can be found throughout all of Browning's poetry, it is that humans
are not composed of fixed perspective, but instead are full of contradiction
and are always changing. Therefore, a wise man acknowledges that every person
sees the world differently not only from other people but even from himself as
his life changes. Many of the dramatic monologues make this implicit argument,
by suggesting the remarkable human facility to rationalize our behavior and
attitudes. Consider "My Last Duchess" or "Porphyria's
Lover." Even those who believe that there is a truth to be discovered,
like Rabbi Ben Ezra or St. John, acknowledge that each man must get to it in
his own way and through his own journey.
Delusion
Perhaps
Browning's most effectively used literary device is dramatic irony, in which
the audience or reader is aware of something of which the speaker is not aware.
Most often, what this dramatic irony reveals is that the speaker is deluded or
does not quite realize the truth of something. Some poems feature a demented
character who is not aware of the extent of his or her depravity or insanity.
Examples are "My Last Duchess,""Porphyria's
Lover,""Caliban upon Setebos" and "The Laboratory."
Other poems feature a character whose reasons for behavior are not as clear-cut
as he or she believes. Consider "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister"
or "The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed's Church." Finally, one
can observe manifestations of this in less obvious ways through poems like "Fra
Lippo Lippi,""Andrea del Sarto,""A Death in the
Desert" and "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came." In these
cases, the narrators are not clearly insane or demented, but are so fixed in
their own perspectives that they are unable to appreciate why they are being
punished or oppressed.
Beauty
Though Browning's
work typically eschews the Romantic poetry that was once his greatest
influence, he does continue to contemplate the nature and limits of beauty
through his poetry. Some of his poems take beauty or love as their primary subject:
"Meeting at Night,""My Star,""Two in the
Campagna," or "Life in a Love." Of course, even these poems
always contemplate the theme through the lens of an individual's unique
perspective. Others see absent beauty as a cause for melancholy. Consider
"Home-Thoughts, From Abroad,""Love Among the Ruins," and
"Evelyn Hope." Even some of the more sophisticated monologues
consider beauty and the pursuit of it as something that can torment us.
Examples are "Fra Lippo Lippi,""A Toccata of Galuppi's,"
and "A Death in the Desert."
The quest
A theme that runs
through much of Browning's poetry is that life is composed of a quest that the
brave man commits to, even when the goal is unclear or victory unlikely. In
some poems, this quest is literal, particularly in "Childe Roland to Dark
Tower Came." This is a useful poem for considering the use of the quest in
other poems. Some of them use the metaphor to suggest the difficulties of
living in the face of inevitable death: "Prospice,""Two in the
Campagna,""Rabbi Ben Ezra," and "Life in a Love."
Others have less intense quests than that which Roland undertakes, but
nevertheless show Browning's interest in the theme: "Meeting at
Night,""How They Brought the Good News From Ghent to Aix," and
"A Grammarian's Funeral." Overall, the theme serves as a metaphor for
life and most poems can be understood through the lens of "Childe
Roland" in this way.
Religion
Through Browning
never proposes a fixed religious perspective or subscribes to any organized
religion, much of his poetry contemplates the nature or limits of religion.
Most often, he casts doubt on the structure and hypocrisy of organized
religion. Consider "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister,""The
Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed's Church," and "Fra Lippo
Lippi." However, Browning often creates characters whose religious sense
is a strong part of their personality. In all of these cases, of course, each
individual has his own unique take on religion. Examples are "A Death in
the Desert,""Caliban Upon Setebos," and "Rabbi Ben
Ezra." Finally, much of Browning's poetry can be interpreted through its
lack of a religious sense, a world that has death and an afterlife but eschews
any relation to a God. This happens in some of the grander poems like
"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" or in the more personal ones
like "Prospice."
