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Chapter 5 of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
The Grand Inquisitor
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( scroll down for the text which begins the performance ) "Quite impossible, as you see, to
start without an introduction," laughed Ivan. "Well, then, I mean
to place the event described in the poem in the sixteenth century, an age—as
you must have been told at school—when it was the great fashion among poets
to make the denizens and powers of higher worlds descend on earth and mix
freely with mortals. . . . In France all the notaries’ clerks, and the monks
in their cloisters as well, used to give grand performances, dramatic plays
in which long scenes were enacted by the Madonna, the angels, the saints,
Christ, and even by God Himself. In those days, everything was very artless
and primitive. An instance of it may be found in Victor Hugo’s drama, Notre
Dame de Paris, where, at the Municipal Hall, a play called Le Bon
Jugement de la Très-sainte et Gracieuse Vierge Marie, is enacted in
honour of Louis XI, in which the Virgin appears personally to pronounce her
‘good judgment.’ In Moscow, during the prepetrean period, performances of
nearly the same character, chosen especially from the Old Testament, were
also in great favour. Apart from such plays, the world was overflooded with
mystical writings, ‘verses’—the heroes of which were always selected from the
ranks of angels, saints and other heavenly citizens answering to the
devotional purposes of the age. The recluses of our monasteries, like the
Roman Catholic monks, passed their time in translating, copying, and even
producing original compositions upon such subjects, and that, remember,
during the Tartar period! . . . In this connection, I am reminded of a poem
compiled in a convent—a translation from the Greek, of course—called ‘The
Travels of the Mother of God among the Damned,’ with fitting illustrations
and a boldness of conception inferior nowise to that of Dante. The ‘Mother of
God’ visits hell, in company with the Archangel Michael as her cicerone to
guide her through the legions of the ‘damned.’ She sees them all, and is
witness to their multifarious tortures. Among the many other exceedingly
remarkable varieties of torments—every category of sinners having its
own—there is one especially worthy of notice, namely, a class of the ‘damned’
sentenced to gradually sink in a burning lake of brimstone and fire. Those
whose sins cause them to sink so low that they no longer can rise to the
surface are for ever forgotten by God, i.e., they fade
out from the omniscient memory, says the poem—an expression, by the way, of
an extraordinary profundity of thought, when closely analyzed. The Virgin is
terribly shocked, and falling down upon her knees in tears before the throne
of God, begs that all she has seen in hell—all, all without exception, should
have their sentences remitted to them. Her dialogue with God is colossally
interesting. She supplicates, she will not leave Him. And when God, pointing
to the pierced hands and feet of her Son, cries, ‘How can I forgive His
executioners?’ she then commands that all the saints, martyrs, angels and
archangels, should prostrate themselves with her before the Immutable and the
Changeless One and implore Him to change His wrath into mercy and—forgive them
all. The poem closes upon her obtaining from God a compromise, a kind of
yearly respite of tortures between Good Friday and Trinity, a chorus of the
‘damned’ singing loud praises to God from their ‘bottomless pit,’ thanking
and telling Him: Thou art right, O Lord, very right, "My poem is of the same
character. "In it, it is Christ who appears
on the scene. True, He says nothing, but only appears and passes out of
sight. Fifteen centuries have elapsed since He left the world with the
distinct promise to return ‘with power and great glory’; fifteen long
centuries since His prophet cried, "Prepare ye the way of the Lord!’
since He Himself had foretold, while yet on earth, ‘Of that day and hour
knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven but my Father only.’ But
Christendom expects Him still. . . . "It waits for Him with the same
old faith and the same emotion; aye, with a far greater faith, for fifteen
centuries have rolled away since the last sign from heaven was sent to man, And blind faith remained alone "True, again, we have all heard
of miracles being wrought ever since the ‘age of miracles’ passed away to
return no more. We had, and still have, our saints credited with performing
the most miraculous cures; and, if we can believe their biographers, there
have been those among them who have been personally visited by the Queen of
Heaven. But Satan sleepeth not, and the first germs of doubt, an ever-increasing
unbelief in such wonders, already had begun to sprout in Christendom as early
as the sixteenth century. It was just at that time that a new and terrible
heresy first made its appearance in the north of Germany.*
A great star ‘shining as it were a lamp . . . fell upon the fountains of
waters’ . . . and ‘they were made bitter.’ This ‘heresy’ blasphemously denied
‘miracles.’ But those who had remained faithful believed all the more
ardently. The tears of mankind ascended to Him as heretofore, and the
Christian world was expecting Him as confidently as ever; they loved Him and
hoped in Him, thirsted and hungered to suffer and die for Him just as many of
them had done before. . . . So many centuries had weak, trusting humanity
implored Him, crying with ardent faith and fervour: ‘How long, O Lord, holy
and true, dost Thou not come!’ So many long centuries hath it vainly appealed
to Him, that
at last, in His inexhaustible compassion,
He consenteth to answer the prayer. . . . And now the time came when he
wished to appear to the people, if only for a moment— to the tormented,
suffering people, to the people sunk in filthy iniquity but who loved him
like innocent children. The scene of action is placed by me in Spain, at
Seville, during that terrible period of the Inquisition, when, for the
greater glory of God, stakes were flaming all over the country, Burning wicked heretics, "This particular visit has, of
course, nothing to do with the promised Advent, when, according to the
programme, ‘after the tribulation of those days,’ He will appear ‘coming in
the clouds of heaven.’ For, that ‘coming of the Son of Man,’ as we are
informed, will take place as suddenly ‘as the lightning cometh out of the
east and shineth even unto the west.’ No; this once, He desired to come
unknown, and appear among His children, just when the bones of the heretics,
sentenced to be burnt alive, had commenced crackling at the flaming stakes.
