My story, [said Ivan], is laid in Spain, in Seville, in the most terrible time of the
Inquisition, when fires were lighted every day to the glory of God, and 'in
the splendid auto da fe the wicked heretics were burnt.' Oh, of
course, this was not the coming in which He will appear, according to His
promise, at the end of time in all His heavenly glory, and which will be
sudden 'as lightning flashing from east to west.' No, He visited His
children only for a moment, and there where the flames were crackling round
the heretics. In His infinite mercy He came once more among men in that
human shape in which He walked among men for thirty-three years fifteen
centuries ago. He came down to the 'hot pavements' of the southern town in
which on the day before almost a hundred heretics had, ad majorem gloriam
Dei, been burnt by the cardinal, the Grand Inquisitor, in a magnificent
auto da fe, in the presence of the king, the court, the knights, the cardinals,
the most charming ladies of the court, and the whole population of Seville.
He came softly, unobserved, and yet, strange to say, everyone recognised
Him. That might be one of the best passages in the poem. I mean, why they
recognised Him. The people are irresistibly drawn to Him, they surround Him,
they flock about Him, follow Him. He moves silently in their midst with a
gentle smile of infinite compassion. The sun of love burns in His heart, and
power shine from His eyes, and their radiance, shed on the people, stirs
their hearts with responsive love. He holds out His hands to them, blesses
them, and a healing virtue comes from contact with Him, even with His
garments. An old man in the crowd, blind from childhood, cries out, 'O Lord,
heal me and I shall see Thee!' and, as it were, scales fall from his eyes
and the blind man sees Him. The crowd weeps and kisses the earth under His
feet. Children throw flowers before Him, sing, and cry hosannah. 'It is He-
it is He!' repeat. 'It must be He, it can be no one but Him!' He stops at
the steps of the Seville cathedral at the moment when the weeping mourners
are bringing in a little open white coffin. In it lies a child of seven, the
only daughter of a prominent citizen. The dead child lies hidden in flowers.
'He will raise your child,' the crowd shouts to the weeping mother. The
priest, coming to meet the coffin, looks perplexed, and frowns, but the
mother of the dead child throws herself at His feet with a wail. 'If it is
Thou, raise my child!' she cries, holding out her hands to Him. The
procession halts, the coffin is laid on the steps at His feet. He looks with
compassion, and His lips once more softly pronounce, 'Maiden, arise!' and
the maiden arises. The little girl sits up in the coffin and looks round,
smiling with wide-open wondering eyes, holding a bunch of white roses they
had put in her hand.
There are cries, sobs, confusion among the people, and at that
moment the cardinal himself, the Grand Inquisitor, passes by the cathedral.
He is an old man, almost ninety, tall and erect, with a withered face and
sunken eyes, in which there is still a gleam of light. He is not dressed in
his gorgeous cardinal's robes, as he was the day before, when he was burning
the enemies of the Roman Church- at this moment he is wearing his coarse,
old, monk's cassock. At a distance behind him come his gloomy assistants and
slaves and the 'holy guard.' He stops at the sight of the crowd and watches
it from a distance. He sees everything; he sees them set the coffin down at
His feet, sees the child rise up, and his face darkens. He knits his thick
grey brows and his eyes gleam with a sinister fire. He holds out his finger
and bids the guards take Him. And such is his power, so completely are the
people cowed into submission and trembling obedience to him, that the crowd
immediately makes way for the guards, and in the midst of deathlike silence
they lay hands on Him and lead him away. The crowd instantly bows down to
the earth, like one man, before the old Inquisitor. He blesses the people in
silence and passes on' The guards lead their prisoner to the close, gloomy
vaulted prison- in the ancient palace of the Holy, inquisition and shut him
in it. The day passes and is followed by the dark, burning, 'breathless'
night of Seville. The air is 'fragrant with laurel and lemon.' In the pitch
darkness the iron door of the prison is suddenly opened and the Grand
Inquisitor himself comes in with a light in his hand. He is alone; the door
is closed at once behind him. He stands in the doorway and for a minute or
two gazes into His face. At last he goes up slowly, sets the light on the
table and speaks.
"'Is it Thou? Thou?' but receiving no answer, he adds at once.
'Don't answer, be silent. What canst Thou say, indeed? I know too well what
Thou wouldst say. And Thou hast no right to add anything to what Thou hadst
said of old. Why, then, art Thou come to hinder us? For Thou hast come to
hinder us, and Thou knowest that. But dost thou know what will be to-morrow?
I know not who Thou art and care not to know whether it is Thou or only a
semblance of Him, but to-morrow I shall condemn Thee and burn Thee at the
stake as the worst of heretics. And the very people who have to-day kissed
Thy feet, to-morrow at the faintest sign from me will rush to heap up the
embers of Thy fire. Knowest Thou that? Yes, maybe Thou knowest it,' he added
with thoughtful penetration, never for a moment taking his eyes off the
Prisoner."
.. ..
'Hast Thou the right to reveal to us one of the mysteries of that
world from which Thou hast come?' [the] old man asks Him, and answers the
question for Him. 'No, Thou hast not; that Thou mayest not add to what has
been said of old, and mayest not take from men the freedom which Thou didst
exalt when Thou wast on earth. Whatsoever Thou revealest anew will encroach
on men's freedom of faith; for it will be manifest as a miracle, and the
freedom of their faith was dearer to Thee than anything in those days
fifteen hundred years ago. Didst Thou not often say then, "I will make
you free"? But now Thou hast seen these "free" men,' the old
man adds suddenly, with a pensive smile. 'Yes, we've paid dearly for it,' he
goes on, looking sternly at Him, 'but at last we have completed that work in
Thy name. For fifteen centuries we have been wrestling with Thy freedom, but
now it is ended and over for good. Dost Thou not believe that it's over for
good? Thou lookest meekly at me and deignest not even to be wroth with me.
But let me tell Thee that now, to-day, people are more persuaded than
ever that they have perfect freedom, yet they have brought their freedom to
us and laid it humbly at our feet. But that has been our doing. Was this
what Thou didst? Was this Thy freedom?'"
.. .. .
'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?'"
.. .. .
'The wise and dread spirit, the spirit of self-destruction and
non-existence,' the old man goes on, great spirit talked with Thee in the
wilderness, and we are told in the books that he "tempted" Thee.
Is that so? And could anything truer be said than what he revealed to Thee
in three questions and what Thou didst reject, and what in the books is
called "the temptation"? And yet if there has ever been on earth a
real stupendous miracle, it took place on that day, on the day of the three
temptations. The statement of those three questions was itself the miracle.
If it were possible to imagine simply for the sake of argument that those
three questions of the dread spirit had perished utterly from the books, and
that we had to restore them and to invent them anew, and to do so had
gathered together all the wise men of the earth- rulers, chief priests,
learned men, philosophers, poets- and had set them the task to invent three
questions, such as would not only fit the occasion, but express in three
words, three human phrases, the whole future history of the world and of
humanity- dost Thou believe that all the wisdom of the earth united could
have invented anything in depth and force equal to the three questions which
were actually put to Thee then by the wise and mighty spirit in the
wilderness? From those questions alone, from the miracle of their statement,
we can see that we have here to do not with the fleeting human intelligence,
but with the absolute and eternal. For in those three questions the whole
subsequent history of mankind is, as it were, brought together into one
whole, and foretold, and in them are united all the unsolved historical
contradictions of human nature. At the time it could not be so clear, since
the future was unknown; but now that fifteen hundred years have passed, we
see that everything in those three questions was so justly divined and
foretold, and has been so truly fulfilled, that nothing can be added to them
or taken from them.
Judge Thyself who was right- Thou or he who questioned Thee then?
Remember the first question; its meaning, in other words, was this:
"Thou wouldst go into the world, and art going with empty hands, with
some promise of freedom which men in their simplicity and their natural
unruliness cannot even understand, which they fear and dread- for nothing
has ever been more insupportable for a man and a human society than freedom.
But seest Thou these stones in this parched and barren wilderness? Turn them
into bread, and mankind will run after Thee like a flock of sheep, grateful
and obedient, though for ever trembling, lest Thou withdraw Thy hand and
deny them Thy bread." But Thou wouldst not deprive man of freedom and
didst reject the offer, thinking, what is that freedom worth if obedience is
bought with bread? Thou didst reply that man lives not by bread alone. But
dost Thou know that for the sake of that earthly bread the spirit of the
earth will rise up against Thee and will strive with Thee and overcome Thee,
and all will follow him, crying, "Who can compare with this beast? He
has given us fire from heaven!" Dost Thou know that the ages will pass,
and humanity will proclaim by the lips of their sages that there is no
crime, and therefore no sin; there is only hunger? "Feed men, and then
ask of them virtue!" that's what they'll write on the banner, which
they will raise against Thee, and with which they will destroy Thy temple.
Where Thy temple stood will rise a new building; the terrible tower of Babel
will be built again, and though, like the one of old, it will not be
finished, yet Thou mightest have prevented that new tower and have cut short
the sufferings of men for a thousand years; for they will come back to us
after a thousand years of agony with their tower. They will seek us again,
hidden underground in the catacombs, for we shall be again persecuted and
tortured. They will find us and cry to us, "Feed us, for those who have
promised us fire from heaven haven't given it!" And then we shall
finish building their tower, for he finishes the building who feeds them.
And we alone shall feed them in Thy name, declaring falsely that it is in
Thy name. Oh, never, never can they feed themselves without us! No science
will give them bread so long as they remain free. In the end they will lay
their freedom at our feet, and say to us, "Make us your slaves, but
feed us." They will understand themselves, at last, that freedom and
bread enough for all are inconceivable together, for never, never will they
be able to share between them! They will be convinced, too, that they can
never be free, for they are weak, vicious, worthless, and rebellious. Thou
didst promise them the bread of Heaven, but, I repeat again, can it compare
with earthly bread in the eyes of the weak, ever sinful and ignoble race of
man? And if for the sake of the bread of Heaven thousands shall follow Thee,
what is to become of the millions and tens of thousands of millions of
creatures who will not have the strength to forego the earthly bread for the
sake of the heavenly? Or dost Thou care only for the tens of thousands of
the great and strong, while the millions, numerous as the sands of the sea,
who are weak but love Thee, must exist only for the sake of the great and
strong? No, we care for the weak too. They are sinful and rebellious, but in
the end they too will become obedient. They will marvel at us and look on us
as gods, because we are ready to endure the freedom which they have found so
dreadful and to rule over them- so awful it will seem to them to be free.
But we shall tell them that we are Thy servants and rule them in Thy name.
We shall deceive them again, for we will not let Thee come to us again. That
deception will be our suffering, for we shall be forced to lie.
'This is the significance of the first question in the wilderness, and
this is what Thou hast rejected for the sake of that freedom which Thou hast
exalted above everything. Yet in this question lies hid the great secret of
this world. Choosing "bread," Thou wouldst have satisfied the
universal and everlasting craving of humanity- to find someone to worship.
So long as man remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so
painfully as to find someone to worship. But man seeks to worship what is
established beyond dispute, so that all men would agree at once to worship
it. For these pitiful creatures are concerned not only to find what one or
the other can worship, but to find community of worship is the chief misery
of every man individually and of all humanity from the beginning of time.
For the sake of common worship they've slain each other with the sword. They
have set up gods and challenged one another, "Put away your gods and
come and worship ours, or we will kill you and your gods!" And so it
will be to the end of the world, even when gods disappear from the earth;
they will fall down before idols just the same. Thou didst know, Thou
couldst not but have known, this fundamental secret of human nature, but
Thou didst reject the one infallible banner which was offered Thee to make
all men bow down to Thee alone- the banner of earthly bread; and Thou hast
rejected it for the sake of freedom and the bread of Heaven. Behold what
Thou didst further. And all again in the name of freedom! I tell Thee that
man is tormented by no greater anxiety than to find someone quickly to whom
he can hand over that gift of freedom with which the ill-fated creature is
born. But only one who can appease their conscience can take over their
freedom. In bread there was offered Thee an invincible banner; give bread,
and man will worship thee, for nothing is more certain than bread. But if
someone else gains possession of his conscience- Oh! then he will cast away
Thy bread and follow after him who has ensnared his conscience. In that Thou
wast right. For the secret of man's being is not only to live but to have
something to live for. Without a stable conception of the object of life,
man would not consent to go on living, and would rather destroy himself than
remain on earth, though he had bread in abundance. That is true. But what
happened? Instead of taking men's freedom from them, Thou didst make it
greater than ever! Didst Thou forget that man prefers peace, and even death,
to freedom of choice in the knowledge of good and evil? Nothing is more
seductive for man than his freedom of conscience, but nothing is a greater
cause of suffering. And behold, instead of giving a firm foundation for
setting the conscience of man at rest for ever, Thou didst choose all that
is exceptional, vague and enigmatic; Thou didst choose what was utterly
beyond the strength of men, acting as though Thou didst not love them at
all- Thou who didst come to give Thy life for them! Instead of taking
possession of men's freedom, Thou didst increase it, and burdened the
spiritual kingdom of mankind with its sufferings for ever. Thou didst desire
man's free love, that he should follow Thee freely, enticed and taken
captive by Thee. In place of the rigid ancient law, man must hereafter with
free heart decide for himself what is good and what is evil, having only Thy
image before him as his guide. But didst Thou not know that he would at last
reject even Thy image and Thy truth, if he is weighed down with the fearful
burden of free choice? They will cry aloud at last that the truth is not in
Thee, for they could not have been left in greater confusion and suffering
than Thou hast caused, laying upon them so many cares and unanswerable
problems.
'So that, in truth, Thou didst Thyself lay the foundation for the
destruction of Thy kingdom, and no one is more to blame for it. Yet what was
offered Thee? There are three powers, three powers alone, able to conquer
and to hold captive for ever the conscience of these impotent rebels for
their happiness those forces are miracle, mystery and authority. Thou hast
rejected all three and hast set the example for doing so. When the wise and
dread spirit set Thee on the pinnacle of the temple and said to Thee,
"If Thou wouldst know whether Thou art the Son of God then cast Thyself
down, for it is written: the angels shall hold him up lest he fall and
bruise himself, and Thou shalt know then whether Thou art the Son of God and
shalt prove then how great is Thy faith in Thy Father." But Thou didst
refuse and wouldst not cast Thyself down. Oh, of course, Thou didst proudly
and well, like God; but the weak, unruly race of men, are they gods? Oh,
Thou didst know then that in taking one step, in making one movement to cast
Thyself down, Thou wouldst be tempting God and have lost all Thy faith in
Him, and wouldst have been dashed to pieces against that earth which Thou
didst come to save. And the wise spirit that tempted Thee would have
rejoiced. But I ask again, are there many like Thee? And couldst Thou
believe for one moment that men, too, could face such a temptation? Is the
nature of men such, that they can reject miracle, and at the great moments
of their life, the moments of their deepest, most agonising spiritual
difficulties, cling only to the free verdict of the heart? Oh, Thou didst
know that Thy deed would be recorded in books, would be handed down to
remote times and the utmost ends of the earth, and Thou didst hope that man,
following Thee, would cling to God and not ask for a miracle. But Thou didst
not know that when man rejects miracle he rejects God too; for man seeks not
so much God as the miraculous. And as man cannot bear to be without the
miraculous, he will create new miracles of his own for himself, and will
worship deeds of sorcery and witchcraft, though he might be a hundred times
over a rebel, heretic and infidel. Thou didst not come down from the Cross
when they shouted to Thee, mocking and reviling Thee, "Come down from
the cross and we will believe that Thou art He." Thou didst not come
down, for again Thou wouldst not enslave man by a miracle, and didst crave
faith given freely, not based on miracle. Thou didst crave for free love and
not the base raptures of the slave before the might that has overawed him
for ever. But Thou didst think too highly of men therein, for they are
slaves, of course, though rebellious by nature. Look round and judge;
fifteen centuries have passed, look upon them. Whom hast Thou raised up to
Thyself? I swear, man is weaker and baser by nature than Thou hast believed
him! Can he, can he do what Thou didst? By showing him so much respect, Thou
didst, as it were, cease to feel for him, for Thou didst ask far too much
from him- Thou who hast loved him more than Thyself! Respecting him less,
Thou wouldst have asked less of him. That would have been more like love,
for his burden would have been lighter. He is weak and vile. What though he
is everywhere now rebelling against our power, and proud of his rebellion?
It is the pride of a child and a schoolboy. They are little children rioting
and barring out the teacher at school. But their childish delight will end;
it will cost them dear. Mankind as a whole has always striven to organise a
universal state. There have been many great nations with great histories,
but the more highly they were developed the more unhappy they were, for they
felt more acutely than other people the craving for world-wide union. The
great conquerors, Timours and Ghenghis-Khans, whirled like hurricanes over
the face of the earth striving to subdue its people, and they too were but
the unconscious expression of the same craving for universal unity. Hadst
Thou taken the world and Caesar's purple, Thou wouldst have founded the
universal state and have given universal peace. For who can rule men if not
he who holds their conscience and their bread in his hands? We have taken
the sword of Caesar, and in taking it, of course, have rejected Thee and
followed him. Oh, ages are yet to come of the confusion of free thought, of
their science and cannibalism. For having begun to build their tower of
Babel without us, they will end, of course, with cannibalism. But then the
beast will crawl to us and lick our feet and spatter them with tears of
blood. And we shall sit upon the beast and raise the cup, and on it will be
written, "Mystery." But then, and only then, the reign of peace
and happiness will come for men. Thou art proud of Thine elect, but Thou
hast only the elect, while we give rest to all. And besides, how many of
those elect, those mighty ones who could become elect, have grown weary
waiting for Thee, and have transferred and will transfer the powers of their
spirit and the warmth of their heart to the other camp, and end by raising
their free banner against Thee. Thou didst Thyself lift up that banner. But
with us all will be happy and will no more rebel nor destroy one another as
under Thy freedom. Oh, we shall persuade them that they will only become
free when they renounce their freedom to us and submit to us. And shall we
be right or shall we be lying? They will be convinced that we are right, for
they will remember the horrors of slavery and confusion to which Thy freedom
brought them. Freedom, free thought, and science will lead them into such
straits and will bring them face to face with such marvels and insoluble
mysteries, that some of them, the fierce and rebellious, will destroy
themselves, others, rebellious but weak, will destroy one another, while the
rest, weak and unhappy, will crawl fawning to our feet and whine to us:
"Yes, you were right, you alone possess His mystery, and we come back
to you, save us from ourselves!"
