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发帖数: 2456 | 2 THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV
By Fyodor Mikailovich Dostoevsky
Translated by Constance Garnett
Chapter 5
The Grand Inquisitor
https://www.mtholyoke.edu/acad/intrel/pol116/grand.htm
"EVEN this must have a preface- that is, a literary preface," laughed Ivan,
"and I am a poor hand at making one. You see, my action takes place in the
sixteenth century, and at that time, as you probably learnt at school, it
was customary in poetry to bring down heavenly powers on earth. Not to speak
of Dante, in France, clerks, as well as the monks in the monasteries, used
to give regular performances in which the Madonna, the saints, the angels,
Christ, and God Himself were brought on the stage. In those days it was done
in all simplicity. In Victor Hugo's Notre Dame de Paris an edifying and
gratuitous spectacle was provided for the people in the Hotel de Ville of
Paris in the reign of Louis XI in honour of the birth of the dauphin. It was
called Le bon jugement de la tres sainte et gracieuse Vierge Marie, and she
appears herself on the stage and pronounces her bon jugement. Similar plays
, chiefly from the Old Testament, were occasionally performed in Moscow too,
up to the times of Peter the Great. But besides plays there were all sorts
of legends and ballads scattered about the world, in which the saints and
angels and all the powers of Heaven took part when required. In our
monasteries the monks busied themselves in translating, copying, and even
composing such poems- and even under the Tatars. There is, for instance, one
such poem (of course, from the Greek), The Wanderings of Our Lady through
Hell, with descriptions as bold as Dante's. Our Lady visits hell, and the
Archangel Michael leads her through the torments. She sees the sinners and
their punishment. There she sees among others one noteworthy set of sinners
in a burning lake; some of them sink to the bottom of the lake so that they
can't swim out, and 'these God forgets'- an expression of extraordinary
depth and force. And so Our Lady, shocked and weeping, falls before the
throne of God and begs for mercy for all in hell- for all she has seen there
, indiscriminately. Her conversation with God is immensely interesting. She
beseeches Him, she will not desist, and when God points to the hands and
feet of her Son, nailed to the Cross, and asks, 'How can I forgive His
tormentors?' she bids all the saints, all the martyrs, all the angels and
archangels to fall down with her and pray for mercy on all without
distinction. It ends by her winning from God a respite of suffering every
year from Good Friday till Trinity Day, and the sinners at once raise a cry
of thankfulness from hell, chanting, 'Thou art just, O Lord, in this
judgment.' Well, my poem would have been of that kind if it had appeared at
that time. He comes on the scene in my poem, but He says nothing, only
appears and passes on. Fifteen centuries have passed since He promised to
come in His glory, fifteen centuries since His prophet wrote, 'Behold, I
come quickly'; 'Of that day and that hour knoweth no man, neither the Son,
but the Father,' as He Himself predicted on earth. But humanity awaits him
with the same faith and with the same love. Oh, with greater faith, for it
is fifteen centuries since man has ceased to see signs from heaven.
No signs from heaven come to-day To add to what the heart doth say.
There was nothing left but faith in what the heart doth say. It is true
there were many miracles in those days. There were saints who performed
miraculous cures; some holy people, according to their biographies, were
visited by the Queen of Heaven herself. But the devil did not slumber, and
doubts were already arising among men of the truth of these miracles. And
just then there appeared in the north of Germany a terrible new heresy. 'A
huge star like to a torch' (that is, to a church) 'fell on the sources of
the waters and they became bitter.' These heretics began blasphemously
denying miracles. But those who remained faithful were all the more ardent
in their faith. The tears of humanity rose up to Him as before, awaited His
coming, loved Him, hoped for Him, yearned to suffer and die for Him as
before. And so many ages mankind had prayed with faith and fervour, 'O Lord
our God, hasten Thy coming'; so many ages called upon Him, that in His
infinite mercy He deigned to come down to His servants. Before that day He
had come down, He had visited some holy men, martyrs, and hermits, as is
written in their lives. Among us, Tyutchev, with absolute faith in the truth
of his words, bore witness that
Bearing the Cross, in slavish dress, Weary and worn, the Heavenly King Our
mother, Russia, came to bless, And through our land went wandering.
And that certainly was so, I assure you.
"And behold, He deigned to appear for a moment to the people, to the
tortured, suffering people, sunk in iniquity, but loving Him like children.
My story is laid in Spain, in Seville, in the most terrible time of the
Inquisition, when fires were lighted every day to the glory of God, and 'in
the splendid auto da fe the wicked heretics were burnt.' Oh, of course, this
was not the coming in which He will appear, according to His promise, at
the end of time in all His heavenly glory, and which will be sudden 'as
lightning flashing from east to west.' No, He visited His children only for
a moment, and there where the flames were crackling round the heretics. In
His infinite mercy He came once more among men in that human shape in which
He walked among men for thirty-three years fifteen centuries ago. He came
down to the 'hot pavements' of the southern town in which on the day before
almost a hundred heretics had, ad majorem gloriam Dei, been burnt by the
cardinal, the Grand Inquisitor, in a magnificent auto da fe, in the presence
of the king, the court, the knights, the cardinals, the most charming
ladies of the court, and the whole population of Seville.
