My Last Duchess

My Last Duchess

I did love her, my beautiful Duchess. From the first time I cast my eyes on her, I knew that I had to possess her and make her my wife. She was perfectly enchanting, an exquisite rose still waiting to open its petals to the powerful touch of the sun. Her complexion was translucent, but a faint blush would colour her cheeks whenever I complemented the delicacy of her youth. Oh, so very graceful and pure, she was! I immediately recognized her potential as a bride. She would honour me and produce a suitable heir for my family's longstanding noble name. She did indeed appear to be entirely sweet and amiable, and for some time I believed I had made the right move in marrying her. But I should not have trusted my instinct so easily. How wrong I was!

Initially, I hesitated to acknowledge my mistake. I turned a blind eye as my pride refused to discern her flirtatious behaviour whenever she was in the company of other men. Even today I have to admire the aptitude with which she exercised her female craft. She would entice men with her beauty and encourage their amiration by lowering her sweet gaze in submission whilst blushing in youthful charm. Anyone she dealt with was met with the same gentle nature and that playful smile. Yes, it was playful and suggestive. The rest of the world seemed oblivious to this. Nobody lifted an eyelid or ever hinted at her inappropriate behaviour, but I was no fool. No, only a few weeks after our grand wedding, I began to see right through her facade. She was not the materialization of purity, as I had first believed, but a common harlot! Naturally, the artful lady was unlikely to admit her deceitful and abhorrent nature was I to confront her. Moreover, as her husband and master I did not wish to stoop to her level by having to stage a confrontation. Such commonplace behaviour is simply beneath me.

I began to notice just how revoltingly she conducted herself. Whenever a hopeless fool would please her either by bringing her freshly cut boughs of cherry blossom from the orchard, or point out a beautiful sunset, or assist her when she rode her white mule round the terrace, she would blush in the most disgraceful manner and encourage the stupid moron with that winning smile of hers. Oh, she was good! Of course she played her game around me as well, and I pretended to play along too, but in secret I constructed my own plan.

I hired the highly esteemed Frà Pandolf to eternalise my Duchess' countenance in oil. The painting was to be produced directly on the wall of the upstairs drawing-room, and a studio was quickly set up. Neither the artist nor my darling wife were informed of my conversion of the adjacent room into a space from which I could observe the two of them when they believed themselves to be alone. A hardly detectable peephole allowed me to see everything that passed between the two of them. Pandolf was notoriously known for his interest in the fairer sex, and I wanted to observe my Duchess' reaction to possible advances. Sure enough, already on the first day of the project, Pandolf motioned for his model to expose a little more of her delicate skin, and to my horror, my Duchess responded by blushing and smiling oh so seductively. She did not follow his invitation to bare her skin in any inappropriate manner, but I had seen her smile, I had seen that encouraging look in her eyes. However, nothing happened between the two of them, and later I have wondered whether Pandolf is perhaps not such a ladies' man as the rumour professes. Certainly, he did not act on her suggestiveness, but looked rather as if he had been rejected.

After five weeks the painting was finished and the result was indeed impressive. Pandolf had caught that smile perfectly. But I suffered. In fact, the following months were unbearable to me. This impudent smile and those rosy cheeks seemed to be everywhere and aimed at absolutely everyone. It infuriated me with an ever greater intensity and slowly it seemed to take hold of my very soul. The anger almost suffocated me. It had to end; I had to erase that smile, I had to rid the world of those blushing cheeks!

My trusted servant, Gerard, carried out the deed and made it look like a tragic accident. For weeks the entire household was submerged in an atmosphere of grief. I practiced an appropriate sad look in the mirror, and applied it whenever I was not alone, but inside I rejoiced and I noticed a great sense of relief. I could breathe freely again.

Now, ten months later, everything is back to normal. I only regret that the late Duchess did not have time to bear me an heir. But I am in luck. Two months ago I attended a garden party at Count Humphrey's marvelous country retreat, Cheater Hall. On this occasion I met his most charming daughter, Miss Lucy, and I immediately knew that she would make the ideal Duchess. She is still quite young and therefore somewhat shy, but she managed a discreet smile when I complemented her on her excellent singing voice. My attention even brought a touch of rosiness to her cheeks and I felt rather pleased about my impact on her. Since then, I have visited the family a few times and my engagement to Miss Lucy is to take place later this summer. I think we will be very happy together, my shy rose and I.