Owing to His limitless mercy, He mixes once more with mortals and in the same
form in which He was wont to appear fifteen centuries ago. He descends, just
at the very moment when before king, courtiers, knights, cardinals, and the
fairest dames of court, before the whole population of Seville, upwards of a
hundred wicked heretics are being roasted, in a magnificent auto-da-fé ad
majorem Dei gloriam, by the order of the powerful Cardinal Grand
Inquisitor. . . . He comes silently and unannounced; yet
all—how strange—yea, all recognize Him, at once! The population rushes
towards Him as if propelled by some irresistible force; it surrounds,
throngs, and presses around, it follows Him. . . . Silently, and with a smile
of boundless compassion upon His lips, He crosses the dense crowd, and moves
softly on. The Sun of Love burns in His heart, and warm rays of Light, Wisdom
and Power beam forth from His eyes, and pour down their waves upon the
swarming multitudes of the rabble assembled around, making their hearts
vibrate with returning love. He extends His hands over their heads, blesses
them, and from mere contact with Him, aye, even with His garments, a healing
power goes forth. An old man, blind from his birth, cries, ‘Lord, heal me,
that I may see Thee!’ and the scales falling off the closed eyes, the blind
man beholds Him. . . . The crowd weeps for joy, and kisses the ground upon
which He treads. Children strew flowers along His path and sing to Him,
‘Hosanna!’ It is He, it is Himself, they say to each other, it must be He, it
can be none other but He! He pauses at the portal of the old cathedral, just
as a wee white coffin is carried in, with tears and great lamentations. The
lid is off, and in the coffin lies the body of a fair girl-child, seven years
old, the only child of an eminent citizen of the city. The little corpse lies
buried in flowers. ‘He will raise thy child to life!’ confidently shouts the
crowd to the weeping mother. The officiating priest who had come to meet the
funeral procession, looks perplexed, and frowns. A loud cry is suddenly
heard, and the bereaved mother prostrates herself at His feet. ‘If it be
Thou, then bring back my child to life!’ she cries beseechingly. The
procession halts, and the little coffin is gently lowered at His feet. Divine
compassion beams forth from His eyes, and as He looks at the child, His lips
are heard to whisper once more, ‘Talitha Cumi’—and ‘straightway the damsel
arose.’ The child rises in her coffin. Her little hands still hold the
nosegay of white roses which after death was placed in them, and, looking
round with large astonished eyes she smiles sweetly. . . . The crowd is
violently excited. A terrible commotion rages among them, the populace shouts
and loudly weeps, when suddenly, before the cathedral door, appears the
Cardinal Grand Inquisitor himself. . . . He is a tall, gaunt-looking old man
of nearly fourscore years and ten, with a stern, withered face, and deeply
sunken eyes, from the cavity of which glitter two fiery sparks. He has laid
aside his gorgeous cardinal’s robes in which he had appeared before the
people at the auto-da-fé of the enemies of the Romish Church, and is now clad
in his old, rough, monkish cassock. His sullen assistants and slaves of the
‘holy guard’ are following at a distance. He pauses before the crowd and
observes. He has seen all. He has witnessed the placing of the little coffin
at His feet, the calling back to life. And now, his dark, grim face has grown
still darker; his bushy grey eyebrows nearly meet, and his sunken eye flashes
with sinister light. Slowly raising his finger, he commands his minions to
arrest Him. . . . "Such is his power over the
well-disciplined, submissive and now trembling people, that the thick crowds
immediately give way, and scattering before the guard, amid dead silence and
without one breath of protest, allow them to lay their sacrilegious hands
upon the stranger and lead Him away. . . . That same populace, like one man,
now bows its head to the ground before the old Inquisitor, who blesses it and
slowly moves onward. The guards conduct their prisoner to the ancient
building of the Holy Tribunal; pushing Him into a narrow, gloomy, vaulted
prison-cell, they lock Him in and retire. "The day wanes, and night—a dark,
hot, breathless Spanish night—creeps on and settles upon the city of Seville.
The air smells of laurels and orange blossoms. In the Cimmerian darkness of
the old Tribunal Hall the iron door of the cell is suddenly thrown open, and
the Grand Inquisitor, holding a dark lantern, slowly stalks into the dungeon.
He is alone, and, as the heavy door closes behind him, he pauses at the
threshold, and, for a minute or two, silently and gloomily scrutinizes the
Face before him. At last, approaching with measured steps, he sets his
lantern down upon the table and addresses Him in these words: " ‘It is Thou! . . . Thou!’ . . .
Receiving no reply, he rapidly continues: ‘Nay, answer not; be silent! . . .
And what couldst Thou say? . . . I know but too well Thy answer. . . .
Besides, Thou hast no right to add one syllable to that which was already
uttered by Thee before. . . . Why shouldst Thou now return, to impede us in
our work? For Thou hast come but for that only, and Thou knowest it well. But
art Thou as well aware of what awaits Thee in the morning? I do not know, nor
do I care to know who Thou mayest be: be it Thou or only Thine image,
to-morrow I will condemn and burn Thee on the stake, as the most wicked of
all the heretics; and that same people, who to-day were kissing Thy feet,
tomorrow at one bend of my finger, will rush to add fuel to Thy funeral pile.
. . Wert Thou aware of this?’ he adds, speaking as if in solemn thought, and
never for one instant taking his piercing glance off the meek Face before
him." "I can hardly realize the
situation described—what is all this, Ivan?" suddenly interrupted
Alyosha, who had remained silently listening to his brother. "Is this an
extravagant fancy, or some mistake of the old man, an impossible quid pro
quo?" "Let it be the latter, if you
like," laughed Ivan, "since modern realism has so perverted your
taste that you feel unable to realize anything from the world of fancy. . . .