The grotesque
One of the
elements in Browning's poetry that made him unique in his time and continues to
resonate is his embrace of the grotesque as a subject worthy of poetic
explanation. Most often, he explores the grotesque nature of human behavior and
depravity. Consider "Porphyria's Lover,""Evelyn Hope," and
"The Laboratory." Then there are examples like "Caliban upon
Setebos," where the character is easy to sympathize with while being
objectively a grotesque creature. And then there is "Childe Roland to the
Dark Tower Came," which plunges head-first into a grotesque landscape.
Summary and Analysis of "Andrea del Sarto('The Faultless Painter')"
GRADE SAVER
Summary
This dramatic
monologue is narrated by Renaissance painter Andrea del Sarto to his wife
Lucrezia. They live in Florence. Andrea begs Lucrezia that they end a quarrel
over whether the painter should sell his paintings to a friend of his wife's.
He acquiesces to her wish and promises he will give her the money if she will
only hold his hand and sit with him by the window from which they can survey
Florence.
He admits to
feeling a deep melancholy, in which "a common grayness silvers
everything" (line 35), and hopes she can pull him from it. He tells her
that if she were to smile for him, he would be able to pull himself from such
sadness. Andrea considers himself a failure as an artist, both because Lucrezia
has lost her "first pride" (line 37) in him and because he has only
one talent: the ability to create faultless paintings. Though many praise him
for creating flawless reproductions, which he admits he does easily, with
"no sketches first, no studies" (line 68), Andrea is aware that his
work lacks the spirit and soul that bless his contemporaries Rafael and Michel
Agnolo (Michelangelo). Considering himself only a "craftsman" (line
82), he knows they are able to glimpse heaven whereas he is stuck with earthly
inspirations.
He surveys a
painting that has been sent to him and notes how it has imperfections he could
easily fix, but a "soul" (line 108) he could never capture. He begins
to blame Lucrezia for denying him the soul that could have made him great, and
while he forgives her for her beauty, he accuses her of not having brought a
"mind" (line 126) that could have inspired him. He wonders whether
what makes his contemporaries great is their lack of a wife.
Andrea then
reminisces on their past. Long before, he had painted for a year in France for
the royal court, producing work of which both he and Lucrezia were proud. But
when she grew "restless" (line 165), they set off for Italy, where
they bought a nice house with the money and he became a less inspired artist.
However, he contemplates that it could have gone no other way, since fate
intended him to be with Lucrezia, and he hopes future generations will forgive
him his choices.
As evidence of
his talent, he recalls how Michelangelo once complimented his talent to Rafael,
but quickly loses that excitement as he focuses on the imperfections of the
painting in front of him and his own failings. He begs Lucrezia to stay with
him more often, sure that her love will inspire him to greater achievements,
and he could thereby "earn more, give [her] more" (line 207).
Lucrezia is
called from outside, by her cousin, who is implicitly her lover, and Andrea
begs her to stay. He notes that the cousin has "loans" (line 221)
that need paying, and says he will pay those if she stays. She seems to decline
the offer and to insist she will leave.
In the poem's
final section, Andrea grows melancholy again and insists he does "regret
little… would change still less" (line 245). He justifies having fled
France and sold out his artistic integrity and praises himself for his prolific
faultless paintings. He notes again that Lucrezia is a part of his failure, but
insists that she was his choice. Finally, he gives her leave to go to her
cousin.
Analysis
"Andrea del
Sarto" is unique in Browning's dramatic monologue oeuvre because of its
incredibly melancholic tone and pessimistic view of art. The voice, as
well-drawn as usual, falls into blank verse, unrhymed, mostly iambic lines, but
lacks the charisma of most of Browning's speakers. It's a fitting choice, since
the character's basic approach to his dilemma is a rational, dialectical one –
he follows several lines of thought in trying to find who or what is to blame
for his unhappiness, reasoning through each option until he wears himself out.
The piece veers between extreme moods and thoughts without any clear
separations, suggesting the rhythm of depressive, desperate thought.
