Measure for Measure

When I try to pray and think, I think and pray about different things. My empty words focus on heaven, while my imagination ignores what I’m saying and fixates on Isabel. It’s as if I’m only mouthing God’s name, while an evil idea grows in my heart. The politics I used to study with such interest now seem dry and tedious. The dignity I was so proud of (I hope no one hears this) is now worth even less than some silly hat feather waving uselessly in the wind. Oh, how often do rank and ceremonial trappings impress the foolish and entrap even the wise! Passions are passions—they cannot simply be swept away. You can write “good angel” on the devil’s horns, but that doesn’t change his devilish nature.

Hello! Who’s there?

One Isabel, a nun, wishes to see you.

Show her the way.

Oh, heavens! Why does my blood rush to my heart, both choking it and making the rest of my body weak? It’s like a stupid crowd surrounding somebody who faints—they’re all trying to help him and actually they’re cutting off the air he needs. Or, like the common people who drop what they’re doing and rush over to see their beloved king when he appears, fawning and crowding him so much that their ignorant adoration becomes offensive.

How are you, pretty lady?

I’ve come to find out what you want to do.

If only you knew what I want to do and didn’t have to ask. Your brother cannot live.

Very well, then. Heaven keep your honor!

On the other hand, he may live awhile—maybe as long as you or me. Still, he must die.

By your command?

Yes.

I beg you, tell me when. So that, no matter how long or short his reprieve is, he’ll be spiritually prepared and can save his soul.

Ha! Damn these filthy vices! One might as well pardon a murderer as forgive a fornicator who begets an illegitimate child. It’s as easy to take a legitimate life as it is to create an illegitimate one.

Heaven may regard the two sins as equal, but humans do not.

You think so? Then I’ll put this question to you: which would you prefer, that this very fair law took your brother’s life, or to save your brother, you give up your body to the same sort of sweet sin as did the girl he ruined?

Sir, believe this, I’d rather give up my body than my soul.

I’m not talking about your soul: sins we’re compelled to commit get counted, but they don’t count against us.

What are you saying?

No, don’t hold me to that, for I can argue a point I don’t really believe. Answer this. As the voice of the written law, I pronounce a death sentence on your brother’s life. Might it not be charity to commit a sin to save this brother’s life?

If you want to do it, I’ll risk the punishment on my soul, and say it’d be no sin at all, but charity.

If you felt like doing it, even at the risk of your soul, sin and charity would balance each other perfectly.

If begging for his life is a sin, Heaven let me bear it! If your granting my request is a sin, I’ll pray each morning to have it added to my faults and not one you have to answer for.

No, listen to me. You’re not following me. Either you’re dumb or you’re playing dumb, and that’s not good.

Call me dumb, then, and not very good. Let me accept by God’s grace that I’m not any better than that.

This is how smart people try to seem really bright: by knocking their own intelligence. It’s the same way hiding behind a black mask makes a woman seem ten times more beautiful than her naked face does. But pay attention. I’ll be more blunt, so that you get it. Your brother is to die.

Yes.

That’s the penalty for his crime, under the law.

True.

Suppose that there was no other way to save his life—not that I’m admitting this, it’s just for the sake of argument—let’s say that you, his sister, were desired by someone whose influence with the judge, or whose own powerful position, could rescue your brother from the law’s binding chains. And there was no other earthly way to save him, unless you gave your virginity to this hypothetical man, or else your brother dies. What would you do?

I would do this as much for my poor brother as myself—that is, if I were under a death sentence, I’d strip myself naked and display the whip’s bloody lashes like rubies. And I’d go to my death like going to my bed, before I’d surrender my body to sin.

Then your brother must die.

And that’s the better bargain. Better a brother die once than a sister suffer eternal damnation to save him.

Then aren’t you as cruel as the sentence you’ve so deplored?

A shameful release and an unconditional pardon are two different things. Legal mercy is in no way related to an immoral rescue.

You said a little while ago the law was tyrannical, arguing that your brother’s sinning was a lighthearted act, not a vice.

Oh, forgive me, my lord. To get what we want, we often say things we don’t mean. I’ve made excuses for something I hate in order to help the brother I love.

We’re all weak.

Yes. Otherwise, my brother would deserve to die, if he were the only person to have inherited this weakness.

No, women are weak too.

Yes, as weak their mirrors, which break as easily as they reflect images. Women—Heaven help us!—are ruined by men who take advantage of us. Call us frail ten times over, for we’re as soft as our skin, and gullible.

I agree. And based on what you say about your sex—since I suppose we’re only as strong as our own weakest points—let me be bold. I take you at your word. Be what you are—a woman, that is. If you are better than that, then you’re not a woman. But if you are one, as you certainly seem to be by all outward appearances, show it now by being weak.

I can only speak with a sincere tongue. My gentle lord, please talk plainly, as you did before.

To put it plainly, I love you.

My brother loved Juliet, and you tell me that he’ll die for it.

He won’t, Isabel, if you give me love.

I know your virtue gives you the freedom to act wicked, in order to test others.

Believe me, I swear I mean what I say.

What! To believe so much in someone with so little honor and such evil intentions! You deceiver! I’ll denounce you, Angelo, believe me. Sign a pardon for my brother immediately, or I’ll scream to the entire world what sort of man you are.

Who will believe you, Isabel? My spotless reputation, my strict way of living, my testimony against you, and my position will all outweigh your accusation. You’ll be silenced and discredited, accused of slander. The starting gate is open now, and my desires are off and running. Feed my hunger—no more of your modesty and time-wasting blushes, which charm me and then banish me for being charmed. Save your brother by sleeping with me, or he’ll be put to death. And not only that, but it’ll be death by torture, drawn out by your cruelty. Accept my offer tomorrow, or by my almighty passion, I’ll tyrannize him. As for you, say what you want. My lie, which calls your claim false, will outweigh your true claim.

Who can I complain to? If I reported this, who would believe me? Oh, dangerous mouths, with double-talking tongues that can both condemn and approve, and make the law bow to their wishes. They put their sexual desires before notions of right and wrong! I’ll go to my brother. Although he gave in to his body’s demands, his mind’s so honorable that, if he had twenty heads to lay on twenty bloody execution blocks, he’d give them all up, rather than let his sister pollute her body. So, Isabel, you’ll live chaste, and brother, you’ll die. My chastity is more important than my brother. I’ll tell him of Angelo’s request, and prepare him for death—and the eternal rest of his soul.