Let it be a quid pro quo. if you so choose it. Again, the
Inquisitor is ninety years old, and he might have easily gone mad with his
one idée fixe of power; or, it might have as well been a delirious
vision, called forth by dying fancy, overheated by the auto-da-fé of the
hundred heretics in that forenoon. . . . But what matters for the poem,
whether it was a quid pro quo or an uncontrollable fancy? The question
is, that the old man has to open his heart; that he must give
out his thought at last; and that the hour has come when he does speak it
out, and says loudly that which for ninety years he has kept secret within
his own breast." "And his prisoner, does He never
reply? Does He keep silent, looking at him, without saying a word?" "Of course; and it could not well
be otherwise," again retorted Ivan. "The Grand Inquisitor begins
from his very first words by telling Him that He has no right to add one syllable
to that which He had said before. To make the situation clear at once, the
above preliminary monologue is intended to convey to the reader the very
fundamental idea which underlies Roman Catholicism—as well as I can convey
it, his words mean, in short: ‘Everything was given over by Thee to the Pope,
and everything now rests with him alone; Thou hast no business to return and
thus hinder us in our work.’ In this sense the Jesuits not only talk but
write likewise. "Hast thou the right to divulge
to us a single one of the mysteries of that world whence Thou comest?’
enquires of Him my old Inquisitor, and forthwith answers for Him, ‘Nay, Thou
hast no such right. For, that would be adding to that which was already said
by Thee before; hence depriving people of that freedom for which Thou hast so
stoutly stood up while yet on earth. . . Anything new that Thou wouldst now
proclaim would have to be regarded as an attempt to interfere with that
freedom of choice, as it would come as a new and a miraculous revelation
superseding the old revelation of fifteen hundred years ago, when Thou didst
so repeatedly tell the people: "The truth shall make you free."
Behold then, Thy "free" people now!’ adds the old man with sombre
irony. ‘Yea! . . . it has cost us dearly,’ he continues, sternly looking at
his victim. ‘But we have at last accomplished our task, and—in Thy
name. . . . For fifteen long centuries we had
to toil and suffer owing to that "freedom"; but now we have
prevailed and our work is done, and well and strongly it is done. . . .
Believest not Thou it is so very strong? . . . And why shouldst Thou look at
me so meekly as if I were not worthy even of Thy indignation?. . . Know then,
that now, and only now, Thy people feel fully sure and satisfied of their freedom;
and that only since they have themselves and of their own free will delivered
that freedom unto our hands by placing it submissively at our feet. But then,
that is what we have done. Is it that which Thou hast striven for? Is
this the kind of "freedom" Thou hast promised them?’". . . "Now again, I do not
understand," interrupted Alyosha. "Does the old man mock and
laugh?" "Not in the least. He seriously
regards it as a great service done by himself, his brother monks and Jesuits,
to humanity, to have conquered and subjected unto their authority that
freedom, and boasts that it was done but for the good of the world. ‘For only
now,’ he says (speaking of the Inquisition) ‘has it become possible to us,
for the first time, to give a serious thought to human happiness. Man is born
a rebel, and can rebels be ever happy? . . . Thou hast been fairly warned of
it, but evidently to no use, since Thou hast rejected the only means which
could make mankind happy; fortunately at Thy departure Thou hast delivered
the task to us. . . . Thou hast promised, ratifying the pledge by Thy own
words, in words giving us the right to bind and unbind . . . and surely, Thou
couldst not think of depriving us of it now!"’ "But what can he mean by the
words, ‘ Thou hast been fairly warned’?" asked Alexis. "These words give the key to what
the old man has to say for his justification. . . But listen—"‘The
terrible and wise spirit, the spirit of self-annihilation and non-being,’
goes on the Inquisitor, ‘the great spirit of negation conversed with Thee in
the wilderness, and we are told that he "tempted" Thee. . . Was it
so? And if it were so, then it is impossible to utter anything more truthful
that what is contained in his three offers, which Thou didst reject, and
which are usually called "temptations." Yea; if ever there was on
earth a genuine, striking wonder produced, it was on that day of Thy three
temptations, and it is precisely in these three short sentences that the
marvellous miracle is contained. If it were possible that they should vanish
and disappear for ever, without leaving any trace, from the record and from
the memory of man, and that it should become necessary again to devise,
invent, and make them re appear in Thy history once more, thinkest Thou that
all the world’s sages, all the legislators, initiates, philosophers and
thinkers, if called upon to frame three questions which should, like these,
besides answering the magnitude of the event, express in three short
sentences the whole future history of this our world and of mankind—dost Thou
believe, I ask Thee, that all their combined efforts could ever create
anything equal in power and depth of thought to the three propositions
offered Thee by the powerful and all-wise spirit in the wilderness? Judging
of them by their marvellous aptness alone, one can at once perceive that they
emanated not from a finite, terrestrial intellect, but indeed, from the
Eternal and the Absolute. In these three offers we find, blended into one and
foretold to us, the complete subsequent history of man; we are shown three
images, so to say, uniting in them all the future axiomatic, insoluble
problems and contradictions of human nature, the world over. In those days,
the wondrous wisdom contained in them was not made so apparent as it is now,
for futurity remained still veiled; but now, when fifteen centuries have
elapsed, we see that everything in these three questions is so marvellously
foreseen and foretold, that to add to, or to take away from, the prophecy one
jot, would be absolutely impossible! "Decide then Thyself,’ sternly
proceeded the Inquisitor, ‘which of ye twain was right: Thou who didst
reject, or he who offered ? Remember the subtle meaning of question the
first, which runs thus: Wouldst Thou go into the world empty-handed? Wouldst
Thou venture thither with Thy vague and undefined promise of freedom, which
men, dull and unruly as they are by nature, are unable so much as to
understand, which they avoid and fear?—for never was there anything more
unbearable to the human race than personal freedom! Dost Thou see these
stones in the desolate and glaring wilderness? Command that these stones
be made bread—and mankind will run after Thee, obedient and grateful like
a herd of cattle. But even then it will be ever diffident and trembling, lest
Thou shouldst take away Thy hand, and they lose thereby their bread! Thou
didst refuse to accept the offer for fear of depriving men of their free
choice; for where is there freedom of choice where men are bribed with bread?
