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Description
His Last Duchess

(an intervention on Robert Browning’s My Last Duchess)

The limousine pulled up slowly, tires crunching softly over the abundant white gravel of the courtyard.  I had arrived at the Manor of the Duke Ferrara.  My door was opened a few moments after the car halted, by a thin middle aged man who did not look me in the eye.
“It is the Duke’s pleasure that you should join him for golf, sir” he supplied in a soft voice.  “Will you accompany me to the course?”
“Certainly!” I rejoined firmly and cheerfully as I shut the limousine door.  The doorman smiled slightly, his eyes flicking up to mine.
“This way, sir.”  His head bowed again as he indicated our direction with a sweep of his hand.
One hand on the door, I leant down and spoke through the limousine’s open passenger window.  “Thanks Mike, you can return to the Count.”  I patted my breast pocket. “I will call if I need you.”
“Very good, Mr. Smith.” The driver nodded solemnly.  I smiled at the doorman who stood quietly waiting.
“Lead on, my good man.”

As the limousine back down the driveway, the doorman and I walked around the eastern side of the Manor.  I marvelled at the fitness and energy of my guide; he gave the impression of a man who had no time for indolence, always working, working.  This Duke must keep him busy, I thought.  Just then I heard the soft echo of a golf club striking a ball and I looked into the distance.  Still several hundred metres away, but newly revealed around a copse, stood a large man with his club still high, looking to the north after his ball in flight.  I stopped and my guide did also.  As he looked to me I asked, “What is your name?”
“I am Gray, sir.” He bowed slightly.
“Then tell me, Gray,” I began lightly, “How well did you know the late Duchess?”
At this his face pinched and he frowned slightly.  “The late Duchess was a beautiful and gracious woman, sir.  It was a tragic accident; we do miss her very much.”  His eyes, though cast toward the lush grass under our feet, seemed to see beyond it.
A good answer, I thought.  Honest but careful.  My silent banter questioned if the Duke was meant to be included in the ‘all’, and I smiled.
“Well then Gray,” I declared. “I appreciate your help; I can see the Duke now.  Why don’t you go and have a cup of tea or something, I can go on myself from here.”
“Thank you, sir.” He bowed again and returned to the Manor, his face relaxing into a small grin.
I paused for a moment and watched him walk.  Funny, I thought, if all goes to plan, Gray will be unemployed soon ... I wonder if he will welcome it.  Ah well.
I turned and resumed my path toward my quarry, hurrying to meet him before he climbed aboard the large golf buggy I could see.  I wished myself good fortune.  These things can go horribly wrong.

“You are late,” rebuked Ferrara as I neared him. His dark eyes made me nervous. “I had expected you at dawn.”  He paused, seemingly waiting for my apology.  Then frowning, he announced, “Well I play golf after the noon meal, you will join me.”  I teed off, and the play helped steady my nerves a little.  By the time we had finished the front nine, the Dukes lead was diminishing.
“We have no time now for eighteen,” he accused. “Come, we will talk inside.”  The buggy hummed smoothly as he drove back to the Manor.

Having led me through much of his estate, the Duke now guided me into what appeared to be his study, a place of personal items and private thought.  It seemed more carefully trimmed; as if this is were the central room in the Manor.  On the wall to the left of his desk hung three paintings, a trio of beautiful and elegant women, similar enough to have been painted by the same hand.  The Duke began to speak as he inclined his head toward the canvas nearest him.
“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive.”
My pulse quickened as I heard my purpose approaching.  The top button of my barely open shirt suddenly felt as large as a dinner plate, and I wondered dreamily if it could hear my heart beating.  The chilling voice continued, speaking casually of the painting and its captured life, at first in critical appreciation, but then I heard his voice harden further as he remembered the habits of the late Duchess.
“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.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, feeling at once heroic and victimized.  This seemed unnoticed by the Duke; he was still regarding the painting and talking, as if to himself.
“E’en this would be some stooping; and I chose…” He turned to me again and searched me with the eyes of a shark. “… never to stoop.”  His gaze was heavy, I felt suffocated by it.  To my relief he looked up at the painting once more and resumed his attended soliloquy.
“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.”
My senses peaked and I felt caught.  In the distance a sudden, stifled activity could be heard but the Duke seemed oblivious.  He moved toward the door.
“Will’t please you to rise? We’ll meet the…” He frowned as he heard other doors open forcibly and several pairs of feet moving rapidly toward us.
“Nay, we’ll go…” he murmured.  Whatever he was saying was silenced by the sudden intrusion of daylight and two commonly dressed couples flourishing pistols.  The Duke looked uncertain, apparently not yet understanding what had happened.  One of the men lowered his gun and put it under his jacket, producing instead a badge and a pair of handcuffs.  He moved toward the Duke and gathered up his left hand, cuffed it and turned him around.  I sat transfixed as my host looked at me with comprehension contorting his face.  As the Detective arrested the hands of his quarry behind him, he leaned forward until his mouth was behind the Dukes ear and hissed with triumphant anger, “Thou art nicked, me ol’ beauty.”

I sat in the study alone for a time.  The police had saluted me, then relieved me of the microphone and its transmitter before removing the Duke.  I looked at the paintings, horrified by their significance but pleased there would be no more.

Eventually I rose of my own accord and left that estate far behind me.  But the look on its owner’s face as he was led away remains close by.  That was 37 years ago; the Duke has lately been released from his imprisonment.  As I sit in my own quiet home, I cannot help but be chilled by the memory of that strong face regarding me with cold and violent hatred.

Even tonight, I can see that mask of rage as if it were still before me.