"He came softly, unobserved, and yet, strange to say, everyone recognised
Him. That might be one of the best passages in the poem. I mean, why they
recognised Him. The people are irresistibly drawn to Him, they surround Him,
they flock about Him, follow Him. He moves silently in their midst with a
gentle smile of infinite compassion. The sun of love burns in His heart, and
power shine from His eyes, and their radiance, shed on the people, stirs
their hearts with responsive love. He holds out His hands to them, blesses
them, and a healing virtue comes from contact with Him, even with His
garments. An old man in the crowd, blind from childhood, cries out, 'O Lord,
heal me and I shall see Thee!' and, as it were, scales fall from his eyes
and the blind man sees Him. The crowd weeps and kisses the earth under His
feet. Children throw flowers before Him, sing, and cry hosannah. 'It is He-
it is He!' repeat. 'It must be He, it can be no one but Him!' He stops at
the steps of the Seville cathedral at the moment when the weeping mourners
are bringing in a little open white coffin. In it lies a child of seven, the
only daughter of a prominent citizen. The dead child lies hidden in flowers
. 'He will raise your child,' the crowd shouts to the weeping mother. The
priest, coming to meet the coffin, looks perplexed, and frowns, but the
mother of the dead child throws herself at His feet with a wail. 'If it is
Thou, raise my child!' she cries, holding out her hands to Him. The
procession halts, the coffin is laid on the steps at His feet. He looks with
compassion, and His lips once more softly pronounce, 'Maiden, arise!' and
the maiden arises. The little girl sits up in the coffin and looks round,
smiling with wide-open wondering eyes, holding a bunch of white roses they
had put in her hand.
"There are cries, sobs, confusion among the people, and at that moment the
cardinal himself, the Grand Inquisitor, passes by the cathedral. He is an
old man, almost ninety, tall and erect, with a withered face and sunken eyes
, in which there is still a gleam of light. He is not dressed in his
gorgeous cardinal's robes, as he was the day before, when he was burning the
enemies of the Roman Church- at this moment he is wearing his coarse, old,
monk's cassock. At a distance behind him come his gloomy assistants and
slaves and the 'holy guard.' He stops at the sight of the crowd and watches
it from a distance. He sees everything; he sees them set the coffin down at
His feet, sees the child rise up, and his face darkens. He knits his thick
grey brows and his eyes gleam with a sinister fire. He holds out his finger
and bids the guards take Him. And such is his power, so completely are the
people cowed into submission and trembling obedience to him, that the crowd
immediately makes way for the guards, and in the midst of deathlike silence
they lay hands on Him and lead him away. The crowd instantly bows down to
the earth, like one man, before the old Inquisitor. He blesses the people in
silence and passes on' The guards lead their prisoner to the close, gloomy
vaulted prison- in the ancient palace of the Holy, inquisition and shut him
in it. The day passes and is followed by the dark, burning, 'breathless'
night of Seville. The air is 'fragrant with laurel and lemon.' In the pitch
darkness the iron door of the prison is suddenly opened and the Grand
Inquisitor himself comes in with a light in his hand. He is alone; the door
is closed at once behind him. He stands in the doorway and for a minute or
two gazes into His face. At last he goes up slowly, sets the light on the
table and speaks.
"'Is it Thou? Thou?' but receiving no answer, he adds at once. 'Don't answer
, be silent. What canst Thou say, indeed? I know too well what Thou wouldst
say. And Thou hast no right to add anything to what Thou hadst said of old.
Why, then, art Thou come to hinder us? For Thou hast come to hinder us, and
Thou knowest that. But dost thou know what will be to-morrow? I know not who
Thou art and care not to know whether it is Thou or only a semblance of Him
, but to-morrow I shall condemn Thee and burn Thee at the stake as the worst
of heretics. And the very people who have to-day kissed Thy feet, to-morrow
at the faintest sign from me will rush to heap up the embers of Thy fire.
Knowest Thou that? Yes, maybe Thou knowest it,' he added with thoughtful
penetration, never for a moment taking his eyes off the Prisoner."
"I don't quite understand, Ivan. What does it mean?" Alyosha, who had been
listening in silence, said with a smile. "Is it simply a wild fantasy, or a
mistake on the part of the old man- some impossible quid pro quo?"
"Take it as the last," said Ivan, laughing, "if you are so corrupted by
modern realism and can't stand anything fantastic. If you like it to be a
case of mistaken identity, let it be so. It is true," he went on, laughing,
"the old man was ninety, and he might well be crazy over his set idea. He
might have been struck by the appearance of the Prisoner. It might, in fact,
be simply his ravings, the delusion of an old man of ninety, over-excited
by the auto da fe of a hundred heretics the day before. But does it matter
to us after all whether it was a mistake of identity or a wild fantasy? All
that matters is that the old man should speak out, that he should speak
openly of what he has thought in silence for ninety years."