Man shall not live by! bread alone—was Thine answer. Thou knewest not,
it seems, that it was precisely in the name of that earthly bread that
the terrestrial spirit would one day rise against, struggle with, and finally
conquer Thee, followed by the hungry multitudes shouting: "Who is like
unto that Beast, who maketh fire come down from heaven upon the earth!"
Knowest Thou not that, but a few centuries hence, and the whole of mankind
will have proclaimed in its wisdom and through its mouthpiece, Science, that
there is no more crime, hence no more sin on earth, but only hungry people?
"Feed us first and then command us to be virtuous!" will be the
words written upon the banner lifted against Thee—a banner which shall
destroy Thy Church to its very foundations, and in the place of Thy Temple
shall raise once more the terrible Tower of Babel; and though its building be
left unfinished, as was that of the first one, yet the fact will remain
recorded that Thou couldst, but wouldst not, prevent the attempt to build
that new tower by accepting the offer, and thus saving mankind a millennium
of useless suffering on earth. And it is to us that the people will return
again. They will search for us everywhere; and they will find us under ground
in the catacombs, as we shall once more be persecuted and martyred—and they
will begin crying unto us: "Feed us, for they who promised us the fire
from heaven have deceived us! " It is then that we will finish building
their tower for them. For they alone who feed them shall finish it, and we shall
feed them in Thy name, and lying to them that it is in that name. Oh, never,
never, will they learn to feed themselves without our help! No science will
ever give them bread so long as they remain free, so long as they refuse to
lay that freedom at our feet, and say. "Enslave, but feed us!" That
day must come when men will understand that freedom and daily bread enough to
satisfy all are unthinkable and can never be had together, as men will never
be able to fairly divide the two among themselves. And they will also learn
that they can never be free, for they are weak, vicious, miserable
nonentities born wicked and rebellious. Thou hast promised to them the bread
of life, the bread of heaven; but I ask Thee again, can that bread ever equal
in the sight of the weak and the vicious, the ever-ungrateful human race,
their daily bread on earth? And even supposing that thousands and tens of
thousands follow Thee in the name of, and for the sake of, Thy heavenly
bread, what will become of the millions and hundreds of millions of human
beings too weak to scorn the earthly for the sake of Thy heavenly bread? Or
is it but those tens of thousands chosen among the great and the mighty, that
are so dear to Thee, while the remaining millions, innumerable as the grains
of sand in the seas, the weak and the loving, have to be used as material for
the former? No, no! In our sight and for our purpose the weak and the lowly
are the more dear to us. True, they are vicious and rebellious, but we will
force them into obedience, and it is they who will admire us the most. They
will regard us as gods, and feel grateful to those who have consented to lead
the masses and bear their burden of freedom by ruling over them—so terrible
will that freedom at last appear to men! Then we will tell them that it is in
obedience to Thy will and in Thy name that we rule over them. We will deceive
them once more and lie to them once again—for never, never more will we allow
Thee to come among us. In this deception we will find our suffering, for we
must needs lie eternally, and never cease to lie! "‘Such is the secret meaning of
"temptation" the first, and that is what Thou didst reject in the
wilderness for the sake of that freedom which Thou didst prize above all.
Meanwhile Thy tempter’s offer contained another great world-mystery. By
accepting the "bread," Thou wouldst have satisfied and answered a
universal craving, a ceaseless longing alive in the heart of every individual
human being, lurking in the breast of collective mankind, that most perplexing
problem—"whom or what shall we worship?" There exists no greater or
more painful anxiety for a man who has freed himself from all religious bias,
than how he shall soonest find a new object or idea to worship. But man seeks
to bow before that only which is recognized by the greater majority, if not
by all his fellow-men, as having a right to be worshipped; whose rights are
so unquestionable that men agree unanimously to bow down to it. For the chief
concern of these miserable creatures is not to find and worship the idol of
their own choice, but to discover that which all others will believe in, and
consent to bow down to in a mass. It is that instinctive need of having a
worship in common that is the chief suffering of every man, the
chief concern of mankind from the beginning of times. It is for that
universality of religious worship that people destroyed each other by sword.
Creating gods unto themselves, they forthwith began appealing to each other:
"Abandon your deities, come and bow down to ours, or death
to ye and your idols!" And so will they do till the end of this world;
they will do so even then, when all the gods themselves have disappeared, for
then men will prostrate themselves before and worship some idea. Thou didst
know, Thou couldst not be ignorant of, that mysterious fundamental principle
in human nature, and still Thou hast rejected the only absolute banner
offered Thee, to which all the nations would remain true, and before which
all would have bowed—the banner of earthly bread, rejected in the name
of freedom and of "bread in the kingdom of God"! Behold, then, what
Thou hast done furthermore for that "freedom’s" sake! I repeat to
Thee, man has no greater anxiety in life than to find some one to whom he can
make over that gift of freedom with which the unfortunate creature is born.
