The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  Ivan stopped. While speaking, his speech had become more and more impassioned; when he finished, he smiled suddenly.

  Alyosha, who had listened in silence, but towards the end had many times in extreme agitation wanted to interrupt his brother but had clearly been restraining himself, suddenly began to speak as if electrified.

  ‘But… this is absurd!’ he exclaimed, reddening. ‘Your story is in praise of Jesus, not in disparagement… as you claim. And who will believe what you say about freedom? Is that really how freedom should be understood? Is that how the Orthodox Church understands it?… It is Rome, but not all of Rome, it isn’t true—it is the worst of the Catholics, the inquisitors, the Jesuits!… And then, such a fantastic character as your Inquisitor couldn’t exist. What are these sins of men that they have taken upon themselves? Who are these guardians of a mystery who have taken upon themselves some curse for the good of mankind? When have they been seen? We all know about the Jesuits, who are greatly maligned, but are they like your characters? They are nothing of the sort, absolutely not… They are simply the Roman Church’s army for a future world state, with an emperor—the Roman pontiff—at its head… that’s their goal, but with no mystery and no false sentimentality… Just normal desire for power, for sordid worldly gain, for the enslavement of others… a kind of future serfdom where they’ll become the landowners… that’s all it is they want. Perhaps they don’t even believe in God. Your suffering Inquisitor is just a fantasy…’

  ‘Just a minute, just a minute,’ laughed Ivan, ‘you’re getting so worked up. Fantasy—you say—all right! Of course it’s fantasy. But admit this nevertheless: surely you don’t really think that all this Catholic activity of recent centuries has sprung from nothing but a desire for power and sordid worldly gain? That can’t be what Father Païsy teaches you?’

  ‘No, no, on the contrary, Father Païsy once said much the same as you… but, of course, not the same, definitely not the same,’ Alyosha promptly collected himself.

  ‘Nevertheless, it’s a valuable pointer, in spite of your “definitely not the same”. I would very much like to know: why have your Jesuits and inquisitors united only for sordid material gain? Why doesn’t a single martyr exist among them, afflicted with a great sorrow and loving humanity? You see, suppose among all those who seek only sordid material gain there were to be found even just one such as my old Inquisitor, who has himself lived on roots in the desert, mortifying his flesh in order to be free and perfect, but who, nevertheless, has loved humanity all his life, and suddenly the scales drop from his eyes and he sees that it is a poor kind of moral bliss to reach perfection of self-control only to become convinced that millions of the rest of God’s creatures remain beings created in mockery, and that they will never have the strength to come to terms with their freedom, that the giants who will raise the tower will never emerge from petty rebels, that it was not for such simpletons as these that the great idealist dreamt of harmony. Realizing all this, he turns back and joins forces with… the intelligent ones. Surely all this could have happened?’

  ‘Who does he join forces with, what intelligent ones?’ exclaimed Alyosha, almost beside himself. ‘None of them has such intelligence and no such mysteries or secrets… except perhaps godlessness, that’s all their secret consists of. Your Inquisitor doesn’t believe in God, that’s all there is to his secret!’

  ‘That’s as may be! You’ve guessed at last. And that really is it, that’s really the whole secret, but surely that represents suffering, for such a man as he anyway, who has sacrificed his whole life to self-denial in the desert and has still not cured himself of his love for humanity? In the twilight of his days he comes to see clearly that only the advice of the great and fearful spirit could bring about any kind of order endurable by the feeble rebels, “those experimental, unfinished creatures, created in a spirit of mockery”. And so, having become convinced of this, he sees that he must proceed in the direction indicated by the clever spirit, the fearful spirit of death and destruction, and thus accept falsehood and deception and knowingly lead men to death and destruction, deceiving them the whole way so that they don’t notice where they are being led at all, and so that, at least during the journey, these poor blind ones will believe themselves to be happy. And note well, this deception is in the name of Him in whose ideal the old man has believed so passionately all his life! Is this not misfortune? And if only one such appeared at the head of the whole of this army “thirsting for power, for nothing but sordid material gain”, then wouldn’t just that one be sufficient to bring about tragedy? Moreover, it would take just one man at the head to realize ultimately the guiding Idea of the whole business of the papacy, with all its armies and Jesuits, which is the supreme Idea of this system. I’m telling you truly, it’s my strong belief that there has always been such a unique man standing at the head of the movement. Who knows, perhaps there may even have been such singular men among the Roman pontiffs. Who knows, perhaps that damned old man, who in his own way loves humanity so stubbornly, exists even now in the form of a whole legion of such singular old men, and not fortuitously either, but as a conspiracy, as a secret society, established long ago for the preservation of mystery, for its preservation from unhappy and weak men, so as to render them happy. This is undoubtedly so, and has to be. I imagine that even Freemasonry is based on some mystery of this kind, and that that is why the Catholics so hate the Masons, because they see them as rivals, as a fragmentation of the unity of their Idea, whereas there must be a single flock and a single shepherd… However, in defending my theory I seem to be an author who cannot stand up to your criticism. Enough of this!’

  ‘Perhaps you’re a Mason yourself!’ Alyosha burst out suddenly. ‘You don’t believe in God,’ he added, this time with extreme sadness. Besides, it seemed to him that his brother was regarding him mockingly. ‘So how does your tale end,’ he asked quickly, looking at the ground, ‘or is that it?’

  ‘I wanted to finish it like this. When the Inquisitor stops speaking, he waits a little while for the prisoner to answer him. He finds His silence disconcerting. He has seen the captive listening all the while quietly and attentively, looking him straight in the eye, and apparently not wishing to respond. The old man wants Him to say something, no matter how unpleasant and terrible. But He suddenly approaches the old man in silence and calmly kisses him on his bloodless ninety-year-old lips. That is His only response. The old man shudders. His lips quiver; he goes to the door of the cell, opens it, and says, “Go and don’t come back any more… never… never, never!” And he releases Him into the dark backstreets of the city. The prisoner walks away.’

  ‘And the old man?’

  ‘The kiss sears his heart, but he doesn’t let go of his Idea.’

  ‘And you are with him, you too?’ Alyosha said sorrowfully. Ivan laughed.

  ‘But it’s all nonsense, Alyosha; it’s just a muddle-headed poem by a muddle-headed student who has never written so much as two verses. Why do you take it so seriously? Do you really think I shall go straight there now, to the Jesuits, to join the legions who are improving upon His creation? O Lord, what’s it got to do with me? I’ve told you. All I want is to spin it out to thirty years, and then—I shall dash the cup to the ground!’

  ‘And the tiny, sticky leaf-buds, the dear graves, the blue sky, the beloved woman? How will you live, how will you love them?’ Alyosha said sadly. ‘How is it possible with such a hell in your heart and in your head? Yes, you are leaving now precisely in order to join them… or if not, then you will surely kill yourself, you won’t be able to endure it!’

  ‘There is a kind of strength that can endure anything,’ said Ivan with a cold smile.

  ‘What strength?’

  ‘The Karamazov strength… the strength of Karamazov depravity.’

  ‘Drown in debauchery, bludgeon your soul with degradation, is that it?’