The irony is that
his ability to rationalize does not mean he gets anywhere closer to truth, or
that he is free from severe psychological hang-ups. First, a bit of history is
useful. As with this poem's companion piece, "Fra Lippo Lippi,"
Browning was inspired towards this subject by Vasari's Lives of the Artists,
which tells of how Andrea was famous in his day for his ability to paint
faultless work, though he was later eclipsed in greatness by his
contemporaries, compared with whose work his looked vacuous. The other
historical detail Browning draws upon is the painter's artistic life: he had
painted for the French king for a while, until he and his wife Lucrezia took
their bounty and went to Florence, where they used that money to buy a
wonderful house.
Andrea's basic
dilemma can be boiled down to one that still resonates with artists today:
should he pursue high art or commercial art? Obviously, the two are not
mutually exclusive, but the pursuit of the former demands great ambition and a
willingness to fail, whereas the latter can be produced according to more
easily categorizable formula. Andrea acknowledges that an artist ought be drawn
towards the demands of high art, which pushes him to reach for the heavens:
"a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for?"
(lines 97-98). And yet he repeatedly chooses to stay Earth-bound, choosing to
create paintings for money, to stay within his comfort realm (in which he can
create faultless paintings without any difficulty) and thereby maintain a high
standard of living.
He spends the
monologue seeking the cause of his choice. The most common cause he returns to
is his wife, so much so that he wonders whether his more acclaimed
contemporaries have perhaps gained in ambition by lacking a wife. It's clear
that he is under Lucrezia's thumb, both at the beginning – in which he
acquiesces to painting for the sake of her "friend's friend" (line 5)
even as it bothers him – and at the end, when he sends her off to a 'cousin'
who is more than likely a lover, and whose debts Lucrezia forces her husband to
work in order to pay. And yet, for all the ammunition he has to despise her,
Andrea consistently pulls his punches. He accuses her of infidelity, of lack of
faith in his art, of not having a "mind," but each time retreats and
forgives her everything. Time and time again, he comes back to himself,
insisting that he chose her. One question that then emerges is: does his
refusal to directly confront her reveal a kindness in him or a weakness, a fear
of recognizing his own inability to confront her and by extension himself?
His idea of
ambition and great art seems well-founded and falls into a philosophy Browning
often espoused, the doctrine of the imperfect. Like many artists before and
after him, Browning believed that great art has to be willing to fail, whereas
an artist like Andrea, who refuses to compromise his ability for faultless
work, can only produce pretty pictures that reveal no depths of humanity.
Perhaps the most telling irony of the poem comes in the speaker's continual
return to the painting that sits in the room; he constantly notes how its arm
is imperfect and how he could fix it, even as he notes that it reveals great
soul in its artistry. In other words, while Andrea endeavors to discover the
cause of his unhappiness, he reveals to the reader that his inability to take
risks lies deep within himself.
It is here that
the basic arc of the poem is revealed: ultimately, through his struggle to
blame fate and Lucrezia for his unhappiness, Andrea constantly returns to
himself as the villain. The dramatic irony is uncharacteristically light in
this poem, because Andrea basically knows the answer to his query. Not only did
he choose Lucrezia in the first place, but he also chose to escape France with
her. Further, he chooses to let her go off to her lover, whom she refers to as
her "cousin," and he chooses to continue painting in a way he
despises. The deep fear at the heart of the poem is a fear of having no
inspired purpose, of having talent but no direction. The heart of such despair
is so deep that Andrea will use his every rational facility to avoid looking
into that question, and so he instead convinces himself that all will be okay.
His greatest weakness is that he barely asks the hardest question: what if all
of this means nothing? Perhaps were he to fully confront that question, he
would create work that resonated in a deeper way than his current paintings.
But he is unwilling or unable to do so, and convinces himself that he chooses
the material over the heavenly world, hoping he will be forgiven for future
generations for the choice, even as he is deep-down certain that will not be
the case.
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Poem 2: My Last Duchess
FERRARA
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!
Summary and Analysis of "My Last Duchess"
Summary
"My Last
Duchess" is narrated by the duke of Ferrara to an envoy (representative)
of another nobleman, whose daughter the duke is soon to marry. These details
are revealed throughout the poem, but understanding them from the opening helps
to illustrate the irony that Browning employs.
