Internal Monologues
My Last Duchess
The Count’s assistant left the drawing room, and entered the corridor. Like the rest of the mansion, it was littered with oddities, statues and paintings. The floor, too, was more ornate than could have been expected. The rug was covered in an oriental pattern, and made of an exceptionally expensive looking material. The assistant almost felt obliged to step gently around the edges, for fear of causing damage he would never pay off.
Eventually, though, he made his way safely to the stairway. This was no better than the corridor. An equally unusual carpet covered the steps, but with enough left at the sides to let you know it was covering marble. Once more, the walls were decorated with portraits, but these seemed to be different. On the right hand side, men were pictured in regal postures, looking as though they were observing their lands, and thoroughly enjoying it. The Duke certainly had money, and so had his father, and his father’s father, as the portraits would have it.
On the left, on the other hand, were paintings of women. Young women. Their dress changed very little, as far as the assistant could perceive. This led him to two possible conclusions: either all of these ladies had once married the Duke, or keeping up with fashion was unimportant in the Duchy. Whichever was right, there was something in the uniformity of the possible ex-Duchesses that worried the man, as he passed them. This passed quickly, as the Count, the assistants master, soon came into view at the bottom of the stairs.
The Count, much like the Duke’s house, was very decorative. His velvet cloak wrapped around his whole body, with one pale hand protruding, holding a silver topped cane. This matched his startlingly while hair, which was combed back violently behind his ears. The title of Count comes with certain stereotypes, all of which the Count was quite willing to uphold. He looked up to see his faithful assistant, and gave a thin smile.
“Ah, my boy” he said, with a faint, hoarse voice, “How was your meeting with the Duke?”
“It was informative, sir” replied the assistant. Indeed it had been. After all, he had been selected especially for his uncanny ability to tell more about a man’s character than anyone else the Count employed. “No doubt, sir, he is a wealthy man. He is aware of the fact himself, I feel. A union between both your fortunes would certainly be promising. Notwithstanding, sir, I cannot help but feel but a touch concerned for your daughter.”
“And how did you come to such a conclusion?” Enquired the Count, whose frown looked rather forced, as if he were no longer capable of expression in his old age, without having to think about it first.
“Well, sir, the Duke does seem to have an extensive history of marriages. I would put his loyalties to doubt in such matters. I would advise that you speak to your daughter on the matter, and to make her well aware of the… difficulties… the previous Duchesses may have faced.”
The Count looked up, and breathed out what might have been a chuckle. “Good boy, good boy. You have done your job well. Unfortunately, you have yet to learn the subtleties of the upper classes. It is not my daughter’s place to decide who she marries and why, it is for me to choose. Whatever flaws you might see in our friend the Duke, you forget your first observation: he is rich indeed. Thus, we shall offer up our sacrifice to his estate, and I shall see to it that you are rewarded handsomely for your work.”
As they turned to leave, the young man sighed. The Count was right, he didn’t understand the upper classes and, the way the tide was turning here, he didn’t want to.
Eventually, though, he made his way safely to the stairway. This was no better than the corridor. An equally unusual carpet covered the steps, but with enough left at the sides to let you know it was covering marble. Once more, the walls were decorated with portraits, but these seemed to be different. On the right hand side, men were pictured in regal postures, looking as though they were observing their lands, and thoroughly enjoying it. The Duke certainly had money, and so had his father, and his father’s father, as the portraits would have it.
On the left, on the other hand, were paintings of women. Young women. Their dress changed very little, as far as the assistant could perceive. This led him to two possible conclusions: either all of these ladies had once married the Duke, or keeping up with fashion was unimportant in the Duchy. Whichever was right, there was something in the uniformity of the possible ex-Duchesses that worried the man, as he passed them. This passed quickly, as the Count, the assistants master, soon came into view at the bottom of the stairs.
The Count, much like the Duke’s house, was very decorative. His velvet cloak wrapped around his whole body, with one pale hand protruding, holding a silver topped cane. This matched his startlingly while hair, which was combed back violently behind his ears. The title of Count comes with certain stereotypes, all of which the Count was quite willing to uphold. He looked up to see his faithful assistant, and gave a thin smile.
“Ah, my boy” he said, with a faint, hoarse voice, “How was your meeting with the Duke?”
“It was informative, sir” replied the assistant. Indeed it had been. After all, he had been selected especially for his uncanny ability to tell more about a man’s character than anyone else the Count employed. “No doubt, sir, he is a wealthy man. He is aware of the fact himself, I feel. A union between both your fortunes would certainly be promising. Notwithstanding, sir, I cannot help but feel but a touch concerned for your daughter.”
“And how did you come to such a conclusion?” Enquired the Count, whose frown looked rather forced, as if he were no longer capable of expression in his old age, without having to think about it first.
“Well, sir, the Duke does seem to have an extensive history of marriages. I would put his loyalties to doubt in such matters. I would advise that you speak to your daughter on the matter, and to make her well aware of the… difficulties… the previous Duchesses may have faced.”
The Count looked up, and breathed out what might have been a chuckle. “Good boy, good boy. You have done your job well. Unfortunately, you have yet to learn the subtleties of the upper classes. It is not my daughter’s place to decide who she marries and why, it is for me to choose. Whatever flaws you might see in our friend the Duke, you forget your first observation: he is rich indeed. Thus, we shall offer up our sacrifice to his estate, and I shall see to it that you are rewarded handsomely for your work.”
As they turned to leave, the young man sighed. The Count was right, he didn’t understand the upper classes and, the way the tide was turning here, he didn’t want to.
♠ ♠ ♠
We were asked to re-write My Last Duchess in a completely different way. The actual poem is the conversation between the Duke and the assistant about a painting of one of the Duke's former wives. This is the conversation I imagined he would have with his master shortly after.Also, I tried to add a little humour to the story. Please comment, I'd love to know what works and what doesn't!