"And the Prisoner too is silent? Does He look at him and not say a word?"
"That's inevitable in any case," Ivan laughed again. "The old man has told
Him He hasn't the right to add anything to what He has said of old. One may
say it is the most fundamental feature of Roman Catholicism, in my opinion
at least. 'All has been given by Thee to the Pope,' they say, 'and all,
therefore, is still in the Pope's hands, and there is no need for Thee to
come now at all. Thou must not meddle for the time, at least.' That's how
they speak and write too- the Jesuits, at any rate. I have read it myself in
the works of their theologians. 'Hast Thou the right to reveal to us one of
the mysteries of that world from which Thou hast come?' my old man asks Him
, and answers the question for Him. 'No, Thou hast not; that Thou mayest not
add to what has been said of old, and mayest not take from men the freedom
which Thou didst exalt when Thou wast on earth. Whatsoever Thou revealest
anew will encroach on men's freedom of faith; for it will be manifest as a
miracle, and the freedom of their faith was dearer to Thee than anything in
those days fifteen hundred years ago. Didst Thou not often say then, "I will
make you free"? But now Thou hast seen these "free" men,' the old man adds
suddenly, with a pensive smile. 'Yes, we've paid dearly for it,' he goes on,
looking sternly at Him, 'but at last we have completed that work in Thy
name. For fifteen centuries we have been wrestling with Thy freedom, but now
it is ended and over for good. Dost Thou not believe that it's over for
good? Thou lookest meekly at me and deignest not even to be wroth with me.
But let me tell Thee that now, to-day, people are more persuaded than ever
that they have perfect freedom, yet they have brought their freedom to us
and laid it humbly at our feet. But that has been our doing. Was this what
Thou didst? Was this Thy freedom?'"
"I don't understand again." Alyosha broke in. "Is he ironical, is he jesting
?"
"Not a bit of it! He claims it as a merit for himself and his Church that at
last they have vanquished freedom and have done so to make men happy. 'For
now' (he is speaking of the Inquisition, of course) 'for the first time it
has become possible to think of the happiness of men. Man was created a
rebel; and how can rebels be happy? Thou wast warned,' he says to Him. 'Thou
hast had no lack of admonitions and warnings, but Thou didst not listen to
those warnings; Thou didst reject the only way by which men might be made
happy. But, fortunately, departing Thou didst hand on the work to us. Thou
hast promised, Thou hast established by Thy word, Thou hast given to us the
right to bind and to unbind, and now, of course, Thou canst not think of
taking it away. Why, then, hast Thou come to hinder us?'"
"And what's the meaning of 'no lack of admonitions and warnings'?" asked
Alyosha.
"Why, that's the chief part of what the old man must say.
"'The wise and dread spirit, the spirit of self-destruction and non-
existence,' the old man goes on, great spirit talked with Thee in the
wilderness, and we are told in the books that he "tempted" Thee. Is that so?
And could anything truer be said than what he revealed to Thee in three
questions and what Thou didst reject, and what in the books is called "the
temptation"? And yet if there has ever been on earth a real stupendous
miracle, it took place on that day, on the day of the three temptations. The
statement of those three questions was itself the miracle. If it were
possible to imagine simply for the sake of argument that those three
questions of the dread spirit had perished utterly from the books, and that
we had to restore them and to invent them anew, and to do so had gathered
together all the wise men of the earth- rulers, chief priests, learned men,
philosophers, poets- and had set them the task to invent three questions,
such as would not only fit the occasion, but express in three words, three
human phrases, the whole future history of the world and of humanity- dost
Thou believe that all the wisdom of the earth united could have invented
anything in depth and force equal to the three questions which were actually
put to Thee then by the wise and mighty spirit in the wilderness? From
those questions alone, from the miracle of their statement, we can see that
we have here to do not with the fleeting human intelligence, but with the
absolute and eternal. For in those three questions the whole subsequent
history of mankind is, as it were, brought together into one whole, and
foretold, and in them are united all the unsolved historical contradictions
of human nature. At the time it could not be so clear, since the future was
unknown; but now that fifteen hundred years have passed, we see that
everything in those three questions was so justly divined and foretold, and
has been so truly fulfilled, that nothing can be added to them or taken from
them.