But he alone will prove capable of silencing and quieting their consciences,
that shall succeed in possessing himself of the freedom of men. With
"daily bread" an irresistible power was offered Thee: show a man
"bread" and he will follow Thee, for what can he resist less than
the attraction of bread? but if, at the same time, another succeed in
possessing himself of his conscience—oh! then even Thy bread will be
forgotten, and man will follow him who seduced his conscience. So far Thou
wert right. For the mystery of human being does not solely rest in the desire
to live, but in the problem—for what should one live at all? Without a clear
perception of his reasons for living, man will never consent to live, and
will rather destroy himself than tarry on earth, though he be surrounded with
bread. This is the truth. But what has happened? Instead of getting hold of
man’s freedom, Thou hast enlarged it still more! Hast Thou again forgotten
that to man rest and even death are preferable to a free choice between the
knowledge of Good and Evil? Nothing seems more seductive in his eyes than
freedom of conscience, and nothing proves more painful. And behold! instead
of laying a firm foundation whereon to rest once for all man’s conscience,
Thou hast chosen to stir up in him all that is abnormal, mysterious, and
indefinite, all that is beyond human strength, and hast acted as if Thou
never hadst any love for him, and yet Thou wert He who came to "lay down
His life for His friends"! Thou hast burdened man’s soul with anxieties
hitherto unknown to him. Thirsting for human love freely given, seeking to
enable man, seduced and charmed by Thee, to follow Thy path of his own
free-will, instead of the old and wise law which held him in subjection, Thou
hast given him the right henceforth to choose and freely decide what is good
and bad for him, guided but by Thine image in his heart. But hast Thou never
dreamt of the probability, nay, of the certainty, of that same man one day
rejecting finally, and controverting even Thine image and Thy truth, once he
would find himself laden with such a terrible burden as freedom of choice?
That a time would surely come when men would exclaim that Truth and Light
cannot be in Thee, for no one could have left them in a greater perplexity
and mental suffering than Thou hast done, lading them with so many cares and
insoluble problems. Thus, it is Thyself who hast laid the foundation for the
destruction of Thine own kingdom and no one but Thou is to be blamed for it. "‘Meantime, every chance of
success was offered Thee. There are three Powers, three unique Forces upon
earth, capable of conquering for ever by charming the conscience of these
weak rebels—men—for their own good; and these Forces are: Miracle, Mystery and
Authority. Thou hast rejected all the three, and thus wert the first to set
them an example. When the terrible and all-wise spirit placed Thee on a
pinnacle of the temple and said unto Thee, "If Thou be the son of God,
cast Thyself down, for it is written, He shall give His angels charge
concerning Thee: and in their hands they shall bear Thee up, lest at any time
Thou dash Thy foot against a stone!"—for thus Thy faith in Thy father
should have been made evident, Thou didst refuse to accept his suggestion and
didst not follow it. Oh, undoubtedly, Thou didst act in this with all the
magnificent pride of a god, but then men—that weak and rebel race—are they
also gods, to understand Thy refusal? Of course, Thou didst well know that by
taking one single step forward, by making the slightest motion to throw
Thyself down, Thou wouldst have tempted "the Lord Thy God," lost
suddenly all faith in Him, and dashed Thyself to atoms against that same
earth which Thou camest to save, and thus wouldst have allowed the wise
spirit which tempted Thee to triumph and rejoice. But, then, how many such as
Thee are to be found on this globe, I ask Thee? Couldst Thou ever for a
moment imagine that men would have the same strength to resist such a
temptation? Is human nature calculated to reject miracle, and trust, during
the most terrible moments in life, when the most momentous, painful and
perplexing problems struggle within man’s soul, to the free decisions of his
heart for the true solution? Oh, Thou knewest well that that action of Thine
would remain recorded in books for ages to come, reaching to the confines of
the globe, and Thy hope was, that following Thy example, man would remain
true to his God, without needing any miracle to keep his faith alive! But
Thou knewest not, it seems, that no sooner would man reject miracle than he
would reject God likewise, for he seeketh less God than "a sign"
from Him. And thus, as it is beyond the power of man to remain without
miracles, so, rather than live without, he will create for himself new
wonders of his own making; and he will bow to and worship the soothsayer’s
miracles, the old witch’s sorcery, were he a rebel, a heretic, and an atheist
a hundred times over. Thy refusal to come down from the cross when people,
mocking and wagging their heads were saying to Thee—"Save Thyself if
Thou be the son of God, and we will believe in Thee," was due to the
same determination—not to enslave man through miracle, but to obtain faith in
Thee freely and apart from any miraculous influence. Thou thirstest for free
and uninfluenced love, and refusest the passionate adoration of the slave
before a Potency which would have subjected his will once for ever. Thou
judgest of men too highly here, again, for, though rebels they be, they are
born slaves and nothing. more. Behold, and judge of them once more, now that
fifteen centuries have elapsed since that moment. Look at them, whom Thou
didst try to elevate unto Thee! I swear man is weaker and lower than Thou
hast ever imagined him to be! Can he ever do that which Thou art said to have
accomplished? By valuing him so highly Thou hast acted as if there were no
love for him in Thine heart, for Thou hast demanded of him more than he could
ever give—Thou, who lovest him more than Thyself! Hadst Thou esteemed him
less, less wouldst Thou have demanded of him, and that would have been more
like love, for his burden would have been made thereby lighter. Man is weak
and cowardly. What matters it, if he now riots and rebels throughout the
world against our will and power, and prides himself upon that
rebellion ? It is but the petty pride and vanity of a school-boy. It is the
rioting of little children, getting up a mutiny in the class-room and driving
their schoolmaster out of it. But it will not last long, and when the day of
their triumph is over, they will have to pay dearly for it. They will destroy
the temples and raze them to the ground, flooding the earth with blood. But
the foolish children will have to learn some day that, rebels though they be
and riotous from nature, they are too weak to maintain the spirit of mutiny
for any length of time. Suffused with idiotic tears, they will confess that
He who created them rebellious undoubtedly did so but to mock them. They will
pronounce these words in despair, and such blasphemous utterances will but
add to their misery—for human nature cannot endure blasphemy, and takes her
own revenge in the end. "‘And thus, after all Thou hast
suffered for mankind and its freedom, the present fate of men may be summed
up in three words: Unrest, Confusion, Misery! Thy great prophet John records
in his vision, that he saw, during the first resurrection of the chosen
servants of "God—"the number of them which were sealed" in
their foreheads, "twelve thousand" of every tribe. But were they,
indeed, as many? Then they must have been gods, not men. They had shared Thy
Cross for long years, suffered scores of years’ hunger and thirst in dreary
wildernesses and deserts, feeding upon locusts and roots—and of these
children of free love for Thee, and self-sacrifice in Thy name, Thou mayest
well feel proud. But remember that these are but a few thousands—of gods, not
men; and how about all others? And why should the weakest be held guilty for
not being able to endure what the strongest have endured? Why should a soul
incapable of containing such terrible gifts be punished for its weakness?
