Shakespeare’s Prospero rules an island where his word is law. Betrayed by his brother, driven from his dukedom, left to nurse his grievances for years, he now possesses the power to punish those who wronged him. And he intends to use it.

Prospero summons a storm and brings his enemies under his control. After years of humiliation, he finally has the means to make them pay.

There is something familiar about a powerful man consumed by the conviction that he has been wronged. Criticism becomes disloyalty. Anyone who questions his judgment joins a growing number of enemies on his retribution to-do list. Settling accounts becomes the purpose of exercising power.

Those who serve him must defend his decisions and excuse conduct they would not tolerate in others. Some do so out of ambition. Others fear losing their positions. Whatever their reasons, each compromise of principle makes the next betrayal of conscience easier.

Over time, the ruler hears only what he wants to hear, surrounded by people who have learned that loyalty is rewarded and honesty comes at a steep price.

However, Shakespeare brings Prospero to a moment when agreement and obedience can no longer answer the question of conscience before him. His enemies are helpless. He can continue their suffering. He can justify it by recalling all they have done to him. After all, who would stop him?

The answer comes from Prospero himself.

When Ariel describes the captives’ distress, Prospero listens, and… for a moment, another person’s suffering takes precedence over his own injuries. He recognizes that having the power to exact revenge does not relieve him of responsibility for choosing it.

This is where character enters.

Forgiveness will not undo his brother’s betrayal or restore the years he has lost. But he understands something that has eluded many powerful men:

He can either govern his grievances or allow his grievances to govern him.

Prospero chooses forgiveness over revenge. He prepares to return to Milan as duke, recognizing that the responsibility of governing does not require the power to bend others to his will.

High office confers authority. But it does not confer character. That becomes evident when someone challenges a leader’s judgment, when the truth becomes inconvenient, or when the public good demands that a personal grievance be set aside.

An ally asks an aging ruler if he could forgive his enemies if doing so were necessary to enter heaven.

“I probably cannot do that,” he says, “because I do hate some of my enemies and I always will.”

One day, the office will belong to someone else. The allies will be gone. The power to punish will pass from his hands. But he has already chosen what he intends to keep.

Prospero, too, had his enemies, his grievances. And he had the power to make them suffer but chose otherwise:

“The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance.”