"Judge Thyself who was right- Thou or he who questioned Thee then? Remember
the first question; its meaning, in other words, was this: "Thou wouldst go
into the world, and art going with empty hands, with some promise of freedom
which men in their simplicity and their natural unruliness cannot even
understand, which they fear and dread- for nothing has ever been more
insupportable for a man and a human society than freedom. But seest Thou
these stones in this parched and barren wilderness? Turn them into bread,
and mankind will run after Thee like a flock of sheep, grateful and obedient
, though for ever trembling, lest Thou withdraw Thy hand and deny them Thy
bread." But Thou wouldst not deprive man of freedom and didst reject the
offer, thinking, what is that freedom worth if obedience is bought with
bread? Thou didst reply that man lives not by bread alone. But dost Thou
know that for the sake of that earthly bread the spirit of the earth will
rise up against Thee and will strive with Thee and overcome Thee, and all
will follow him, crying, "Who can compare with this beast? He has given us
fire from heaven!" Dost Thou know that the ages will pass, and humanity will
proclaim by the lips of their sages that there is no crime, and therefore
no sin; there is only hunger? "Feed men, and then ask of them virtue!" that'
s what they'll write on the banner, which they will raise against Thee, and
with which they will destroy Thy temple. Where Thy temple stood will rise a
new building; the terrible tower of Babel will be built again, and though,
like the one of old, it will not be finished, yet Thou mightest have
prevented that new tower and have cut short the sufferings of men for a
thousand years; for they will come back to us after a thousand years of
agony with their tower. They will seek us again, hidden underground in the
catacombs, for we shall be again persecuted and tortured. They will find us
and cry to us, "Feed us, for those who have promised us fire from heaven
haven't given it!" And then we shall finish building their tower, for he
finishes the building who feeds them. And we alone shall feed them in Thy
name, declaring falsely that it is in Thy name. Oh, never, never can they
feed themselves without us! No science will give them bread so long as they
remain free. In the end they will lay their freedom at our feet, and say to
us, "Make us your slaves, but feed us." They will understand themselves, at
last, that freedom and bread enough for all are inconceivable together, for
never, never will they be able to share between them! They will be convinced
, too, that they can never be free, for they are weak, vicious, worthless,
and rebellious. Thou didst promise them the bread of Heaven, but, I repeat
again, can it compare with earthly bread in the eyes of the weak, ever
sinful and ignoble race of man? And if for the sake of the bread of Heaven
thousands shall follow Thee, what is to become of the millions and tens of
thousands of millions of creatures who will not have the strength to forego
the earthly bread for the sake of the heavenly? Or dost Thou care only for
the tens of thousands of the great and strong, while the millions, numerous
as the sands of the sea, who are weak but love Thee, must exist only for the
sake of the great and strong? No, we care for the weak too. They are sinful
and rebellious, but in the end they too will become obedient. They will
marvel at us and look on us as gods, because we are ready to endure the
freedom which they have found so dreadful and to rule over them- so awful it
will seem to them to be free. But we shall tell them that we are Thy
servants and rule them in Thy name. We shall deceive them again, for we will
not let Thee come to us again. That deception will be our suffering, for we
shall be forced to lie.
"'This is the significance of the first question in the wilderness, and this
is what Thou hast rejected for the sake of that freedom which Thou hast
exalted above everything. Yet in this question lies hid the great secret of
this world. Choosing "bread," Thou wouldst have satisfied the universal and
everlasting craving of humanity- to find someone to worship. So long as man
remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully as to
find someone to worship. But man seeks to worship what is established beyond
dispute, so that all men would agree at once to worship it. For these
pitiful creatures are concerned not only to find what one or the other can
worship, but to find community of worship is the chief misery of every man
individually and of all humanity from the beginning of time. For the sake of
common worship they've slain each other with the sword. They have set up
gods and challenged one another, "Put away your gods and come and worship
ours, or we will kill you and your gods!" And so it will be to the end of
the world, even when gods disappear from the earth; they will fall down
before idols just the same. Thou didst know, Thou couldst not but have known
, this fundamental secret of human nature, but Thou didst reject the one
infallible banner which was offered Thee to make all men bow down to Thee
alone- the banner of earthly bread; and Thou hast rejected it for the sake
of freedom and the bread of Heaven. Behold what Thou didst further. And all
again in the name of freedom! I tell Thee that man is tormented by no
greater anxiety than to find someone quickly to whom he can hand over that
gift of freedom with which the ill-fated creature is born. But only one who
can appease their conscience can take over their freedom. In bread there was
offered Thee an invincible banner; give bread, and man will worship thee,
for nothing is more certain than bread. But if someone else gains possession
of his conscience- Oh! then he will cast away Thy bread and follow after
him who has ensnared his conscience. In that Thou wast right. For the secret
of man's being is not only to live but to have something to live for.
Without a stable conception of the object of life, man would not consent to
go on living, and would rather destroy himself than remain on earth, though
he had bread in abundance. That is true. But what happened? Instead of
taking men's freedom from them, Thou didst make it greater than ever! Didst
Thou forget that man prefers peace, and even death, to freedom of choice in
the knowledge of good and evil? Nothing is more seductive for man than his
freedom of conscience, but nothing is a greater cause of suffering. And
behold, instead of giving a firm foundation for setting the conscience of
man at rest for ever, Thou didst choose all that is exceptional, vague and
enigmatic; Thou didst choose what was utterly beyond the strength of men,
acting as though Thou didst not love them at all- Thou who didst come to
give Thy life for them! Instead of taking possession of men's freedom, Thou
didst increase it, and burdened the spiritual kingdom of mankind with its
sufferings for ever. Thou didst desire man's free love, that he should
follow Thee freely, enticed and taken captive by Thee. In place of the rigid
ancient law, man must hereafter with free heart decide for himself what is
good and what is evil, having only Thy image before him as his guide. But
didst Thou not know that he would at last reject even Thy image and Thy
truth, if he is weighed down with the fearful burden of free choice? They
will cry aloud at last that the truth is not in Thee, for they could not
have been left in greater confusion and suffering than Thou hast caused,
laying upon them so many cares and unanswerable problems.