Didst Thou really come to, and for, the "elect" alone? If so, then
the mystery will remain for ever mysterious to our finite minds. And if a
mystery, then were we right to proclaim it as one, and preach it, teaching
them that neither their freely given love to Thee nor freedom of conscience
were essential, but only that incomprehensible mystery which they must
blindly obey even against the dictates of their conscience. Thus did
we. We corrected and improved Thy teaching and based it upon "Miracle,
Mystery, and Authority." And men rejoiced at finding themselves led once
more like a herd of cattle, and at finding their hearts at last delivered of
the terrible burden laid upon them by Thee, which caused them so much
suffering. Tell me, were we right in doing as we did? Did not we show our
great love for humanity, by realizing in such a humble spirit its
helplessness, by so mercifully lightening its great burden, and by permitting
and remitting for its weak nature every sin, provided it be committed with
our authorization? For what, then, hast Thou come again to trouble us in our
work? And why lookest Thou at me so penetratingly with Thy meek eyes, and in
such a silence? Rather shouldst Thou feel wroth, for I need not Thy love, I
reject it, and love Thee not, myself. Why should I conceal the truth from
Thee? I know but too well with whom I am now talking! What I had to say was
known to Thee before, I read it in Thine eye. How should I conceal from Thee our
secret? If perchance Thou wouldst hear it from my own lips, then listen: We
are not with Thee, but with him, and that is our secret! For centuries
have we abandoned Thee to follow him, yes—eight centuries. Eight
hundred years now since we accepted from him the gift rejected by Thee
with indignation; that last gift which he offered Thee from the high mountain
when, showing all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them, he saith
unto Thee: "All these things will I give Thee, if Thou wilt fall down
and worship me!" We took Rome from him and the glaive of Cæsar, and
declared ourselves alone the kings of this earth, its sole kings, though our
work is not yet fully accomplished. But who is to blame for it? Our work is
but in its incipient stage, but it is nevertheless started. We may have long
to wait until its culmination, and mankind have to suffer much, but we shall
reach the goal some day, and become sole Cæsars, and then will be the time to
think of universal happiness for men. "‘Thou couldst accept the glaive
of Cæsar Thyself; why didst Thou reject the offer? By accepting from the
powerful spirit his third offer Thou wouldst have realized every aspiration
man seeketh for himself on earth; man would have found a constant object for
worship; one to deliver his conscience up to, and one that should unite all
together into one common and harmonious ant-hill; for an innate necessity for
universal union constitutes the third and final affliction of mankind.
Humanity as a whole has ever aspired to unite itself universally. Many were
the great nations with great histories, but the greater they were, the more
unhappy they felt, as they felt the stronger necessity of a universal union
among men. Great conquerors, like Timoor and Tchengis-Khan, passed like a
cyclone upon the face of the earth in their efforts to conquer the universe,
but even they, albeit unconsciously, expressed the same aspiration towards
universal and common union. In accepting the kingdom of the world and Cæsar’s
purple, one would found a universal kingdom and secure to mankind eternal
peace. And who can rule mankind better than those who have possessed
themselves of man’s conscience, and hold in their hand man’s daily bread?
Having accepted Cæsar’s glaive and purple, we had, of course, but to deny
Thee, to henceforth follow him alone. Oh, centuries of intellectual
riot and rebellious free-thought are yet before us, and their science will
end by anthropophagy, for having begun to build their Babylonian tower without
our help they will have to end by anthropophagy. But it is precisely
at that time that the Beast will crawl up to us in full submission, and lick
the soles of our feet, and sprinkle them with tears of blood. And we shall
sit upon the scarlet-coloured Beast, and lifting up high the golden cup "full
of abomination and filthiness," shall show written upon it the word
"Mystery"! But it is only then that men will see the beginning of a
kingdom of peace and happiness. Thou art proud of Thine own elect, but Thou
hast none other but these elect, and we—we will give rest to all. But that is
not the end. Many are those among Thine elect and the labourers of Thy
vineyard, who, tired of waiting for Thy coming, already have carried and will
yet carry, the great fervour of their hearts and their spiritual strength
into another field, and will end by lifting up against Thee Thine own banner
of freedom. But it is Thyself Thou hast to thank. Under our
rule and sway all will be happy, and will neither rebel nor destroy each
other as they did while under Thy free banner. Oh, we will take good
care to prove to them that they will become absolutely free only when they
have abjured their freedom in our favour and submit to us absolutely.
