«Mi duquesa muerta»: Robert Browning; poema y análisis.
Mi duquesa muerta (My Last Duchess) es un poema del romanticismo del escritor inglés Robert Browning, publicado en la antología de 1842: Líricas dramáticas (Dramatic Lyrics).
El narrador de Mi duquesa muerta, uno de los mejores poemas de Robert Browning, es Alfonso II, duque de Ferrara. La duquesa a la que alude el título es nada menos que Lucrecia de Médici, quien falleció prematuramente a la edad de 17 años, según se cree, víctima de envenenamiento.
Mi duquesa muerta.
My Last Duchess, Robert Browning (1812-1889)
Ferrara.
Sobre aquella pared, ved el retrato
de mi Duquesa muerta; se diría
que vive; prodigioso lo afirmo.
Aquí aparece como un día Pandolfo
la pintó con sus manos. Para verla,
¿no queréis sentaros? Dije Pandolfo
que nunca vio un extraño,
como sois vos, en la silueta, el hondo
y apasionado y serio encanto suyo,
sin volverse hacia mi (pues la tela
que la cubre por vos la he quitado,
y nadie la toca sino yo) ansioso
de interrogantes, si osaba, como el raro
prodigio vino aquí; ya en otros
percibí tal curiosidad. Señor, no sólo
de su marido el aspecto en las mejillas
de la Duquesa tonos tan alegres ponía.
Pandolfo bromeaba a menudo diciendo:
La manta de mi Señora cae demasiado
por la fina muñeca; o bien:
El arte pierde toda esperanza, impotente
será para copiar ese desmayo de suavidad
que muere en su garganta.
Galanterías de ese tipo fueron suficientes
para dar a sus mejillas esos alegres tonos.
Era el suyo un corazón —no se cómo decirlo—
propenso a la felicidad y al encanto fácil.
Encontraba placer en todas las cosas,
y sus ojos en todo se posaban. Todo era grato
para ella, señor, mis alabanzas en su pecho;
las luces del poniente, las cerezas que un necio
le traía del huerto, adulador; el burro blanco
sobre el cual cabalgaba en torno a la terraza;
cualquiera, cualquier cosa su rumor
o su elogio merecía. Daba gracias a todos —de alguna
manera, no se cómo— y mi regalo de novecientos
años de nobleza, con el don de cualquiera equiparaba.
¿Quién burlaría tan ligera frivolidad?
Si yo tuviera ingenio —que no tengo—
en hablar, muy claro le hubiera dicho: En esto
sí me disgustáis, o en esto os equivocáis.
Y ella, si al verse corregida no mostraba
agudezas, ni excusas os pedía. Señor, sonreiría,
sin duda al verme tolerar; sin embargo
¿quién toleró una sonrisa libre?
Siguió aquello. Con una orden, todas acabaron
al mismo tiempo sus sonrisas.
Observadla aquí como en vida.
Levantaos para contemplarla,
podemos descender junto a nuestros amigos.
Os repito que la notoria calidez del Conde,
vuestro Señor; es buena garantía
de que todas mis justas peticiones atenderá.
Más os declaro que la sola hermosura de su hija
me arrebata. Señor, bajemos juntos.
Ved aquel Neptuno que va sobre un caballo de mar.
Una pintura no del todo vulgar: obra de Claudio
de Insbruck, en bronce para mí fundida.
Ferrara
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
'Frà 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
Frà 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 that 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 pretence
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!
Robert Browning (1812-1889)
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
'Frà 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
Frà 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 that 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 pretence
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!
Robert Browning (1812-1889)
Poemas góticos. I Poemas de Robert Browning.
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El análisis, traducción al español y resumen del poema de Robert Browning: Mi duquesa muerta (My Last Duchess), fueron realizados por El Espejo Gótico. Para su reproducción escríbenos a elespejogotico@gmail.com
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