"'So that, in truth, Thou didst Thyself lay the foundation for the
destruction of Thy kingdom, and no one is more to blame for it. Yet what was
offered Thee? There are three powers, three powers alone, able to conquer
and to hold captive for ever the conscience of these impotent rebels for
their happiness those forces are miracle, mystery and authority. Thou hast
rejected all three and hast set the example for doing so. When the wise and
dread spirit set Thee on the pinnacle of the temple and said to Thee, "If
Thou wouldst know whether Thou art the Son of God then cast Thyself down,
for it is written: the angels shall hold him up lest he fall and bruise
himself, and Thou shalt know then whether Thou art the Son of God and shalt
prove then how great is Thy faith in Thy Father." But Thou didst refuse and
wouldst not cast Thyself down. Oh, of course, Thou didst proudly and well,
like God; but the weak, unruly race of men, are they gods? Oh, Thou didst
know then that in taking one step, in making one movement to cast Thyself
down, Thou wouldst be tempting God and have lost all Thy faith in Him, and
wouldst have been dashed to pieces against that earth which Thou didst come
to save. And the wise spirit that tempted Thee would have rejoiced. But I
ask again, are there many like Thee? And couldst Thou believe for one moment
that men, too, could face such a temptation? Is the nature of men such,
that they can reject miracle, and at the great moments of their life, the
moments of their deepest, most agonising spiritual difficulties, cling only
to the free verdict of the heart? Oh, Thou didst know that Thy deed would be
recorded in books, would be handed down to remote times and the utmost ends
of the earth, and Thou didst hope that man, following Thee, would cling to
God and not ask for a miracle. But Thou didst not know that when man rejects
miracle he rejects God too; for man seeks not so much God as the miraculous
. And as man cannot bear to be without the miraculous, he will create new
miracles of his own for himself, and will worship deeds of sorcery and
witchcraft, though he might be a hundred times over a rebel, heretic and
infidel. Thou didst not come down from the Cross when they shouted to Thee,
mocking and reviling Thee, "Come down from the cross and we will believe
that Thou art He." Thou didst not come down, for again Thou wouldst not
enslave man by a miracle, and didst crave faith given freely, not based on
miracle. Thou didst crave for free love and not the base raptures of the
slave before the might that has overawed him for ever. But Thou didst think
too highly of men therein, for they are slaves, of course, though rebellious
by nature. Look round and judge; fifteen centuries have passed, look upon
them. Whom hast Thou raised up to Thyself? I swear, man is weaker and baser
by nature than Thou hast believed him! Can he, can he do what Thou didst? By
showing him so much respect, Thou didst, as it were, cease to feel for him,
for Thou didst ask far too much from him- Thou who hast loved him more than
Thyself! Respecting him less, Thou wouldst have asked less of him. That
would have been more like love, for his burden would have been lighter. He
is weak and vile. What though he is everywhere now rebelling against our
power, and proud of his rebellion? It is the pride of a child and a
schoolboy. They are little children rioting and barring out the teacher at
school. But their childish delight will end; it will cost them dear. Mankind
as a whole has always striven to organise a universal state. There have
been many great nations with great histories, but the more highly they were
developed the more unhappy they were, for they felt more acutely than other
people the craving for world-wide union. The great conquerors, Timours and
Ghenghis-Khans, whirled like hurricanes over the face of the earth striving
to subdue its people, and they too were but the unconscious expression of
the same craving for universal unity. Hadst Thou taken the world and Caesar'
s purple, Thou wouldst have founded the universal state and have given
universal peace. For who can rule men if not he who holds their conscience
and their bread in his hands? We have taken the sword of Caesar, and in
taking it, of course, have rejected Thee and followed him. Oh, ages are yet
to come of the confusion of free thought, of their science and cannibalism.