Thinkest Thou we shall be right or still lying? They will convince themselves
of our rightness, for they will see what a depth of degrading slavery and
strife that liberty of Thine has led them into. Liberty, Freedom of Thought
and Conscience, and Science will lead them into such impassable chasms, place
them face to face before such wonders and insoluble mysteries, that some of
them—more rebellious and ferocious than the rest—will destroy themselves;
others—rebellious but weak—will destroy each other; while the remainder,
weak, helpless and miserable, will crawl back to our feet and cry: "Yes;
right were ye, oh Fathers of Jesus; ye alone are in possession of His
mystery, and we return to you, praying that ye save us from ourselves!"
Receiving their bread from us, they will clearly see that we take the bread
from them, the bread made by their own. hands, but to give it back to them in
equal shares and that without any miracle; and having ascertained that,
though we have not changed stones into bread, yet bread they have, while
every other bread turned verily in their own hands into stones, they will be
only too glad to have it so Until that day, they will never be happy. And who
is it that helped the most to blind them, tell me? Who separated the flock
and scattered it over ways unknown if it be not Thee? But we will gather the
sheep once more and subject them to our will for ever. We will prove to them
their own weakness and make them humble again, whilst with Thee they have
learnt but pride, for Thou hast made more of them than they ever were worth.
We will give them that quiet, humble happiness, which alone benefits such
weak, foolish creatures as they are, and having once had proved to them their
weakness, they will become timid and obedient, and gather around us as
chickens around their hen. They will wonder at and feel a superstitious
admiration for us, and feel proud to be led by men so powerful and wise that
a handful of them can subject a flock a thousand millions strong. Gradually
men will begin to fear us. They will nervously dread our slightest anger,
their intellects will weaken, their eyes become as easily accessible to tears
as those of children and women; but we will teach them an easy transition
from grief and tears to laughter, childish joy and mirthful song. Yes; we
will make them work like slaves, but during their recreation hours they shall
have an innocent child-like life, full of play and merry laughter. We will
even permit them sin, for, weak and helpless, they will feel the more
love for us for permitting them to indulge in it. We will tell them that
every kind of sin will be remitted to them, so long as it is done with our
permission; that we take all these sins upon ourselves, for we so love the
world, that we are even willing to sacrifice our souls for its satisfaction.
And, appearing before them in the light of their scapegoats and redeemers, we
shall be adored the more for it. They will have no secrets from us. It will
rest with us to permit them to live with their wives and concubines, or to
forbid them, to have children or remain childless, either way depending on
the degree of their obedience to us; and they will submit most joyfully to
us. The most agonizing secrets of their souls—all, all will they lay down at
our feet, and we will authorize and remit them all in Thy name, and they will
believe us and accept our mediation with rapture, as it will deliver them
from their greatest anxiety and torture—that of having to decide freely for
themselves. And all will be happy, all except the one or two hundred
thousands of their rulers. For it is but we, we the keepers of the great Mystery
who will be miserable. There will be thousands of millions of happy
infants, and one hundred thousand martyrs who have taken upon themselves the
curse of knowledge of good and evil. Peaceable will be their end, and
peacefully will they die, in Thy name, to find behind the portals of the
grave—but death. But we will keep the secret inviolate, and
deceive them for their own good with the mirage of life eternal in Thy
kingdom. For, were there really anything like life beyond the grave, surely
it would never fall to the lot of such as they! People tell us and prophesy
of Thy coming and triumphing once more on earth; of Thy appearing with the
army of Thy elect, with Thy proud and mighty ones; but we will answer Thee
that they have saved but themselves while we have saved all. We are also
threatened with the great disgrace which awaits the whore, "Babylon the
great, the mother of harlots"—who sits upon the Beast, holding in her
hands the Mystery, the word written upon her forehead; and we are told
that the weak ones, the lambs shall rebel against her and shall
make her desolate and naked. But then will I arise, and point out to Thee the
thousands of millions of happy infants free from any sin. And we who have
taken their sins upon us, for their own good, shall stand before Thee and
say: "Judge us if Thou canst and darest!" Know then that I fear Thee
not. Know that I too have lived in the dreary wilderness, where I fed upon
locusts and roots, that I too have blessed the freedom with which Thou hast
blessed men, and that I too have once prepared to join the ranks of Thy
elect, the proud and the mighty. But I awoke from my delusion and refused
since then to serve insanity. I returned to join the legion of
those who corrected Thy mistakes. I left the proud and returned
to the really humble, and for their own happiness. What I now tell Thee will
come to pass, and our kingdom shall be built, I tell Thee, not later than
to-morrow. Thou shalt see that obedient flock which at one simple motion of
my hand will rush to add burning coals to Thy stake, on which I will burn
Thee for having dared to come and trouble us in our work. For, if there ever
was one who deserved more than any of the others our inquisitorial fires—it
is Thee! Tomorrow I will burn Thee. Dixi."’ Ivan paused. He had entered into the
situation and had spoken with great animation, but now he suddenly burst out
laughing. "But all that is absurd!"
