The Brothers Karamazov (45 page)

“Good!” Ivan cried with affected delight. “Now, if you say so, it really shows that . . . Ah, you little novice, so there is that devil lurking in your heart too, you wicked Alyosha Karamazov, you!”

“What I said was pretty stupid, but . . .”

“Yes, that ‘but’ is just the thing!” Ivan cried. “I want you to know, novice, that absurdity is very much needed on this earth of ours. Indeed, the whole universe is founded on absurdity, and, perhaps, without absurdity there would be nothing at all. There are a few things we do know, after all.”

“And what do you know?”

“I don’t understand anything,” Ivan said, like a man in delirium, “and I don’t wish to understand anything. The moment I start wanting to understand something, I distort the true picture, when what I really want is to stick to the facts.”

“Why are you trying to test me like this?” Alyosha cried frenziedly. “Will you at least tell me that finally?”

“Of course I’ll tell you. That’s just what I’ve been leading up to. You’re dear to me and I have no intention of letting you go and giving you up to that Zosima of yours.”

Ivan remained silent for a moment and suddenly his face grew very sad.

“I want you to understand me,” he said. “I spoke only of small children to make my point more obvious. I didn’t mention the other human tears with which our earth is soaked from crust to core, because I was deliberately narrowing the subject. I’m nothing but a bug and I most humbly admit that it’s quite beyond me why things are arranged the way they are. I suppose that men themselves are to blame for it: they were given a paradise on earth, but they wanted freedom and they stole fire from heaven, although they knew that it would bring them unhappiness. So there’s no reason to be sorry for them. All that my puny, Euclidean, earthling’s mind can grasp is that there is such a thing as suffering, that no one can be blamed for it, that quite uncomplicatedly cause precedes effect, that everything that flows finds its proper level—but then all that is just Euclidean gibberish, and, being aware of that fact, I cannot agree to live by it! What good does it do me to know that no one is to blame, that every effect is determined by a cause, which itself is an effect of some other cause, and so on, and that, therefore, no one should ever be blamed for anything? For, even though I may know it, I still need retribution. Without it I’d rather destroy myself. And I must have that retribution not somewhere far off in infinity but here, on earth. I want to see it myself. I believe in justice and I want to see justice done with my own eyes; if I should be dead by that time, I want to be brought back to life, because the idea that, when justice finally does triumph, I won’t even be there to witness it is too abhorrent to me. Why, I certainly haven’t borne it all so that my crimes and my sufferings would be used as manure to nurture the harmony that will appear in some remote future to be enjoyed by some unknown creatures. No, I want to see with my own eyes the lamb lie down with the lion and the resurrected victim rise and embrace his murderer. I want to be here when everyone understands why the world has been arranged the way it is. It is on that craving for understanding that all human religions are founded, so I am a believer. But then, what about the children? How will we ever account for their sufferings? For the hundredth time I repeat, there are many questions that could be asked, but I ask you only one—about the children—because I believe it conveys fully and clearly what I am trying to tell you. Listen, even if we assume that every person must suffer because his suffering is necessary to pay for eternal harmony, still do tell me, for God’s sake, where the children come in. I can understand the concept of solidarity in sin and also solidarity in retribution. But how can there be solidarity in sin with small children? And if it is true that children share the responsibility for the sins committed by their fathers, then that concept must be true in some different world from the world I know, and it is quite beyond my grasp. Some joker may say that the child will grow up and have time to sin later, but, for instance, the eight-year-old boy who was torn to pieces by the hounds was never given a chance to grow up and sin. This is no blasphemy, Alyosha, I assure you! I can imagine what a universal upheaval there will be when everything up in heaven and down in the entrails of the earth comes together to sing one single hymn of praise and when every creature who has ever lived joins in, intoning, ‘You were right, O Lord, for Your way has now been revealed to us!’ The day the mother embraces the man who had her son torn to pieces by the hounds, the day those three stand side by side and say, ‘You were right, O Lord,’ that day we will at last have attained the supreme knowledge and everything will be explained and accounted for. But that’s just the hurdle I can’t get over, because I cannot agree that it makes everything right. And while I am on this earth, I must act in my own way. You see, it’s quite possible, if I’m still alive or am resurrected on the day the mother embraces her child’s murderer, that I may join them all in their praises and shout with them, ‘You were right’; but as of now, I do not want to join them. And while there is still time, I want to dissociate myself from it all; I have no wish to be a part of their eternal harmony. It’s not worth one single tear of the martyred little girl who beat her breast with her tiny fist, shedding her innocent tears and praying to ‘sweet Jesus’ to rescue her in the stinking outhouse. It’s not worth it, because that tear will have remained unatoned for. And those tears must be atoned for; otherwise there can be no harmony. But what could atone for those tears? How is it possible to atone for them? By avenging them perhaps? But whom would vengeance help? What good would it do to send the monsters to hell after they have finished inflicting their suffering on children? How can their being in hell put things right? Besides, what sort of harmony can there be as long as there is a hell? To me, harmony means forgiving and embracing everybody, and I don’t want anyone to suffer anymore. And if the suffering of little children is needed to complete the sum total of suffering required to pay for the truth, I don’t want that truth, and I declare in advance that all the truth in the world is not worth the price! And finally, I don’t really want to see the mother of the little boy embrace the man who set the hounds on him to tear him apart! She won’t be able to forgive him. If she wants to, she may forgive him for herself, for having caused her, the mother, infinite suffering. But she has no right to forgive him for her child torn to pieces. She may not forgive him, even if the child chooses to forgive him himself. And if I am right, if they cannot forgive, what harmony can there be? Is there one single creature in the whole world who could forgive or would have the right to do so? No, I want no part of any harmony; I don’t want it, out of love for mankind. I prefer to remain with my unavenged suffering and my unappeased anger—
even if I happen to be wrong
. I feel, moreover, that such harmony is rather overpriced. We cannot afford to pay so much for a ticket. And so I hasten to return the ticket I’ve been sent. If I’m honest, it is my duty to return it as long as possible before the show. And that’s just what I’m trying to do, Alyosha. It isn’t that I reject God; I am simply returning Him most respectfully the ticket that would entitle me to a seat.”