For having begun to build their tower of Babel without us, they will end, of
course, with cannibalism. But then the beast will crawl to us and lick our
feet and spatter them with tears of blood. And we shall sit upon the beast
and raise the cup, and on it will be written, "Mystery." But then, and only
then, the reign of peace and happiness will come for men. Thou art proud of
Thine elect, but Thou hast only the elect, while we give rest to all. And
besides, how many of those elect, those mighty ones who could become elect,
have grown weary waiting for Thee, and have transferred and will transfer
the powers of their spirit and the warmth of their heart to the other camp,
and end by raising their free banner against Thee. Thou didst Thyself lift
up that banner. But with us all will be happy and will no more rebel nor
destroy one another as under Thy freedom. Oh, we shall persuade them that
they will only become free when they renounce their freedom to us and submit
to us. And shall we be right or shall we be lying? They will be convinced
that we are right, for they will remember the horrors of slavery and
confusion to which Thy freedom brought them. Freedom, free thought, and
science will lead them into such straits and will bring them face to face
with such marvels and insoluble mysteries, that some of them, the fierce and
rebellious, will destroy themselves, others, rebellious but weak, will
destroy one another, while the rest, weak and unhappy, will crawl fawning to
our feet and whine to us: "Yes, you were right, you alone possess His
mystery, and we come back to you, save us from ourselves!"
"'Receiving bread from us, they will see clearly that we take the bread made
by their hands from them, to give it to them, without any miracle. They
will see that we do not change the stones to bread, but in truth they will
be more thankful for taking it from our hands than for the bread itself! For
they will remember only too well that in old days, without our help, even
the bread they made turned to stones in their hands, while since they have
come back to us, the very stones have turned to bread in their hands. Too,
too well will they know the value of complete submission! And until men know
that, they will be unhappy. Who is most to blame for their not knowing it?-
speak! Who scattered the flock and sent it astray on unknown paths? But the
flock will come together again and will submit once more, and then it will
be once for all. Then we shall give them the quiet humble happiness of weak
creatures such as they are by nature. Oh, we shall persuade them at last not
to be proud, for Thou didst lift them up and thereby taught them to be
proud. We shall show them that they are weak, that they are only pitiful
children, but that childlike happiness is the sweetest of all. They will
become timid and will look to us and huddle close to us in fear, as chicks
to the hen. They will marvel at us and will be awe-stricken before us, and
will be proud at our being so powerful and clever that we have been able to
subdue such a turbulent flock of thousands of millions. They will tremble
impotently before our wrath, their minds will grow fearful, they will be
quick to shed tears like women and children, but they will be just as ready
at a sign from us to pass to laughter and rejoicing, to happy mirth and
childish song. Yes, we shall set them to work, but in their leisure hours we
shall make their life like a child's game, with children's songs and
innocent dance. Oh, we shall allow them even sin, they are weak and helpless
, and they will love us like children because we allow them to sin. We shall
tell them that every sin will be expiated, if it is done with our
permission, that we allow them to sin because we love them, and the
punishment for these sins we take upon ourselves. And we shall take it upon
ourselves, and they will adore us as their saviours who have taken on
themselves their sins before God. And they will have no secrets from us. We
shall allow or forbid them to live with their wives and mistresses, to have
or not to have children according to whether they have been obedient or
disobedient- and they will submit to us gladly and cheerfully. The most
painful secrets of their conscience, all, all they will bring to us, and we
shall have an answer for all. And they will be glad to believe our answer,
for it will save them from the great anxiety and terrible agony they endure
at present in making a free decision for themselves. And all will be happy,
all the millions of creatures except the hundred thousand who rule over them
. For only we, we who guard the mystery, shall be unhappy. There will be
thousands of millions of happy babes, and a hundred thousand sufferers who
have taken upon themselves the curse of the knowledge of good and evil.
Peacefully they will die, peacefully they will expire in Thy name, and
beyond the grave they will find nothing but death. But we shall keep the
secret, and for their happiness we shall allure them with the reward of
heaven and eternity. Though if there were anything in the other world, it
certainly would not be for such as they. It is prophesied that Thou wilt
come again in victory, Thou wilt come with Thy chosen, the proud and strong,
but we will say that they have only saved themselves, but we have saved all
. We are told that the harlot who sits upon the beast, and holds in her
hands the mystery, shall be put to shame, that the weak will rise up again,
and will rend her royal purple and will strip naked her loathsome body. But
then I will stand up and point out to Thee the thousand millions of happy
children who have known no sin. And we who have taken their sins upon us for
their happiness will stand up before Thee and say: "Judge us if Thou canst
and darest." Know that I fear Thee not. Know that I too have been in the
wilderness, I too have lived on roots and locusts, I too prized the freedom
with which Thou hast blessed men, and I too was striving to stand among Thy
elect, among the strong and powerful, thirsting "to make up the number." But
I awakened and would not serve madness. I turned back and joined the ranks
of those who have corrected Thy work. I left the proud and went back to the
humble, for the happiness of the humble. What I say to Thee will come to
pass, and our dominion will be built up. I repeat, to-morrow Thou shalt see
that obedient flock who at a sign from me will hasten to heap up the hot
cinders about the pile on which I shall burn Thee for coming to hinder us.
For if anyone has ever deserved our fires, it is Thou. To-morrow I shall
burn Thee. Dixi.'"*
* I have spoken.
Ivan stopped. He was carried away as he talked, and spoke with excitement;
when he had finished, he suddenly smiled.