Description
His Last Duchess

(an intervention on Robert Browning’s My Last Duchess)

The limousine pulled up slowly, tires crunching softly over the abundant white gravel of the courtyard.  I had arrived at the Manor of the Duke Ferrara.  My door was opened a few moments after the car halted, by a thin middle aged man who did not look me in the eye.
“It is the Duke’s pleasure that you should join him for golf, sir” he supplied in a soft voice.  “Will you accompany me to the course?”
“Certainly!” I rejoined firmly and cheerfully as I shut the limousine door.  The doorman smiled slightly, his eyes flicking up to mine.
“This way, sir.”  His head bowed again as he indicated our direction with a sweep of his hand.
One hand on the door, I leant down and spoke through the limousine’s open passenger window.  “Thanks Mike, you can return to the Count.”  I patted my breast pocket. “I will call if I need you.”
“Very good, Mr. Smith.” The driver nodded solemnly.  I smiled at the doorman who stood quietly waiting.
“Lead on, my good man.”

As the limousine back down the driveway, the doorman and I walked around the eastern side of the Manor.  I marvelled at the fitness and energy of my guide; he gave the impression of a man who had no time for indolence, always working, working.  This Duke must keep him busy, I thought.  Just then I heard the soft echo of a golf club striking a ball and I looked into the distance.  Still several hundred metres away, but newly revealed around a copse, stood a large man with his club still high, looking to the north after his ball in flight.  I stopped and my guide did also.  As he looked to me I asked, “What is your name?”
“I am Gray, sir.” He bowed slightly.
“Then tell me, Gray,” I began lightly, “How well did you know the late Duchess?”
At this his face pinched and he frowned slightly.  “The late Duchess was a beautiful and gracious woman, sir.  It was a tragic accident; we do miss her very much.”  His eyes, though cast toward the lush grass under our feet, seemed to see beyond it.
A good answer, I thought.  Honest but careful.  My silent banter questioned if the Duke was meant to be included in the ‘all’, and I smiled.
“Well then Gray,” I declared. “I appreciate your help; I can see the Duke now.  Why don’t you go and have a cup of tea or something, I can go on myself from here.”
“Thank you, sir.” He bowed again and returned to the Manor, his face relaxing into a small grin.
I paused for a moment and watched him walk.  Funny, I thought, if all goes to plan, Gray will be unemployed soon ... I wonder if he will welcome it.  Ah well.
I turned and resumed my path toward my quarry, hurrying to meet him before he climbed aboard the large golf buggy I could see.  I wished myself good fortune.  These things can go horribly wrong.

“You are late,” rebuked Ferrara as I neared him. His dark eyes made me nervous. “I had expected you at dawn.”  He paused, seemingly waiting for my apology.  Then frowning, he announced, “Well I play golf after the noon meal, you will join me.”  I teed off, and the play helped steady my nerves a little.  By the time we had finished the front nine, the Dukes lead was diminishing.
“We have no time now for eighteen,” he accused. “Come, we will talk inside.”  The buggy hummed smoothly as he drove back to the Manor.

Having led me through much of his estate, the Duke now guided me into what appeared to be his study, a place of personal items and private thought.  It seemed more carefully trimmed; as if this is were the central room in the Manor.  On the wall to the left of his desk hung three paintings, a trio of beautiful and elegant women, similar enough to have been painted by the same hand.  The Duke began to speak as he inclined his head toward the canvas nearest him.
“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive.”
My pulse quickened as I heard my purpose approaching.  The top button of my barely open shirt suddenly felt as large as a dinner plate, and I wondered dreamily if it could hear my heart beating.  The chilling voice continued, speaking casually of the painting and its captured life, at first in critical appreciation, but then I heard his voice harden further as he remembered the habits of the late Duchess.
“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.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, feeling at once heroic and victimized.  This seemed unnoticed by the Duke; he was still regarding the painting and talking, as if to himself.
“E’en this would be some stooping; and I chose…” He turned to me again and searched me with the eyes of a shark. “… never to stoop.”  His gaze was heavy, I felt suffocated by it.  To my relief he looked up at the painting once more and resumed his attended soliloquy.
“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.”
My senses peaked and I felt caught.  In the distance a sudden, stifled activity could be heard but the Duke seemed oblivious.  He moved toward the door.
“Will’t please you to rise? We’ll meet the…” He frowned as he heard other doors open forcibly and several pairs of feet moving rapidly toward us.
“Nay, we’ll go…” he murmured.  Whatever he was saying was silenced by the sudden intrusion of daylight and two commonly dressed couples flourishing pistols.  The Duke looked uncertain, apparently not yet understanding what had happened.  One of the men lowered his gun and put it under his jacket, producing instead a badge and a pair of handcuffs.  He moved toward the Duke and gathered up his left hand, cuffed it and turned him around.  I sat transfixed as my host looked at me with comprehension contorting his face.  As the Detective arrested the hands of his quarry behind him, he leaned forward until his mouth was behind the Dukes ear and hissed with triumphant anger, “Thou art nicked, me ol’ beauty.”

I sat in the study alone for a time.  The police had saluted me, then relieved me of the microphone and its transmitter before removing the Duke.  I looked at the paintings, horrified by their significance but pleased there would be no more.

Eventually I rose of my own accord and left that estate far behind me.  But the look on its owner’s face as he was led away remains close by.  That was 37 years ago; the Duke has lately been released from his imprisonment.  As I sit in my own quiet home, I cannot help but be chilled by the memory of that strong face regarding me with cold and violent hatred.

Even tonight, I can see that mask of rage as if it were still before me.