A judge remains alone after sentencing a guilty man and finds himself troubled by the single impurity the law cannot record: his satisfaction. The case had been clear, the evidence sufficient, the punishment proportionate, and yet some inward spectator had risen during the verdict and admired the firmness of his own voice. This, more than the prisoner, disturbs him. He had always believed corruption entered through bribery, fear, ambition, or pity; now he sees a finer corruption, almost respectable, arising at the subtle moment when justice ceases to be a duty and becomes a mirror in which the self delights in its own reflection. He removes his robe and places it across the back of a chair. The room changes at once. Without the garment, the verdict remains correct, yet the man who delivered it appears less innocent. He thinks of all the righteous men he has known, men who loved virtue most when it gave them an occasion to stand above another soul. Near midnight, he writes a single sentence in the margin of the case file: To punish well, one must first survive the pleasure of being right.
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