Alyosha had listened in silence; towards the end he was greatly moved and
seemed several times on the point of interrupting, but restrained himself.
Now his words came with a rush.
"But... that's absurd!" he cried, flushing. "Your poem is in praise of Jesus
, not in blame of Him- as you meant it to be. And who will believe you about
freedom? Is that the way to understand it? That's not the idea of it in the
Orthodox Church.... That's Rome, and not even the whole of Rome, it's false
-those are the worst of the Catholics the Inquisitors, the Jesuits!... And
there could not be such a fantastic creature as your Inquisitor. What are
these sins of mankind they take on themselves? Who are these keepers of the
mystery who have taken some curse upon themselves for the happiness of
mankind? When have they been seen? We know the Jesuits, they are spoken ill
of, but surely they are not what you describe? They are not that at all, not
at all.... They are simply the Romish army for the earthly sovereignty of
the world in the future, with the Pontiff of Rome for Emperor... that's
their ideal, but there's no sort of mystery or lofty melancholy about it....
It's simple lust of power, of filthy earthly gain, of domination-something
like a universal serfdom with them as masters-that's all they stand for.
They don't even believe in God perhaps. Your suffering Inquisitor is a mere
fantasy."
"Stay, stay," laughed Ivan. "how hot you are! A fantasy you say, let it be
so! Of course it's a fantasy. But allow me to say: do you really think that
the Roman Catholic movement of the last centuries is actually nothing but
the lust of power, of filthy earthly gain? Is that Father Paissy's teaching?"
"No, no, on the contrary, Father Paissy did once say something rather the
same as you... but of course it's not the same, not a bit the same," Alyosha
hastily corrected himself.
"A precious admission, in spite of your 'not a bit the same.' I ask you why
your Jesuits and Inquisitors have united simply for vile material gain? Why
can there not be among them one martyr oppressed by great sorrow and loving
humanity? You see, only suppose that there was one such man among all those
who desire nothing but filthy material gain-if there's only one like my old
Inquisitor, who had himself eaten roots in the desert and made frenzied
efforts to subdue his flesh to make himself free and perfect. But yet all
his life he loved humanity, and suddenly his eyes were opened, and he saw
that it is no great moral blessedness to attain perfection and freedom, if
at the same time one gains the conviction that millions of God's creatures
have been created as a mockery, that they will never be capable of using
their freedom, that these poor rebels can never turn into giants to complete
the tower, that it was not for such geese that the great idealist dreamt
his dream of harmony. Seeing all that he turned back and joined- the clever
people. Surely that could have happened?"
"Joined whom, what clever people?" cried Alyosha, completely carried away. "
They have no such great cleverness and no mysteries and secrets.... Perhaps
nothing but Atheism, that's all their secret. Your Inquisitor does not
believe in God, that's his secret!"
"What if it is so! At last you have guessed it. It's perfectly true, it's
true that that's the whole secret, but isn't that suffering, at least for a
man like that, who has wasted his whole life in the desert and yet could not
shake off his incurable love of humanity? In his old age he reached the
clear conviction that nothing but the advice of the great dread spirit could
build up any tolerable sort of life for the feeble, unruly, 'incomplete,
empirical creatures created in jest.' And so, convinced of this, he sees
that he must follow the counsel of the wise spirit, the dread spirit of
death and destruction, and therefore accept lying and deception, and lead
men consciously to death and destruction, and yet deceive them all the way
so that they may not notice where they are being led, that the poor blind
creatures may at least on the way think themselves happy. And note, the
deception is in the name of Him in Whose ideal the old man had so fervently
believed all his life long. Is not that tragic? And if only one such stood
at the head of the whole army 'filled with the lust of power only for the
sake of filthy gain'- would not one such be enough to make a tragedy? More
than that, one such standing at the head is enough to create the actual
leading idea of the Roman Church with all its armies and Jesuits, its
highest idea. I tell you frankly that I firmly believe that there has always
been such a man among those who stood at the head of the movement. Who
knows, there may have been some such even among the Roman Popes. Who knows,
perhaps the spirit of that accursed old man who loves mankind so obstinately
in his own way, is to be found even now in a whole multitude of such old
men, existing not by chance but by agreement, as a secret league formed long
ago for the guarding of the mystery, to guard it from the weak and the
unhappy, so as to make them happy. No doubt it is so, and so it must be
indeed. I fancy that even among the Masons there's something of the same
mystery at the bottom, and that that's why the Catholics so detest the
Masons as their rivals breaking up the unity of the idea, while it is so
essential that there should be one flock and one shepherd.... But from the
way I defend my idea I might be an author impatient of your criticism.
Enough of it."
"You are perhaps a Mason yourself!" broke suddenly from Alyosha. "You don't
believe in God," he added, speaking this time very sorrowfully. He fancied
besides that his brother was looking at him ironically. "How does your poem
end?" he asked, suddenly looking down. "Or was it the end?"
"I meant to end it like this. When the Inquisitor ceased speaking he waited
some time for his Prisoner to answer him. His silence weighed down upon him.
