The Picturesque Duchess

Strikingly beautiful,
with a smile that catches a full room
Dashingly, ravishing,
how this woman made every man reel

One by one,
they all fell, indeed I myself fell
Peacefully, gracefully,
a picture of infinite beauty

Passion exceeded,
thunder stroke vigorously down
Gambit of internal perish
left was only the stroke of my brush

(Written from Frà Pandolf's point of view.)

The Last Duchess of Bel Air.

Now this is a story all about how,

My duchess got twist-turned upside down

And I’d like to take a minute just look right here

I’ll tell you all about the duchess on the wall right there.

In 19^th century England, born and raised

Smiling at people was how she spent most of her days.

Sitting ‘round, dressed, easily impressed, some fool

Not realizing that after her all the boys did drool.

When something happened, that was all too cruel

Some boy rode around the orchard on his mule.

We got in one little fight, the duchess got scared,

She promised and promised me that her heart had not been ensnared

I whistled for Pandolf

And when he came near

The paint was still fresh

And my plan became all too clear.

If anything I could say this plan was debonair

But I thought “no, forget it” I’ll say she tripped on her hair!

I walked up to the duchess around 7 or 8,

And I said to my lady, you die, see you later.

Looked at the painting, it was finally there,

To hang on the wall, the last duchess of Bel Air.

My Predecessor

Curiosity had overpowered me. After years of wondering, of trying to piece the parts together, I decided to sneak into James’ private quarters – my husband, that is – while he was fast asleep. It was certainly naïve to hope that seeing the painting for myself could bless me with sudden enlightenment so that everything would make sense, but I believed in it.

I found it hard to believe that the cause of her death could be an accident, even though that was the mechanical response James would give to anyone who would bring it up: “It was an accident.” No more, no less would he say. Once, when I inquired him about further detail on the accident, he ignored me. I was persistent, though, and kept asking him to get at least some sort of response. I got it. However, it was not of a verbal, but of a physical nature.

He was not usually violent. In fact, only once before had he struck me. It was during the last summer. Fra Pandolf, that good-hearted man and glorious painter, had been visiting. He told anecdotes of experiences from past years, and surely possesses the gift of story-telling. I laughed to my heart’s content; his visit was one of those too few really enjoyable moments in my monotonous life. However, the joy of this moment was quickly overshadowed by the beating James gave me upon Pandolf’s leave. I had never seen him this furious before.

Now there I was, in front of the curtain separating myself from my predecessor, the last duchess. I slowly dragged it away, gradually uncovering the mysterious painting which I had so desired to know more about. It seemed that every part of her body that was unveiled was prettier than the previous. Then I saw her face. Oh, her teeth, that smile of hers! So naturally beautiful, so perfect that merely looking at it would keep you enchanted. Not having known her, it was still easy to see that fra Pandolf had certainly done her justice. Oh, how wonderful, how magical she must have been when she lived.

Suddenly, it struck me. The smile on the painting was one that she had happily shared with fra Pandolf, just as I had shared mine. Just as I was given violence as response to the pleasure I took in fra Pandolf’s visit, so must she have been for that beautiful smile the painting showed. In that moment, when he realised that she were fond of fra Pandolf like I, James’ fury must have been just as powerful and engulfing as her smile.

I knew then that it was the time for flight…

My Last Duchess – rewrite

Point of view: the Duchess

I had married the Duke at an early age. Though I had heard he was a stern man he was from a great family and possessed great wealth. The first time we met he barely smiled. I made it my goal to make him smile and be happy about the smallest things as I was.

Where I grew up we did not have much and I quickly learned to appreciate the smallest things and be content with the cards life would deal me. Although he was not the most handsome man he was a dear man who loved me greatly, well as much as his little heart would allow him, and I returned his feelings. In the morning I would walk through the garden and smell the flowers. We always had flowers in our home and our house was the biggest and most beautiful one in the entire village. Though the Duke never cared for the villagers, I did. Since he did not care, I would care and I accepted their apples, cherries, pears and vegetables with great delight and thanked them eagerly.

My husband was not satisfied with this. He would yell and make a fuss over how the flowers made my face light up and the fruit made my eyes twinkle. How dared I not care for the things he had given me, he asked. And I would hold the lump in my throat back and answer, without a quiver in my voice, that I had bought the flowers into our home for his sake. He did not want to hear of this and asked me to not talk to anyone outside our home and not grin like an imbecile at every gesture strangers gave me.