At the poem's
opening, the duke has just pulled back a curtain to reveal to the envoy a
portrait of his previous duchess. The portrait was painted by Fra Pandolf, a
monk and painter whom the duke believes captured the singularity of the
duchess's glance. However, the duke insists to the envoy that his former wife’s
deep, passionate glance was not reserved solely for her husband. As he puts it,
she was "too easily impressed" into sharing her affable nature.
His tone grows
harsh as he recollects how both human and nature could impress her, which
insulted him since she did not give special favor to the "gift" of
his "nine-hundred-years-old" family name and lineage. Refusing to
deign to "lesson" her on her unacceptable love of everything, he
instead "gave commands" to have her killed.
The duke then
ends his story and asks the envoy to rise and accompany him back to the count,
the father of the duke's impending bride and the envoy's employer. He mentions
that he expects a high dowry, though he is happy enough with the daughter
herself. He insists that the envoy walk with him "together" – a lapse
of the usual social expectation, where the higher ranked person would walk
separately – and on their descent he points out a bronze bust of the god
Neptune in his collection.
Analysis
"My Last
Duchess," published in 1842, is arguably Browning's most famous dramatic
monologue, with good reason. It engages the reader on a number of levels –
historical, psychological, ironic, theatrical, and more.
The most engaging
element of the poem is probably the speaker himself, the duke. Objectively,
it's easy to identify him as a monster, since he had his wife murdered for what
comes across as fairly innocuous crimes. And yet he is impressively charming,
both in his use of language and his affable address. The ironic disconnect that
colors most of Browning's monologues is particularly strong here. A remarkably
amoral man nevertheless has a lovely sense of beauty and of how to engage his
listener.
In fact, the
duke's excessive demand for control ultimately comes across as his most
defining characteristic. The obvious manifestation of this is the murder of his
wife. Her crime is barely presented as sexual; even though he does admit that
other men could draw her "blush," he also mentions several natural
phenomena that inspired her favor. And yet he was driven to murder by her
refusal to save her happy glances solely for him. This demand for control is
also reflected in his relationship with the envoy. The entire poem has a
precisely controlled theatrical flair, from the unveiling of the curtain that
is implied to precede the opening, to the way he slowly reveals the details of
his tale, to his assuming of the envoy's interest in the tale ("strangers
like you….would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there"), to
his final shift in subject back to the issue of the impending marriage. He
pretends to denigrate his speaking ability – "even had you skill in speech
– (which I have not),” later revealing that he believes the opposite to be
true, even at one point explicitly acknowledging how controlled his story is
when he admits he "said 'Fra Pandolf' by design" to peak the envoy's
interest. The envoy is his audience much as we are Browning's, and the duke
exerts a similar control over his story that Browning uses in crafting the
ironic disconnect.
In terms of
meter, Browning represents the duke's incessant control of story by using a
regular meter but also enjambment (where the phrases do not end at the close of
a line). The enjambment works against the otherwise orderly meter to remind us
that the duke will control his world, including the rhyme scheme of his
monologue.
To some extent,
the duke's amorality can be understood in terms of aristocracy. The poem was
originally published with a companion poem under the title "Italy and
France," and both attempted to explore the ironies of aristocratic honor.
In this poem, loosely inspired by real events set in Renaissance Italy, the
duke reveals himself not only as a model of culture but also as a monster of
morality. His inability to see his moral ugliness could be attributed to having
been ruined by worship of a "nine-hundred-years-old name.” He is so
entitled that when his wife upset him by too loosely bestowing her favor to
others, he refused to speak to her about it. Such a move is out of the question
– "who'd stoop to blame this kind of trifling?" He will not
"stoop" to such ordinary domestic tasks as compromise or discussion.
Instead, when she transgresses his sense of entitlement, he gives commands and
she is dead.
