Chapter V. The Grand Inquisitor
“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 Hôtel de Ville of Paris in the [271]
reign of Louis XI. in honor of the birth of the dauphin. It was
called Le bon jugement de la très 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
[272] 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 (The Lutheran Reformation)
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 fervor, “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 fé
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 [273]
once more among men in that human shape in which He walked
312 The Brothers Karamazov
among men for 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 fé, 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, every
one recognized Him. That might be one of the best passages in
the poem. I mean, why they recognized 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,
light 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!’ all 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, [274]
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 gray 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
[275] 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 quiproquo?”
“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 fé 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, 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 [276]
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, ‘the 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
[277] 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 [278]
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
[279] 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 some one to worship. So long as man
remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully
as to find some one 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 something
that all would believe in and worship; what is essential is that all
may be together in it. This craving for 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
some one 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 some one 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
[280] 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? [281]
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
agonizing 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
[282] 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. They will cast down
temples and drench the earth with blood. But they will see at
last, the foolish children, that, though they are rebels, they are
impotent rebels, unable to keep up their own rebellion. Bathed in
their foolish tears, they will recognize at last that He who created
them rebels must have meant to mock at them. They will say
this in despair, and their utterance will be a blasphemy which
will make them more unhappy still, for man's nature cannot bear
blasphemy, and in the end always avenges it on itself. And
so unrest, confusion and unhappiness—that is the present lot of
man after Thou didst bear so much for their freedom! The great
prophet tells in vision and in image, that he saw all those who
took part in the first resurrection and that there were of each tribe
twelve thousand. But if there were so many of them, they must
have been not men but gods. They had borne Thy cross, they
had endured scores of years in the barren, hungry wilderness,
living upon locusts and roots—and Thou mayest indeed point
with pride at those children of freedom, of free love, of free and
splendid sacrifice for Thy name. But remember that they were
only some thousands; and what of the rest? And how are the
other weak ones to blame, because they could not endure what
the strong have endured? How is the weak soul to blame that it
is unable to receive such terrible gifts? Canst Thou have simply
come to the elect and for the elect? But if so, it is a mystery
and we cannot understand it. And if it is a mystery, we too have
a right to preach a mystery, and to teach them that it's not the
free judgment of their hearts, not love that matters, but a mystery
which they must follow blindly, even against their conscience.
So we have done. We have corrected Thy work and have founded
it upon miracle, mystery and authority. And men rejoiced that
they were again led like sheep, and that the terrible gift that had
brought them such suffering was, at last, lifted from their hearts.
Were we right teaching them this? Speak! Did we not love
mankind, so meekly acknowledging their feebleness, lovingly
lightening their burden, and permitting their weak nature even
sin with our sanction? Why hast Thou come now to hinder us?
And why dost Thou look silently and searchingly at me with
Thy mild eyes? Be angry. I don't want Thy love, for I love [283]
Thee not. And what use is it for me to hide anything from Thee?
Don't I know to Whom I am speaking? All that I can say is
known to Thee already. And is it for me to conceal from Thee
our mystery? Perhaps it is Thy will to hear it from my lips.
Listen, then. We are not working with Thee, but with him—that
is our mystery. It's long—eight centuries—since we have been
on his side and not on Thine. Just eight centuries ago, we took
from him what Thou didst reject with scorn, that last gift he
offered Thee, showing Thee all the kingdoms of the earth. We
took from him Rome and the sword of Cæsar, and proclaimed
ourselves sole rulers of the earth, though hitherto we have not
been able to complete our work. But whose fault is that? Oh,
the work is only beginning, but it has begun. It has long to
await completion and the earth has yet much to suffer, but we
shall triumph and shall be Cæsars, and then we shall plan the
universal happiness of man. But Thou mightest have taken even
then the sword of Cæsar. Why didst Thou reject that last gift?
Hadst Thou accepted that last counsel of the mighty spirit, Thou
wouldst have accomplished all that man seeks on earth—that is,
some one to worship, some one to keep his conscience, and some
means of uniting all in one unanimous and harmonious ant-heap,
for the craving for universal unity is the third and last anguish
of men. Mankind as a whole has always striven to organize 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 Cæsar'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 Cæsar, 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.
[284] 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 [285]
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 saviors 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
[286] 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 any
one has ever deserved our fires, it is Thou. To-morrow I shall
burn Thee. Dixi.’ ”
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
[287] 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 Païssy's teaching?”
“No, no, on the contrary, Father Païssy 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 [288]
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 (Like Gurdjieff's story of the magician and his sheep)
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
[289] 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.”
