The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O'Farrell

                                                                         

When I learned that this book was inspired by Browning's My Last Duchess--one of my favorite poems, I knew I'd want to read it. And I wasn't disappointed.

Based (loosely) on the life of Lucrezia de Medici and her marriage to Alfonso II d'Este, Duke of Ferrara and himself probably the inspiration for Browning's poem, the novel is set in Italy in the mid-1500s. 

O'Farrell's opulent prose draws the reader in to the lavish lifesyle of the Italian ducal courts, while her sensitive portrayal of character brings these historic figures to life. 

The powerful Alfonso needs a heir and, after his first choice for a wife dies, he turns to her sister, 13-year-old Lucrezia, daughter of the Grand Duke of Tuscany and his wife Eleonora, known as La Fecundissima for the many healthy children she has borne. Like Henry VIII, the guy is obsessed. And a bit of a control freak.

After almost a year goes by and no pregnancy, things begin to go very badly indeed.

I really admire the way O'Farrell contrived a better, less tragic ending for the little duchess than history relates. After all, this is historical fiction. And who knows, it could have happened this way.

Here's the poem:

My Last Duchess

BY ROBERT BROWNING

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 as 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’ 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 joy. 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 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. 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 an 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 for 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!

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