Another element
of the aristocratic life that Browning approaches in the poem is that of
repetition. The duke's life seems to be made of repeated gestures. The most
obvious is his marriage – the use of the word "last" in the title
implies that there are several others, perhaps with curtain-covered paintings
along the same hallway where this one stands. In the same way that the age of
his name gives it credence, so does he seem fit with a life of repeated
gestures, one of which he is ready to make again with the count's daughter.
And indeed, the
question of money is revealed at the end in a way that colors the entire poem.
The duke almost employs his own sense of irony when he brings up a
"dowry" to the envoy. This final stanza suggests that his story of
murder is meant to give proactive warning to the woman he is soon to marry, but
to give it through a backdoor channel, through the envoy who would pass it
along to the count who might then pass it to the girl. After all, the duke has
no interest in talking to her himself, as we have learned! His irony goes even
further when he reminds the envoy that he truly wants only the woman herself,
even as he is clearly stressing the importance of a large dowry tinged with a
threat of his vindictive side.
But the lens of
aristocracy undercuts the wonderful psychological nature of the poem, which is
overall more concerned with human contradictions than with social or economic
criticism. The first contradiction to consider is how charming the duke
actually is. It would be tempting to suggest Browning wants to paint him as a
weasel, but knowing the poet's love of language, it's clear that he wants us to
admire a character who can manipulate language so masterfully. Further, the
duke shows an interesting complication in his attitudes on class when he
suggests to the envoy that they "go Together down," an action not
expected in such a hierarchical society. By no means can we justify the idea
that the duke is willing to transcend class, but at the same time he does allow
a transgression of the very hierarchy that had previously led him to have his
wife murdered rather than discuss his problems with her.
Also at play
psychologically is the human ability to rationalize our hang-ups. The duke
seems controlled by certain forces: his own aristocratic bearing; his relationship
to women; and lastly, this particular duchess who confounded him. One can argue
that the duke, who was in love with his "last duchess,” is himself
controlled by his social expectations, and that his inability to bear perceived
insult to his aristocratic name makes him a victim of the same social forces
that he represents. Likewise, what he expects of his wives, particularly of
this woman whose portrait continues to provide him with fodder for performance,
suggests a deeper psychology than one meant solely for criticism.
The last thing to
point out in the duke's language is his use of euphemism. The way he explains
that he had the duchess killed – "I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped
together" – shows a facility for avoiding the truth through choice of
language. What this could suggest is that the duchess was in fact guilty of
greater transgression than he claims, that instead of flirtation, she might
have physically or sexually betrayed him. There's certainly no explicit
evidence of this, but at the same time, it's plausible that a man as arrogant
as the duke, especially one so equipped with the power of euphemism, would
avoid spelling out his disgrace to a lowly envoy and instead would speak around
the issue.
Finally, one can
also understand this poem as a commentary on art. The duke remains enamored
with the woman he has had killed, though his affection now rests on a
representation of her. In other words, he has chosen to love the ideal image of
her rather than the reality, similar to how the narrator of "Porphyria's
Lover" chose a static, dead love than one destined to change in the throes
of life. In many ways, this is the artist's dilemma, which Browning explores in
all of his work. As poet, he attempts to capture contradiction and movement, psychological
complexity that cannot be pinned down into one object, and yet in the end all
he can create is a collection of static lines. The duke attempts to be an
artist in his life, turning a walk down the hallway into a performance, but he
is always hampered by the fact that the ideal that inspires his performance
cannot change.
summary(sparknotes)
This poem is
loosely based on historical events involving Alfonso, the Duke of Ferrara, who
lived in the 16th century. The Duke is the speaker of the poem, and tells us he
is entertaining an emissary who has come to negotiate the Duke’s marriage (he
has recently been widowed) to the daughter of another powerful family. As he
shows the visitor through his palace, he stops before a portrait of the late
Duchess, apparently a young and lovely girl. The Duke begins reminiscing about
the portrait sessions, then about the Duchess herself. His musings give way to
a diatribe on her disgraceful behavior: he claims she flirted with everyone and
did not appreciate his “gift of a nine-hundred-years- old name.” As his
monologue continues, the reader realizes with ever-more chilling certainty that
the Duke in fact caused the Duchess’s early demise: when her behavior
escalated, “[he] gave commands; / Then all smiles stopped together.” Having
made this disclosure, the Duke returns to the business at hand: arranging for
another marriage, with another young girl. As the Duke and the emissary walk
leave the painting behind, the Duke points out other notable artworks in his
collection.
