:banana: I don't understand some of the poem. help?
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:banana: I don't understand some of the poem. help?
Who is it written by?
I'm going to move this topic to the Poems, Poets and Poetry section, it may get more reads that way ;)
Robert Browning
Giovanna,
If you post the poem and highlight the parts you don't understand, we might be able to offer better help...
Hello, Giovanna, welcome to the forum. Robert Browning's "My Last Duchess," I agree, seems a difficult poem to understand; the first time I read it, long ago, I had to read it several times to comprehend.
Browning, in many poems, tends to write in a very conversational style, which confuses many readers in his use of hyphens and lack of quotation marks. "My Last Duchess" refers to a husband-to-be's conversation with his fiancée's portrait artist, Fra Pandolf. The exquisite beauty, including that through Pandolf's art, mesmerizes the husband to near immodesty, and eventually all he wonders of seems her upcoming dowry. I question, however, if "The Last Duchess" may be deceased with the incessant references "looking as if she were alive," and always referring to her in the past tense; perhaps she died before she and her fiancé married - I have no idea.
The last lines, in which the poem ends so abruptly,
Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innshruck cast in bronze for me!
may refer to the rare charm and loveliness that the husband intends to keep to himself, hence the "taming . . . a rarity," as has been "cast in bronze," or immortalized through art, for him.
Good luck, and I hope this has helped.
Hell yeah, he has her killed. Check the text again and you'll see that he suggests that she cheats on him. He murders her out of jealousy which is made clear in lines 45-46 when he writes: "I gave commands; / Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands / As if alive."Quote:
Originally Posted by mono
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 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's 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 you. 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 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. 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 a 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 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!
I am not sure if Giovanna is coming back but I simply love this poem :D
I agree with Tris that the Duke has actually got his first wife because he believed '
...'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess's cheek '
Although the Duke is only talking about late Dutchess' portrait here as if to praise the artist, his true nature eerily comes through. He is a jealous and controlling man and he could not understand how his wife would be smiling (what's more smiling to everyone as she did to his superior self) and feeling happy with simple things in life -especially considering the 'precious' gifts he has to offer eg 900 years old family name and riches. He tries to show himself as a neglected and wronged husband who had to order the murder of his wife but his comments tell us a different story. The late Dutchess was a fun loving beautiful woman who enjoyed simple things in life and nature but the Duke could not handle this. Although she is dead now, he is still displaying his controlling nature by keeping her portrait behind a curtain and deciding who can see and who cannot.
Till the end it is hard to understand with whom the Duke is having this conversation but then it becomes clear that he is arranging to marry again;this time to a Count's daughter and showing the portrait to his agent.
The last reference to the Neptune taming a seahorse I find chilling. Again, the Duke is talking about art but showing his true colours. The reference makes it clear that he has no regrets about his past deeds. What is more, he will do the same again if his new bride is not 'tamed' and act in the way he desires her to. Hence, he himself is the Neptune, his brides are the seahorses.
I LOVE this poem. Love Browning's chilly, eerie poems like this one or 'Porphyria's Lover'. He is a master of dramatic dialogue, no doubt.
I strongly agree, Scher. I enjoy ALL of Browning's work (and that of the Mrs.), and some of his most chilling seem the best; "Porphyria's Lover" claims the best example - I could read it over and over again.Quote:
Originally Posted by Scheherazade
His other side, that of more romantic poetry, which seems more his claim-to-fame, I also enjoy very much, but for his versatality, I remain in awe.