He saw that the Prisoner had listened intently all the time, looking gently
in his face and evidently not wishing to reply. The old man longed for him
to say something, however bitter and terrible. But He suddenly approached
the old man in silence and softly kissed him on his bloodless aged lips.
That was all his answer. The old man shuddered. His lips moved. He went to
the door, opened it, and said to Him: 'Go, and come no more... come not at
all, never, never!' And he let Him out into the dark alleys of the town. The
Prisoner went away."
"And the old man?"
"The kiss glows in his heart, but the old man adheres to his idea."
"And you with him, you too?" cried Alyosha, mournfully.
Ivan laughed.
"Why, it's all nonsense, Alyosha. It's only a senseless poem of a senseless
student, who could never write two lines of verse. Why do you take it so
seriously? Surely you don't suppose I am going straight off to the Jesuits,
to join the men who are correcting His work? Good Lord, it's no business of
mine. I told you, all I want is to live on to thirty, and then... dash the
cup to the ground!"
"But the little sticky leaves, and the precious tombs, and the blue sky, and
the woman you love! How will you live, how will you love them?" Alyosha
cried sorrowfully. "With such a hell in your heart and your head, how can
you? No, that's just what you are going away for, to join them... if not,
you will kill yourself, you can't endure it!"
"There is a strength to endure everything," Ivan said with a cold smile.
"The strength of the Karamazovs- the strength of the Karamazov baseness."
"To sink into debauchery, to stifle your soul with corruption, yes?"
"Possibly even that... only perhaps till I am thirty I shall escape it, and
then-"
"How will you escape it? By what will you escape it? That's impossible with
your ideas."
"In the Karamazov way, again."
"'Everything is lawful,' you mean? Everything is lawful, is that it?"
Ivan scowled, and all at once turned strangely pale.
"Ah, you've caught up yesterday's phrase, which so offended Muisov- and
which Dmitri pounced upon so naively and paraphrased!" he smiled queerly. "
Yes, if you like, 'everything is lawful' since the word has been said, I won
't deny it. And Mitya's version isn't bad."
Alyosha looked at him in silence.
"I thought that going away from here I have you at least," Ivan said
suddenly, with unexpected feeling; "but now I see that there is no place for
me even in your heart, my dear hermit. The formula, 'all is lawful,' I won'
t renounce- will you renounce me for that, yes?"
Alyosha got up, went to him and softly kissed him on the lips.
"That's plagiarism," cried Ivan, highly delighted. "You stole that from my
poem. Thank you though. Get up, Alyosha, it's time we were going, both of us
."
They went out, but stopped when they reached the entrance of the restaurant.
"Listen, Alyosha," Ivan began in a resolute voice, "if I am really able to
care for the sticky little leaves I shall only love them, remembering you.
It's enough for me that you are somewhere here, and I shan't lose my desire
for life yet. Is that enough for you? Take it as a declaration of love if
you like. And now you go to the right and I to the left. And it's enough, do
you hear, enough. I mean even if I don't go away to-morrow (I think I
certainly shall go) and we meet again, don't say a word more on these
subjects. I beg that particularly. And about Dmitri too, I ask you specially
, never speak to me again," he added, with sudden irritation; "it's all
exhausted, it has all been said over and over again, hasn't it? And I'll
make you one promise in return for it. When at thirty, I want to 'dash the
cup to the ground,' wherever I may be I'll come to have one more talk with
you, even though it were from America, you may be sure of that. I'll come on
purpose. It will be very interesting to have a look at you, to see what you
'll be by that time. It's rather a solemn promise, you see. And we really
may be parting for seven years or ten. Come, go now to your Pater Seraphicus
, he is dying. If he dies without you, you will be angry with me for having
kept you. Good-bye, kiss me once more; that's right, now go."
Ivan turned suddenly and went his way without looking back. It was just as
Dmitri had left Alyosha the day before, though the parting had been very
different. The strange resemblance flashed like an arrow through Alyosha's
mind in the distress and dejection of that moment. He waited a little,
looking after his brother. He suddenly noticed that Ivan swayed as he walked
and that his right shoulder looked lower than his left. He had never
noticed it before. But all at once he turned too, and almost ran to the
monastery. It was nearly dark, and he felt almost frightened; something new
was growing up in him for which he could not account. The wind had risen
again as on the previous evening, and the ancient pines murmured gloomily
about him when he entered the hermitage copse. He almost ran. "Pater
Seraphicus- he got that name from somewhere- where from?" Alyosha wondered.
"Ivan, poor Ivan, and when shall I see you again?... Here is the hermitage.
Yes, yes, that he is, Pater Seraphicus, he will save me- from him and for
ever!"
Several times afterwards he wondered how he could, on leaving Ivan, so
completely forget his brother Dmitri, though he had that morning, only a few
hours before, so firmly resolved to find him and not to give up doing so,
even should he be unable to return to the monastery that night. |