I tried to live by the restrictions he had given me but I found it hard. I talked with the villagers as I normally did and was ready to explain to the Duke how much it mattered to me. One evening I returned home, much later than anticipated, due to the carriage’s wheel falling off. The poor driver had worked furiously to fix it but it was no use – the wheel was broken. So we walked home. My shoes, that my husband so kindly had given me, were ruined and my dress was stained in mud. When I entered the house he yelled at me once again. This time I could see fire in his eyes; a fury that I had never seen before. He threw books into the walls, smashed vases on the floor – spreading the beautiful roses among the chaos and glass.

I begged him to see reason; that I had not been untrue to him. He did not believe me and followed me around the house. We reached his den and I begged him to understand. He asked if he had not treated me with dignity? Had he not done everything he could to make me happy? Had he let my face grace the canvas behind me? I said to him that all these things I did appreciate and I did care. He was furious and threw more books, papers and even a clock around. Did I not see how much he loathed my lingering eyes on other men? I stood frozen for a moment. I had never looked at any other man with more affection than I looked at him. Now the fire in his eyes grew brighter. What a liar I was, he said! He grabbed his bronze statue of Neptune and before I could move again he threw it at me. Then my face went numb, then a burning sensation hit me and everything blurred. Finally it became black and the pain in my head disappeared.

My Last Duchess- Rewritten for the Peasant

We all know she was a trophy wife. Sometimes I hear the other maids talking about the new one. Wondering if she'll be harsh like number three or gentle like number six. We've given up thinking that they'll ever be another Mary.

Mary was the first. The loveliest, kindest lady we'd ever met. She's the one that ruined the master after she died. His honest smile was replaced with the sardonic grin.

Never mind that. My duty now is to clean the latest Ms. Duchess' portrait. Number seven. Each fortnight I take the feather duster to her oil canvas. One must be careful not to scratch the surface, to blemish her rosy cheeks, or rip her satin gown would be most dangerous. The master would know.

It's not that he held her in any sort of high regard, but her only virtue (if you want to call it that) was her beautiful skin and lovely gowns. I know that's not the only reason, though.

He doesn't know I was there that night.

The master wishes to preserve her in portrait in hopes to erase the image of her mangled, bloody body that he hid in the crypts.

My Last Duchess - Rewritten

The other day I experienced the oddest encounter with a Duke at his home. This is what happened:

He walked me down the hall, the Duke – with his squared shoulders in place and an impatient pace in his steps, though with a slight anticipating undertone. Down a darkened corridor we went – why was it so dark, I remember thinking. Only a dim light at the end of the long corridor I was able to see. Went past door after door after door – darkened wooden doors.

At the end of the hall he stopped, sighed and looked at me as to ask me if I was ready. Ready for what, I thought, because I had not got the slightest clue as to what I was about to see. Another sculpture perhaps – I had seen the extensive art collection when I walked through the door into the hall, but I could not figure out what kind of art he felt the need to hide away at the end of a darkened corridor with only one dim light.

I moved further down the corridor and went to stand beside him – a veil of some sort was hanging on the wall hiding something – a frame perhaps. He sighed again, but this time with a hint of pride in his face. So this was something he was proud of I thought and my curiosity awakened and I could now not wait to see what was hidden behind the veil.

He indicated for me to take a step back, not far back, but just so that I would be able to see what was behind the veil and close enough so I would not have to squint. With that he drew the veil to the side and I could then see the Duchess staring back at me. It was not a large portrait, but large enough for me to take a step back by the intensity of it – the eyes of the duchess were so intense that I could not help but feel that there was more to the story of the portrait that I was immediately led on from the Duke.

After staring at the portrait for no more than ten seconds the Duke spoke up for the first time since I entered the home no more than seven minutes ago. “My late wife, the Duchess”. I could feel the coldness in his words and a shiver ran down my spine, because my senses had been proved right – something about the portrait had something hidden.

The Duke then began to talk about his late wife and I could hear the bitterness in his tone when talking about her. His possessive nature shone through his speech and I was pretty sure that something about her death would soon come to the surface – a surface that was so close now and I realised that it never really had been that far from the surface before and the shiver that ran down my spine before spread to the rest of the body and I took yet another small step back from the portrait.

When the Duke then began talking about how she never smiled her beautiful smile for only him and not others, I was completely sure of my assumptions. The Duke had killed his wife in cold blooded murder, and he now had a portrait of her hanging on his wall, with a smile so big that was only for him and not others. On top of that I learned that it was the man with whom the Duchess was in love with who had painted the portrait and that only made the experience more surreal to me.

I could now clearly see the possessive nature of Duke – it shone out of him. He now began telling the tale of how he did not like how she, in his mind did not have much respect for him as a nobleman, as he felt that she should respect the family name. She should also have been caring for him more than any other thing and not have had her eyes wander other place – which was what lead to her death.