Form
“My Last Duchess”
comprises rhyming pentameter lines. The lines do not employ end-stops; rather,
they use enjambment—gthat is, sentences and other grammatical units do not
necessarily conclude at the end of lines. Consequently, the rhymes do not create
a sense of closure when they come, but rather remain a subtle driving force
behind the Duke’s compulsive revelations. The Duke is quite a performer: he
mimics others’ voices, creates hypothetical situations, and uses the force of
his personality to make horrifying information seem merely colorful. Indeed,
the poem provides a classic example of a dramatic monologue: the speaker is
clearly distinct from the poet; an audience is suggested but never appears in
the poem; and the revelation of the Duke’s character is the poem’s primary aim.
Commentary
But Browning has
more in mind than simply creating a colorful character and placing him in a
picturesque historical scene. Rather, the specific historical setting of the
poem harbors much significance: the Italian Renaissance held a particular
fascination for Browning and his contemporaries, for it represented the
flowering of the aesthetic and the human alongside, or in some cases in the
place of, the religious and the moral. Thus the temporal setting allows Browning
to again explore sex, violence, and aesthetics as all entangled, complicating
and confusing each other: the lushness of the language belies the fact that the
Duchess was punished for her natural sexuality. The Duke’s ravings suggest that
most of the supposed transgressions took place only in his mind. Like some of
Browning’s fellow Victorians, the Duke sees sin lurking in every corner. The
reason the speaker here gives for killing the Duchess ostensibly differs from
that given by the speaker of “Porphyria’s Lover” for murder Porphyria; however,
both women are nevertheless victims of a male desire to inscribe and fix female
sexuality. The desperate need to do this mirrors the efforts of Victorian
society to mold the behavior—gsexual and otherwise—gof individuals. For people
confronted with an increasingly complex and anonymous modern world, this
impulse comes naturally: to control would seem to be to conserve and stabilize.
The Renaissance was a time when morally dissolute men like the Duke exercised absolute
power, and as such it is a fascinating study for the Victorians: works like
this imply that, surely, a time that produced magnificent art like the
Duchess’s portrait couldn’t have been entirely evil in its allocation of
societal control—geven though it put men like the Duke in power.
A poem like “My
Last Duchess” calculatedly engages its readers on a psychological level.
Because we hear only the Duke’s musings, we must piece the story together
ourselves. Browning forces his reader to become involved in the poem in order
to understand it, and this adds to the fun of reading his work. It also forces
the reader to question his or her own response to the subject portrayed and the
method of its portrayal. We are forced to consider, Which aspect of the poem dominates:
the horror of the Duchess’s fate, or the beauty of the language and the
powerful dramatic development? Thus by posing this question the poem firstly
tests the Victorian reader’s response to the modern world—git asks, Has
everyday life made you numb yet?—gand secondly asks a question that must be
asked of all art—git queries, Does art have a moral component, or is it merely
an aesthetic exercise? In these latter considerations Browning prefigures
writers like Charles Baudelaire and Oscar Wilde.
Line by line analysis:
Lines 1-2
THAT’S my last
Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she
were alive.
The speaker
points out a lifelike portrait of his "last Duchess" that’s painted
on the wall.
This tells us
that the speaker is a Duke, that his wife is dead, and that someone is
listening to him describe his late wife’s portrait, possibly in his private art
gallery.
It also makes us
wonder what makes her his "last" Duchess – for more thoughts on that
phrase, check out our comments in the "What’s Up With the Title?"
section.
