My Last Duchess

First Year semester two work... This is transposed from the poem "My last Duchess".

 

My last duchess hangs upon that very wall. She stares, loathingly towards me, forever immortalised in my gallery. The gentleman standing at my side will be bringing his daughter to me the evening after next, and if he will agree to it, she will sit for me and Fra Pandalf,

   “He really is a true sorcerer, with light and colour”, I say, regretting the enthusiastic tone.

I begin to think that it’s Pandalf to whom I owe everything, and so why do I still have the nerve to question this, arrangement? He gave me all I have, and for that I suppose I should be grateful, eternally so. We had just walked through my gallery of people, and as we walked the gentlemen beside me had commented on the “exquisite way in which each person has been captured within their frame”. Inside I shiver, how apt a comparison, it’s for this reason the line repeats in my head as I walk over to cover the Duchess.

   “They truly are exquisite my liege, I’m decided! Isabella shall sit for your paintings. To have one’s daughter hang in this gallery would be an honour”

“Marvellous” was all I could muster, I slowly drew the curtains on the duchess, her eyes still burning fiercely despite the years since the painting. I remember contacting this particular lord because of his daughter; she is so youthful, so full of life. It is this type of girl Fra Pandalf loves to paint; even though it is this type of girl who originally got me into so much trouble. But much like the Duchess’ father, I figure this lord could use the support within the court at the moment, and what is this little sacrifice to his most generous Duke?

 

Once the casual formalities of our, now entangled, lives are over I call a servant to show out my guest, and I return to my study to think. I insisted on only the best when I mentioned my desires to the Fra, so many years ago. And now I sit within this castle, and for as long as my name remains within these walls, those girls will hang also. I have over ninety separate portraits now; flaming auburn hair next to delicate blondes, passionate women alongside the meek. The Fra does not care; so long as he gets to paint them, then all is well within the walls of my castle. I always want to warn the people who approach me, but if I ever were to tell people what the Fra has given to me, would they believe me? In this God fearing world who would help a man condemned to this cycle?

 

I sit and remember the Duchess, it was there everything changed. Her beauty, her grace. It was that which I exchanged with the Fra. It sounds silly, but I was so afraid of dying that I felt I had no choice; and I knew her father would agree to anything when I offered my support in the courts. So I asked to have his daughter hang on my wall, and it was this and only this that I ever asked of the fathers. So he agreed and the Duchess came.

 

In a tower at the top of my castle, overlooking my estate is where the Fra captures their images. I remember the canvases surrounding the room, always the same strange colours and letters that almost hurt to look at. The Duchess questioned him on them; he said that they were just to help him paint, that they were in the language of his father; words of strength. I wanted to tell her to run, but I am a coward. The illness would have taken me within the month. So I stood and watched the Fra paint.

It is strange to watch the Fra paint the girls, to begin with he paints in the background, and he paints the place in which they shall sit, the room, a prison. It’s when he begins to paint the girls that you see it. First the colour in their cheeks begins to drain, they sit politely, but you see they can feel something. Then something difficult to explain happens, the girls almost begin to fade into the background. They don’t disappear as such but it gets harder to notice them. As the Fra paints with more ferocity, and enjoyment the girl in the room will often try to get up, or speak. Of course this by now is futile, the Fra has painted them into his new world, a canvas shaped prison, her own private hell.

So with a nine hundred year old name, and body, I have walked these halls, knowing that to stay alive a girl must be painted. And even after this long I am still afraid of death, perhaps more so as I have hidden for so long; But I am even more afraid that I shall always make the exchange, and be trapped in this gallery forever.

Reviews

[Warrior]

Great story telling. This did justice in the realm of getting the message across. Great message. There's lot of times where a story can have a great message to aim for, and have a lot of under lining things but then no one gets it, and if no one gets it, then the point has failed. But in my opinion this did well to get the message across. You made it clear, which is why I think it's good. Keep up the good work. What was also great was that I could imagine the story as I read it, and that is also a strong point of stories. The ability to have the reader imagine it because after all we're reading not watching it, but it was as if I was there as I read this, and that is great. Good job once again.