After revealing what displeased him about his late wife, he went on to tell a tale of his other arts in the house and not long after that, I was able to walk from the home of the Duke only remembering the surreal experience it was to look into the intense eyes of the Duke’s Last Duchess.

His Last Duchess - A letter

Dear friend;

                    I dare not say my name, as I fear for my life. But what I am about to tell will justify my anonymity with no doubt. 

                   I have just returned from the Duke´s house, where arrangements for the upcoming wedding were being done. Naive as I am, thought it all to be the best outcome: the Duke appeared to be finally over his unfortunate past, and would receive a new Duchess with an open heart.  

                   He invited me upstairs and told me to sit down. He talked for hours on end about the piece of art you made. “Looking as if she were alive” were his exacts words. I tell you, it made me shiver and sweat at the same time. I had always thought he knew of the relationship you two enjoy. Those first words got me paralysed and made me completely unable to respond. Grateful I am, that he takes pleasure in his own voice, for his speech turned into a long monologue and my silence was not noticed at all. Thus I limited myself to remain still and nod along. Those were the longer minutes of my life, and could not feel safe until I was at home. 

                   He thinks she is dead, I see that now. His commands were never carried out and the Duchess survived, just as Snow White. I wonder though, who lied cold in a grave instead of his true wife. Or did he never perhaps bury anyone down? 

                  I hope you realise, my friend, the great danger you and the Duchess run. I pray you, my dear Fra, leave and make a brand new start, somewhere far away from his lands. Otherwise only God knows, what he is capable of, the moment he sees his last Duchess in the company of the artist, that is you.

                  Burn this letter I write, to keep us all alive. Burn this letter and leave, dear friend of mine.

Thoughts of the Last Duchess

As I now wander in these lonely halls of this mighty mansion, I cannot help but feel amazed by the sense of history embedded in every stone and every painting. I wonder how many duchesses have governed the beautiful drawing room and the comfortable chairs of the library before me. The history of these former duchesses is unclear to me, but as I walk through the corridor and past the beautiful sculptures at the end of the entrance hall, I can only feel assured that happiness must have resided here once. However gloomy the atmosphere is becoming now, as the party of guests left the day before and heavy, grey clouds is now drawing gravely over the mansion, I still feel optimistic for the coming future. How wonderful the sound of children’s voices and laughs would sound in these lonely halls and once again fill this place with joy and happiness. I realise that I am smiling and stop to reflect on this last thought – a thought which at times feels so out of reach.

If only the honourable duke would step out of his sinister attire and open his heart and dreams to me. I know that he has a good heart and shows courtesy and respect to every visitor entering this way. His glance towards me, however, is forever searching – but I do not know for what. I feel most intimidated in his presence – a mere object to be analysed and observed before being accepted fully into his home. How much I long for his recognition and love.

Whenever a chance occurs, I do my best to be an excellent hostess and wife by proving my skill at socializing and making every guest feel welcome. I flatter myself on my social skills and enjoyed the party last night in particular as I am sure it was such a success that the duke felt satisfied at the end of the evening. He surely did observe my every move and I hope my efforts will at last have found some gratitude within him and made his heart warmer towards me.

I now pass my own portrait hanging in the gallery. My painted eyes meet my own and I am pleased to see that they carry the same twinkling as I normally see reflected in the mirror by my nightstand. The portrait was painted not too long ago and I still remember how comfortable the painter, Frà Pandolf, made me feel. It had been a stressful day, I had been terribly frustrated by the emotional distant the duke had placed between us and Frà Pandolf’s easy manner had made me see the brightness of the future once again. I kept that feeling of optimism – with the hope that I would soon gain the love of the duke – in my eyes and as I see the painting now I am satisfied to see that Frà Pandolf has captured these emotions as well as I could have hoped.

As I now continue through the west corridor, I find my way into the library. Here I sit down in my favourite corner and feel at peace and in good spirit when I see the sun break through the dark clouds in the horizon. I trust that everything will fall into place when time has warmed the duke’s confidence towards me.

From heaven

There I am, painted on the wall.

After life, that is what we are,

a picture, an image, a memory.

I would like to be more than that

but maybe it is too late.

From here, I can see everything,

it is no as strange as it is said.

In heaven, I am enjoying my other life,

a different life I deserved

full of happiness, beauty, peace.

For as long as I remember

I have had to be as I was supposed to be;

however, I feel free now.

The life I spent with the Duke

was not as perfect as I dreamt.

But now, it does not matter,

my pursuit of happiness has finished

I found it here, in heaven.

I hope to be unforgettable for the Duke,

at least painted on the wall,

'cause I will never forget him.

My new life begins here

but memories will be always with me.