Robert Browning (1812–1889). A Blot in the ’Scutcheon.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Act V Scene VII
You haven’t far to go to find your lodging;
By order of the prince, we here arrest you.
This crowns your perfidies, and ruins me.
For Heaven has taught me to endure all things.
Is but to do my duty.
Great glory from this honourable act.
Coming from that high power which sends me here.
That rescued you from utter misery?
But my first duty now is toward my prince.
The higher power of that most sacred claim
Must stifle in my heart all gratitude;
And to such puissant ties I’d sacrifice
My friend, my wife, my kindred, and myself.
Of cloaking him with what we most revere!
Is perfect as you say, why should it wait
To show itself, until the day he caught you
Soliciting his wife? How happens it
You have not thought to go inform against him
Until his honour forces him to drive you
Out of his house? And though I need not mention
That he’d just given you his whole estate,
Still, if you meant to treat him now as guilty,
How could you then consent to take his gift?
Be good enough to carry out your order.
’Tis very fitting you should urge me to it;
So therefore, you must follow me at once
To prison, where you’ll find your lodging ready.
Are not the one to whom I owe account.
You, sir (to Orgon), recover from your hot alarm.
Our prince is not a friend to double dealing,
His eyes can read men’s inmost hearts, and all
The art of hypocrites cannot deceive him.
His sharp discernment sees things clear and true;
His mind cannot too easily be swayed,
For reason always holds the balance even.
He honours and exalts true piety
But knows the false, and views it with disgust.
This fellow was by no means apt to fool him;
Far subtler snares have failed against his wisdom,
And his quick insight pierced immediately
The hidden baseness of this tortuous heart.
Accusing you, the knave betrayed himself,
And by true recompense of Heaven’s justice
He stood revealed before our monarch’s eyes
A scoundrel known before by other names,
Whose horrid crimes, detailed at length, might fill
A long-drawn history of many volumes.
Our monarch—to resolve you in a word—
Detesting his ingratitude and baseness,
Added this horror to his other crimes,
And sent me hither under his direction
To see his insolence out-top itself,
And force him then to give you satisfaction.
Your papers, which the traitor says are his,
I am to take from him, and give you back;
The deed of gift transferring your estate
Our monarch’s sovereign will makes null and void;
And for the secret personal offence
Your friend involved you in, he pardons you:
Thus he rewards your recent zeal, displayed
In helping to maintain his rights, and shows
How well his heart, when it is least expected,
Knows how to recompense a noble deed,
And will not let true merit miss its due,
Remembering always rather good than evil.