“That’s rebellion,” Alyosha said softly, lowering his eyes.

“Rebellion? I wish you hadn’t used that word,” Ivan said feelingly. “I don’t believe it’s possible to live in rebellion, and I want to live! Tell me yourself—I challenge you: let’s assume that you were called upon to build the edifice of human destiny so that men would finally be happy and would find peace and tranquility. If you knew that, in order to attain this, you would have to torture just one single creature, let’s say the little girl who beat her chest so desperately in the outhouse, and that on her unavenged tears you could build that edifice, would you agree to do it? Tell me and don’t lie!”

“No, I would not,” Alyosha said softly.

“And do you find acceptable the idea that those for whom you are building that edifice should gratefully receive a happiness that rests on the blood of a tortured child and, having received it, should continue to enjoy it eternally?”

“No, I do not find that acceptable,” Alyosha said and his eyes suddenly flared up. “But a moment ago you asked whether there was in the world ‘a single creature who could forgive.’ Well, there is. And He can forgive everyone for everything, because He Himself gave His innocent blood for everyone’s sins and for everyone’s sake. You forgot to mention Him, although it is on Him that the edifice must be founded, it is to Him that they will sing, ‘You were right, O Lord, for Your ways have now been revealed to us!’ ”

“You mean ‘the one without sin’ and His blood! No, Alyosha, I hadn’t forgotten about Him. Indeed, I was wondering how long it would take you to bring Him into our discussion, because the people on your side usually make use of Him above all else in their arguments. You know—well, don’t laugh now—about a year or so ago I composed a sort of poem and, if you’re willing to waste, say, another ten minutes with me, I could recite it to you.”

“You? You wrote a poem?”

“No, no, I didn’t write it,” Ivan said, laughing, “I’ve never written two verses in my whole life. But I did think it up and I’ve memorized it. I composed it in a moment of real inspiration. Well, you’ll be my first reader, I mean, audience. Why should an author forego even one listener, after all?” Ivan said with a grin. “So, are you willing to hear it?”

