La me ùltima Duchesa
di Robert Browning
Èco lì la me ùltima Duchesa piturada'n ta
sta tela, ca pàr di èsi viva. Na maravèa
i la clami che roba lì; li mans di Fra Pandolf
tant da fà si vèvin dàt, e lì, po, ca è.
Sintàisi jù, daj, e vuardàila. I ài minsonàt
“Fra Pandolf” a pusta, parsè che nisùn forestej
coma vu nol à maj jodùt chel cuadri lì,
la profonditàt e serietàt dal so sguàrt,
sensa voltasi vièrs di me (che nisùn, fòu
di me, al vièrs sta tendina coma che par vu i'ai fàt)
coma par domandami, s'a ausàvin,
la rašòn di chel sguàrt lì; i no sèis par sigùr
il prin a voltavi par domandami chistu. No, siòr me,
a no era doma la prešensa dal so omp che
colorà di plašej a feva la muša da la Duchesa;
a pòl dasi che par cašu Fra Panfolf dìt al vedi,
“La cape a cujèrs un puc masa il pols da la me Siora,” o “Il colòu a nol rivarà maj a riproduši
la biela sfumadura di ros in tal so cuèl.” Dut chistu
doma creansa a era, secònt ic, che bastàt a varès
a fàighi colorà la muša. A veva
un còu—dišìn cussì—ca bastava puc par contentà,
par dàighi plašej; a ghi plaševa dut
sè ca jodeva, e ic par dut a vuardava.
Dut compaj a era, Siòr me! Il ben ch'i ghi volevi,
il calà da la lus a la fin dal dì,
la ramasa di sirìšis che un mona di atendènt
tiràt jù ghi veva dal ort, il mulùt blanc
che’n ziru paj pras a la menava—dut chistu
diši alc di bon ghi feva, o almancu
inrosà la feva. I òmis a ringrasiava, benòn! ma
a i'u ringrasiava, i no saj ben diši, coma ca stimàs
il valòu dal me nòn che'n davòu al và noufsènt àis
coma chèl di cualsìasi altri. Cuj maj ghi cjatarèsia
pècis a sta sorta di monàdis? Encja s'i ti fòs bon
di fàighi ben capì—e jò, po, bon i no soj—a una
coma chista, e dìšighi, “Jòt che chistu o chèl
in te a mi disgusta; chistu no ti varès da fà
e chèl ti lu fàs encja masa”—e se cussì
a si lasàs regolà, sensa, po, cuntindi'l volej to—
encja'n ta stu cašu, però, i varès da sbasami;
e jò i no soj fàt par sbasami. Oh Siòr me, a rideva,
sigùr, ogni volta che'n banda ghi pasavi, ma
a cuj no ghi ridèvia cuant che dongja ghi pasava?
Cussi alora, e sempri di pì. Òrdins i ài dàt;
e dut il ridi finìt al era. Lì ca è,
coma ca fòs viva. Levàisi sù, daj. Zìn la jù
a cjatà la nustra compagnìa. I vuej ripeti che
la tant rinomada generošitàt dal Cont vustri siòr
a è pì che garansìa che nisuna me buna preteša
par na dote a no vegnarà scoltada,
se ben ca è la so biela fìa, coma belzà minsonàt
al inisi, che pì a m'impuarta. No, no, siòr me,
zìn jù insièmit. Ma vuardàit ben Netùn,
cal domestichèa un cjavàl marìn, na raritàt a dìšin,
che Claus von Innsbruck fondùt al veva par me.
My Last Duchess
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!