Lines 2-4
I call
That piece a
wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a
day, and there she stands.
The Duke tells
his mysterious listener that the painting of the Duchess is impressively
accurate.
The painter, FrÃ
(or "Friar") Pandolf, worked hard to achieve a realistic effect.
Notice that the
Duke’s comment "there she stands" suggests that this is a full-length
portrait of the Duchess showing her entire body, not just a close-up of her
face.
Line 5
Will’t please you
sit and look at her?
The Duke asks his
listener politely to sit down and examine the painting.
But the
politeness is somewhat fake, and the question seems more like a command. Could
the listener refuse to sit down and look and listen? We don’t think so.
Lines 5-13
I said
"FrÃ
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.
The Duke explains
to the listener why he brought up the painter, Frà Pandolf.
He says that he
mentioned Pandolf on purpose, or "by design" (6) because strangers
never examine the Duchess's portrait without looking like they want to ask the
Duke how the painter put so much "depth and passion" (8) into the
expression on the Duchess's face, or "countenance" (7).
They don’t
actually ask, because they don’t dare, but the Duke thinks he can tell that
they want to.
Parenthetically,
the Duke mentions that he’s always the one there to answer this question
because nobody else is allowed to draw back the curtain that hangs over the
portrait.
Only the Duke is
allowed to look at it or show it to anyone else. This is clearly his private
gallery, and we’re a little afraid of what might happen to someone who broke
the rules there.
Lines 13-15
Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s
presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the
Duchess’ cheek:
Addressing his
still-unknown listener as "sir," the Duke goes into more detail about
the expression on the Duchess's face in the painting.
He describes her
cheek as having a "spot / Of joy" (14-15) in it, perhaps a slight
blush of pleasure.
It wasn’t just
"her husband’s presence" (14) that made her blush in this way,
although the Duke seems to believe that it should have been the only thing that
would.
The Duke doesn’t
like the idea that anyone else might compliment his wife or do something sweet
that would make her blush.
Lines 15-21
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.
The Duke imagines
some of the ways that Frà Pandolf might have caused the Duchess to get that
"spot of joy" in her face.
He might have
told her that her "mantle" (her shawl) covered her wrist too much,
which is the Renaissance equivalent of saying, "man, that skirt’s way too
long – maybe you should hike it up a little."
Or he might have
complimented her on the becoming way that she flushes, telling her that
"paint / Must never hope to reproduce" (17-18) the beautiful effect
of her skin and coloring.
The Duke thinks
the Duchess would have thought that comments like this, the normal flirtatious
"courtesy" (20) that noblemen would pay to noblewomen, were
"cause enough" (20) to blush.
Strangely, the
Duke seems to believe that blushing in response to someone like Frà Pandolf was
a decision, not an involuntary physical reaction. Notice that the Duke also
seems to infuse his comments with a judgmental tone.
Lines 21-24
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.
The Duke
describes the Duchess as "too soon made glad" (22) and "too
easily impressed" (23). This is his main problem with her: too many things
make her happy.
Another way of
looking at it is that she’s not serious enough. She doesn’t save her "spot
of joy" for him alone. She’s not the discriminating snob that he wants her
to be.
She likes
everything she sees, and she sees everything.
Lines 25-31
Sir, ’twas all
one! My favor 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.
The Duke
elaborates further on the Duchess's tendency to see every pleasant thing as
pretty much the same.
If he gives her a
"favor" or mark of his esteem that she can wear, such as a corsage or
piece of jewelry, she thanks him for it in the same way that she approves of a
pretty sunset, a branch of cherries, or her white mule.
At first the Duke
suggests that she speaks of all these things equally, but then he changes his
claim and admits that sometimes she doesn’t say anything and just blushes in
that special way.
And maybe she’s a
little promiscuous – either in reality, or (more likely) in the Duke’s
imagination.
Part of the
problem is not just that she likes boughs of cherries – it’s that some
"officious fool" (27) brings them to her.(An "officious"
person is someone who pokes their nose in and starts doing things when they’re
not wanted – somebody self-important who thinks they’re the best person to do
something, even when everyone else wishes they would just butt out.)
Lines 31-34
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.
The Duke claims
that, although it’s all well and good to thank people for doing things for you,
the way the Duchess thanked people seemed to imply that she thought the little
favors they did her were just as important as what the Duke himself did for
her.
After all, the
Duke gave her his "nine-hundred-years-old name" (33) – a connection
to a longstanding aristocratic family with power and prestige.
The Duke’s family
has been around for nearly a thousand years running things in Ferrara, and he
thinks this makes him superior to the Duchess, who doesn’t have the same
heritage.
He thinks the
Duchess ought to value the social elevation of her marriage over the simple
pleasures of life.
Lines 34-35
Who’d stoop to
blame
This sort of
trifling?
The Duke asks his
listener a rhetorical question: who would actually lower himself and bother to
have an argument with the Duchess about her indiscriminate behavior?
He thinks the
answer is "nobody."
We don’t think
that there is much open and honest communication in this relationship!
Lines 35-43
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.
The Duke lists
all the obstacles that prevented him from talking to the Duchess directly about
his problems with her behavior.
He claims that he
doesn’t have the "skill / In speech" (35-36) to explain what he wants
from her – but his skillful rhetoric in the rest of the poem suggests
otherwise.
He also suggests
that she might have resisted being "lessoned" (40), that is, taught a
lesson by him, if she had "made excuse" (41) for her behavior
instead.
But even if he
were a skilled speaker, and even if she didn’t argue, he says he still wouldn’t
talk to her about it.
Why? Because he
thinks that bringing it up at all would be "stooping" to her level,
and he refuses to do that.
Lines 43-45
Oh sir, she
smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed
her; but who passed without
Much the same
smile?
The Duke admits
to his listener (who is this guy, anyway?) that the Duchess was sweet to him –
she did smile at him whenever he passed by her.
But, he says,
it’s not like that was special. She smiles at everyone in the same way.
Lines 45-46
This grew; I gave
commands;
Then all smiles
stopped together.
The Duke claims
that "This grew" (45) – that is, the Duchess's indiscriminate
kindness and appreciation of everything got more extreme.
The Duke then
"gave commands" (45) and as a result "All smiles stopped
together" (46).
Our best guess is
that he had her killed, but the poem is ambiguous on this point.
It’s possible
that he had her shut up in a dungeon or a nunnery, and that she’s as good as
dead.
She’s not his
Duchess anymore – she’s his "last Duchess" – so she’s clearly not on
the scene anymore.
Lines 46-47
There she stands
As if alive.
Will’t please you rise?
The Duke ends his
story of the Duchess and her painting by gesturing toward the full-body
portrait again, in which she stands "As if alive" (47).
Lines 47-48
We’ll meet
The company
below, then.
The Duke invites
his listener to get up and go back downstairs to the rest of the
"company."
As in line 5,
this sounds like a polite invitation – but we can’t imagine anyone refusing.
Lines 48-53
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.
We finally learn
why the Duke is talking to this guy: his listener is the servant of a Count,
and the Duke is wooing the Count’s daughter.
The Duke tells
the servant that he knows about the Count’s wealth and generosity, or
"munificence" (49), so he expects to get any reasonable dowry he asks
for.
But his main
"object" (53) in the negotiations is the daughter herself, not more
money.
Lines 53-54
Nay, we’ll go
Together down,
sir.
The Duke’s
listener seems to try to get away from him (we would try, too).
The Duke stops
him and insists that they stay together as they go back to meet everyone else
downstairs.
Lines 54-56
Notice Neptune,
though,
Taming a
sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of
Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
Before the Duke
and his listener leave the gallery, the Duke points out one more of his art
objects – a bronze statue of Neptune, the god of the sea, taming a sea-horse.
The Duke mentions
the name of the artist who cast this statue, Claus of Innsbruck, who made it
specifically for him.
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