“I’m listening attentively.”

“My poem is called ‘The Grand Inquisitor.’ It’s a ridiculous piece really, but I’d like you to hear it.”

Chapter 5: The Grand Inquisitor

BUT NOW that I think of it, I can’t just start without some preliminary remarks. I mean it needs a sort of literary introduction . . . Ah, hell,” Ivan laughed, “what kind of an author am I? Well, I want you to understand that the action takes place in the sixteenth century, and in those days, as you may remember from school, it was usual to bring heavenly powers down to earth—in poetical writing, that is. Not to even mention Dante, in France the clerks and the monks in monasteries staged plays in which the Virgin, angels, saints, Christ, and even God Himself were brought out onto the stage. It was done very naturally then. Victor Hugo’s 
Notre Dame de Paris
 has a passage about such a play—
Le bon jugement de la très sainte et gracieuse Vierge Marie
—performed under Louis XI in the city hall of Paris on the Dauphin’s birthday. It was considered an edifying play and admission was free. In the course of the performance, the Virgin comes out on stage and announces her 
bon jugement
 in person. We, too, occasionally had plays like that performed in Moscow in the old days, before the rule of Peter the Great, plays based mostly on Old Testament stories . . . But, besides plays, many stories and ‘poems’ circulated all over the world at that time, in which saints, angels, and even the supreme heavenly powers appeared whenever their presence was required. In our monasteries, too, monks copied, translated, and even composed such poems, back at the time of the Tartar invasion. One of these monastery-written poems, for instance, is called 
The Virgin’s Journey Through Hell
, and it contains some scenes and descriptions as bold as Dante’s. In the play, which is obviously influenced by the Greeks, the Mother of God visits hell, where the Archangel Michael is her guide. She sees the sinners being tortured. Incidentally, there is one very interesting category of sinners there: they float on a lake of fire, trying to swim out, but in vain, because ‘God has forgotten about them’—extremely powerful and meaningful words, I think. Shocked and weeping, the Holy Virgin kneels before the throne of God and beseeches Him to forgive all those she has seen in hell, every one of them, without exception. Her dialogue with God is absolutely fascinating. She pleads, she refuses to give up. God points to the wounds left by the nails on her son’s hands and feet and asks, ‘How can I forgive His tormentors?’ She then summons all the saints, all the martyrs, and all the angels and archangels to kneel with her before Him and pray for the pardon of all the sinners without exception. In the end, she obtains from God a yearly suspension of all torture between Good Friday and Trinity Sunday, and the sinners in hell thank the Lord and cry out: ‘You are just in Your judgment, O Lord!’

“Well, what I’m trying to tell you is that my own little piece is a bit along such lines, as if it had been written in those days. In my piece, He comes on the scene, although He doesn’t say a word; He just appears and vanishes again.

“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 hour knoweth no man, neither the Son, but the Father,’ as He Himself announced when He was still on earth. But men still wait for Him with the same faith, with the same love. Nay, with even greater faith, for fifteen centuries have passed without a sign from heaven to mankind.

*

Trust to what your heart will tell you,

For from heaven no sign comes.

*

“And there is nothing but the faith still alive in the heart! It is true, though, that many miracles happened in those days. There were saints who worked miraculous cures. To some holy men, according to the stories of their lives, the Mother of God came down in person. But the devil was not idle and, among men, some started questioning the truth of these miracles. Just then there appeared a deadly new heresy in the North, in Germany. ‘A huge star bright as a luminary’—i.e., the Church—‘fell upon the sources of the waters and they became bitter.’ The heretics blasphemously dismissed miracles. But that only made the faith of those who still believed more ardent. And, as of old, human tears rose up to Him; people still awaited His coming and loved Him; and men still placed their hopes in Him and were prepared to suffer and die for Him. For centuries, men had beseeched Him with faith and fervor: ‘O Lord, our God, hasten Your coming.’ And He, in His infinite mercy, had come down to them. He had visited saints, martyrs, and holy hermits while they were still on earth, just as it says in their 
Lives
. In Russia our poet Tyuchev, believing deeply in the truth of his words, wrote: