Robert Browning (1812–1889). A Blot in the ’Scutcheon.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Act I Scene I
I can dispense with your polite attentions.
Why must you go away in such a hurry?
And no one takes the slightest pains to please me.
I leave your house, I tell you, quite disgusted;
You do the opposite of my instructions;
You’ve no respect for anything; each one
Must have his say; it’s perfect pandemonium.
Too full of gab, and too impertinent
And free with your advice on all occasions.
Just spells your name. Let grandma tell you that
I’ve said a hundred times to my poor son,
Your father, that you’d never come to good
Or give him anything but plague and torment.
You’re all demureness, butter wouldn’t melt
In your mouth, one would think to look at you.
Still waters, though, they say … you know the proverb;
And I don’t like your doings on the sly.
In everything is altogether wrong;
You ought to set a good example for ’em;
Their dear departed mother did much better.
You are extravagant; and it offends me,
To see you always decked out like a princess.
A woman who would please her husband’s eyes
Alone, wants no such wealth of fineries.
The lady’s brother, I esteem you highly,
Love and respect you. But, sir, all the same,
If I were in my son’s, her husband’s, place,
I’d urgently entreat you not to come
Within our doors. You preach a way of living
That decent people cannot tolerate.
I’m rather frank with you; but that’s my way—
I don’t mince matters, when I mean a thing.
I can’t endure, with any show of patience,
To hear a scatterbrains like you attack him.
Come and usurp a tyrant’s power here?
And shall we never dare amuse ourselves
Till this fine gentleman deigns to consent?
There’s not a thing we do but what’s a crime;
He censures everything, this zealous carper.
He wants to guide you on the way to heaven;
My son should train you all to love him well.
Nor anything—can make me tolerate him.
I should belie my feelings not to say so.
His actions rouse my wrath at every turn;
And I foresee that there must come of it
An open rupture with this sneaking scoundrel.
This unknown upstart master of the house—
This vagabond, who hadn’t, when he came,
Shoes to his feet, or clothing worth six farthings,
And who so far forgets his place, as now
To censure everything, and rule the roost!
If all were governed by his pious orders.
In fact, he’s nothing but a hypocrite.
Nor yet his Lawrence, without bonds and surety.
May be; but I can guarantee the master
A holy man. You hate him and reject him
Because he tells home truths to all of you.
’Tis sin alone that moves his heart to anger,
And heaven’s interest is his only motive.
Can he let nobody come near the house?
Is heaven offended at a civil call
That he should make so great a fuss about it?
I’ll tell you, if you like, just what I think;(Pointing to Elmire)
Upon my word, he’s jealous of our mistress.
He’s not alone in censuring these visits;
The turmoil that attends your sort of people,
Their carriages forever at the door,
And all their noisy footmen, flocked together,
Annoy the neighbourhood, and raise a scandal.
I’d gladly think there’s nothing really wrong;
But it makes talk; and that’s not as it should be.
From wagging? It would be a grievous thing
If, for the fear of idle talk about us,
We had to sacrifice our friends. No, no;
Even if we could bring ourselves to do it,
Think you that everyone would then be silenced?
Against backbiting there is no defence
So let us try to live in innocence,
To silly tattle pay no heed at all,
And leave the gossips free to vent their gall.
Must be the ones who slander us, I’m thinking.
Those whose own conduct’s most ridiculous,
Are always quickest to speak ill of others;
They never fail to seize at once upon
The slightest hint of any love affair,
And spread the news of it with glee, and give it
The character they’d have the world believe in.
By others’ actions, painted in their colours,
They hope to justify their own; they think,
In the false hope of some resemblance, either
To make their own intrigues seem innocent,
Or else to make their neighbours share the blame
Which they are loaded with by everybody.
Orante, we all know, lives a perfect life;
Her thoughts are all of heaven; and I have heard
That she condemns the company you keep.
She lives the model of austerity;
But age has brought this piety upon her,
And she’s a prude, now she can’t help herself.
As long as she could capture men’s attentions
She made the most of her advantages;
But, now she sees her beauty vanishing,
She wants to leave the world, that’s leaving her,
And in the specious veil of haughty virtue
She’d hide the weakness of her worn-out charms.
That is the way with all your old coquettes;
They find it hard to see their lovers leave ’em;
And thus abandoned, their forlorn estate
Can find no occupation but a prude’s.
These pious dames, in their austerity,
Must carp at everything, and pardon nothing.
They loudly blame their neighbours’ way of living,
Not for religion’s sake, but out of envy,
Because they can’t endure to see another
Enjoy the pleasures age has weaned them from.
Daughter-in-law. One never has a chance
To get a word in edgewise, at your house,
Because this lady holds the floor all day;
But none the less, I mean to have my say, too.
I tell you that my son did nothing wiser
In all his life, than take this godly man
Into his household; heaven sent him here,
In your great need, to make you all repent;
For your salvation, you must hearken to him;
He censures nothing but deserves his censure.
These visits, these assemblies, and these balls,
Are all inventions of the evil spirit.
You never hear a word of godliness
At them—but idle cackle, nonsense, flimflam.
Our neighbour often comes in for a share,
The talk flies fast, and scandal fills the air;
It makes a sober person’s head go round,
At these assemblies, just to hear the sound
Of so much gab, with not a word to say;
And as a learned man remarked one day
Most aptly, ’tis the Tower of Babylon,
Where all, beyond all limit, babble on.
And just to tell you how this point came in…
Go find fools like yourself to make you laugh
And don’t…
As for this house, I leave the half unsaid;
But I shan’t soon set foot in it again,
Hussy! I’ll warm your ears in proper shape!
March, trollop, march!