suddenly exclaimed Alyosha, who had hitherto listened perplexed and agitated
but in profound silence. "Your poem is a glorification of Christ, not an
accusation, as you, perhaps, meant it to be. And who will believe you when
you speak of ‘freedom’? Is it thus that we Christians must understand it? It
is Rome (not all Rome, for that would be unjust), but the worst of the Roman
Catholics, the Inquisitors and the Jesuits, that you have been exposing’ Your
Inquisitor is an impossible character. What are these sins they are taking
upon themselves? Who are those keepers of mystery who took upon themselves a
curse for the good of mankind? Who ever met them? We all know the Jesuits,
and no one has a good word to say in their favour; but when were they as you
depict them? Never, never! The Jesuits are merely a Romish army making ready
for their future temporal kingdom, with a mitred emperor—a Roman high priest
at their head. That is their ideal and object, without any mystery or
elevated suffering. The most prosaic thirsting for power, for the sake of the
mean and earthly pleasures of life, a desire to enslave their fellow-men,
something like our late system of serfs, with themselves at the head as
landed proprietors—that is all that they can be accused of. They may not
believe in God, that is also possible, but your suffering Inquisitor is
simply—a fancy!" "Hold, hold!" interrupted
Ivan, smiling. "Do not be so excited. A fancy, you say; be it so! Of
course, it is a fancy. But stop. Do you really imagine that all this Catholic
movement during the last centuries is naught but a desire for power for the
mere purpose of ‘mean pleasures’? Is this what your Father Païssiy taught
you?" "No, no, quite the reverse, for
Father Païssiy once told me something very similar to what you yourself say,
though, of course, not that. Something quite different," suddenly added
Alexis, blushing. "A precious piece of information,
notwithstanding your ‘not that.’ I ask you, why should the Inquisitors and
the Jesuits of your imagination live but for the attainment of ‘mean material
pleasures’? Why should there not be found among them one single genuine
martyr, suffering under a great and holy idea and loving humanity with all
his heart? Now let us suppose that among all these Jesuits thirsting and
hungering but after ‘mean material pleasures’ there may be one, just one like
my old Inquisitor, who had himself fed upon roots in the wilderness, suffered
the tortures of damnation while trying to conquer flesh, in order to become
free and perfect, but who had never ceased to love humanity, and who one day
prophetically beheld the truth; who saw as plain as he could see that the
bulk of humanity could never be happy under the old system, that it was not
for them that the great Idealist had come and died and dreamt of His
Universal Harmony. Having realized that truth, he returned into the world and
joined—intelligent and practical people. Is this so impossible?" "Joined whom? What intelligent
and practical people?" exclaimed Alyosha quite excited. "Why should
they be more intelligent than other men, and what secrets and mysteries can
they have? They have neither. Atheism and infidelity is all the secret
they have. Your Inquisitor does not believe in God, and that is all the
Mystery there is in it!" "It may be so. You have guessed
rightly there. And it is so, and that is his whole secret; but is this not
the acutest of sufferings for such a man as he, who killed all his young life
in asceticism in the desert, and yet could not cure himself of his love
toward his fellow-men? Toward the end of his life he becomes convinced that
it is only by following the advice of the great and terrible spirit that the
fate of these millions of weak rebels, these ‘half-finished samples of
humanity created in mockery’ can be made tolerable. And once convinced of it,
he sees as clearly that to achieve that object, one must follow blindly the
guidance of the wise spirit, the fearful spirit of death and destruction,
hence accept a system of lies and deception and lead humanity consciously
this time toward death and destruction, and moreover, be deceiving them all
the while in order to prevent them from realizing where they are being led,
and so force the miserable blind men to feel happy, at least while here on
earth. And note this: a wholesale deception in the name of Him, in whose
ideal the old man had so passionately, so fervently, believed during nearly
his whole life! Is this no suffering? And were such a solitary exception
found amidst, and at the head of, that army ‘that thirsts for power but for
the sake of the mean pleasures of life,’ think you one such man would not
suffice to bring on a tragedy? Moreover, one single man like my Inquisitor as
a principal leader, would prove sufficient to discover the real guiding idea
of the Romish system with all its armies of Jesuits, the greatest and
chiefest agents of that system. And I tell you that it is my firm conviction
that the solitary type described in my poem has at no time ever disappeared
from among the chief leaders of that movement. Who knows but that terrible
old man, loving humanity so stubbornly and in such an original way, exists
even in our days in the shape of a whole host of such solitary exceptions,
whose existence is not due to mere chance, but to a well-defined association
born of mutual consent, to a secret league, organized several centuries back,
in order to guard the Mystery from the indiscreet eyes of the
miserable and weak people, and only in view of their own happiness? And so it
is; it cannot be otherwise. I suspect that even Masons have some such Mystery
underlying the basis of their organization, and that it is just the
reason why the Roman Catholic clergy hate them so, dreading to find in them
rivals, competition, the dismemberment of the unity of the idea, for the
realization of which one flock and one Shepherd are needed. However, in
defending my idea, I look like an author whose production is unable to stand
criticism. Enough of this." "You are, perhaps, a Mason
yourself!" exclaimed Alyosha. "You do not believe in God," he
added, with a note of profound sadness in his voice. But suddenly remarking
that his brother was looking at him with mockery, "How do you mean then
to bring your poem to a close?" he unexpectedly enquired, casting his
eyes downward, "or does it break off here?" "My intention is to end it with
the following scene: Having disburdened his heart, the Inquisitor waits for
some time to hear his prisoner speak in His turn. His silence weighs upon
him. He has seen that his captive has been attentively listening to him all
the time, with His eyes fixed penetratingly and softly on the face of his
jailer, and evidently bent upon not replying to him. The old man longs to
hear His voice, to hear Him reply; better words of bitterness and scorn than
His silence. Suddenly He rises; slowly and silently approaching the
Inquisitor, He bends towards him and softly kisses the bloodless,
four-score-and-ten-year-old lips. That is all the answer. The Grand
Inquisitor shudders. There is a convulsive twitch at the corner of his mouth.
He goes to the door, opens it, and addressing Him, ‘Go,’ he says, ‘go, and
return no more . . . do not come again . . . never, never!’ and—lets Him out
into the dark night. The prisoner vanishes." (
here the peformance ends ) "And the old man?" "The kiss burns his heart, but
the old man remains firm in his own ideas and unbelief." "And you, together with him? You
tool" despairingly exclaimed Alyosha, while Ivan burst into a still
louder fit of laughter. |
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Poetry is Disaster |  |
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