'Receiving bread from us, they will see clearly that we take the bread
made by their hands from them, to give it to them, without any miracle. They
will see that we do not change the stones to bread, but in truth they will
be more thankful for taking it from our hands than for the bread itself! For
they will remember only too well that in old days, without our help, even
the bread they made turned to stones in their hands, while since they have
come back to us, the very stones have turned to bread in their hands. Too,
too well will they know the value of complete submission! And until men know
that, they will be unhappy. Who is most to blame for their not knowing
it?-speak! Who scattered the flock and sent it astray on unknown paths? But
the flock will come together again and will submit once more, and then it
will be once for all. Then we shall give them the quiet humble happiness of
weak creatures such as they are by nature. Oh, we shall persuade them at
last not to be proud, for Thou didst lift them up and thereby taught them to
be proud. We shall show them that they are weak, that they are only pitiful
children, but that childlike happiness is the sweetest of all. They will
become timid and will look to us and huddle close to us in fear, as chicks
to the hen. They will marvel at us and will be awe-stricken before us, and
will be proud at our being so powerful and clever that we have been able to
subdue such a turbulent flock of thousands of millions. They will tremble
impotently before our wrath, their minds will grow fearful, they will be
quick to shed tears like women and children, but they will be just as ready
at a sign from us to pass to laughter and rejoicing, to happy mirth and
childish song. Yes, we shall set them to work, but in their leisure hours we
shall make their life like a child's game, with children's songs and
innocent dance. Oh, we shall allow them even sin, they are weak and
helpless, and they will love us like children because we allow them to sin.
We shall tell them that every sin will be expiated, if it is done with our
permission, that we allow them to sin because we love them, and the
punishment for these sins we take upon ourselves. And we shall take it upon
ourselves, and they will adore us as their saviours who have taken on
themselves their sins before God. And they will have no secrets from us. We
shall allow or forbid them to live with their wives and mistresses, to have
or not to have children according to whether they have been obedient or
disobedient- and they will submit to us gladly and cheerfully. The most
painful secrets of their conscience, all, all they will bring to us, and we
shall have an answer for all. And they will be glad to believe our answer,
for it will save them from the great anxiety and terrible agony they endure
at present in making a free decision for themselves. And all will be happy,
all the millions of creatures except the hundred thousand who rule over
them. For only we, we who guard the mystery, shall be unhappy. There will be
thousands of millions of happy babes, and a hundred thousand sufferers who
have taken upon themselves the curse of the knowledge of good and evil.
Peacefully they will die, peacefully they will expire in Thy name, and
beyond the grave they will find nothing but death. But we shall keep the
secret, and for their happiness we shall allure them with the reward of
heaven and eternity. Though if there were anything in the other world, it
certainly would not be for such as they. It is prophesied that Thou wilt
come again in victory, Thou wilt come with Thy chosen, the proud and strong,
but we will say that they have only saved themselves, but we have saved all.
We are told that the harlot who sits upon the beast, and holds in her hands
the mystery, shall be put to shame, that the weak will rise up again, and
will rend her royal purple and will strip naked her loathsome body. But then
I will stand up and point out to Thee the thousand millions of happy
children who have known no sin. And we who have taken their sins upon us for
their happiness will stand up before Thee and say: "Judge us if Thou
canst and darest." Know that I fear Thee not. Know that I too have been
in the wilderness, I too have lived on roots and locusts, I too prized the
freedom with which Thou hast blessed men, and I too was striving to stand
among Thy elect, among the strong and powerful, thirsting "to make up
the number." But I awakened and would not serve madness. I turned back
and joined the ranks of those who have corrected Thy work. I left the proud
and went back to the humble, for the happiness of the humble. What I say to
Thee will come to pass, and our dominion will be built up. I repeat,
to-morrow Thou shalt see that obedient flock who at a sign from me will
hasten to heap up the hot cinders about the pile on which I shall burn Thee
for coming to hinder us. For if anyone has ever deserved our fires, it is
Thou. To-morrow I shall burn Thee."
"I have spoken."
.. ..
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?" [Asks Alyosha]
"The kiss glows in his heart, but the old man adheres to his idea."