Book V. Pro And Contra Chapter I. The Engagement

Madame Hohlakov was again the first to meet Alyosha. She was flustered;
something important had happened. Katerina Ivanovna's hysterics had ended
in a fainting fit, and then "a terrible, awful weakness had followed, she
lay with her eyes turned up and was delirious. Now she was in a fever.
They had sent for Herzenstube; they had sent for the aunts. The aunts were
already here, but Herzenstube had not yet come. They were all sitting in
her room, waiting. She was unconscious now, and what if it turned to brain
fever!"

Madame Hohlakov looked gravely alarmed. "This is serious, serious," she
added at every word, as though nothing that had happened to her before had
been serious. Alyosha listened with distress, and was beginning to
describe his adventures, but she interrupted him at the first words. She
had not time to listen. She begged him to sit with Lise and wait for her
there.

"Lise," she whispered almost in his ear, "Lise has greatly surprised me
just now, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch. She touched me, too, and so my heart
forgives her everything. Only fancy, as soon as you had gone, she began to
be truly remorseful for having laughed at you to-day and yesterday, though
she was not laughing at you, but only joking. But she was seriously sorry
for it, almost ready to cry, so that I was quite surprised. She has never
been really sorry for laughing at me, but has only made a joke of it. And
you know she is laughing at me every minute. But this time she was in
earnest. She thinks a great deal of your opinion, Alexey Fyodorovitch, and
don't take offense or be wounded by her if you can help it. I am never
hard upon her, for she's such a clever little thing. Would you believe it?
She said just now that you were a friend of her childhood, 'the greatest
friend of her childhood'--just think of that--'greatest friend'--and what
about me? She has very strong feelings and memories, and, what's more, she
uses these phrases, most unexpected words, which come out all of a sudden
when you least expect them. She spoke lately about a pine-tree, for
instance: there used to be a pine-tree standing in our garden in her early
childhood. Very likely it's standing there still; so there's no need to
speak in the past tense. Pine-trees are not like people, Alexey
Fyodorovitch, they don't change quickly. 'Mamma,' she said, 'I remember
this pine-tree as in a dream,' only she said something so original about
it that I can't repeat it. Besides, I've forgotten it. Well, good-by! I am
so worried I feel I shall go out of my mind. Ah! Alexey Fyodorovitch, I've
been out of my mind twice in my life. Go to Lise, cheer her up, as you
always can so charmingly. Lise," she cried, going to her door, "here I've
brought you Alexey Fyodorovitch, whom you insulted so. He is not at all
angry, I assure you; on the contrary, he is surprised that you could
suppose so."

"_Merci, maman._ Come in, Alexey Fyodorovitch."

Alyosha went in. Lise looked rather embarrassed, and at once flushed
crimson. She was evidently ashamed of something, and, as people always do
in such cases, she began immediately talking of other things, as though
they were of absorbing interest to her at the moment.

"Mamma has just told me all about the two hundred roubles, Alexey
Fyodorovitch, and your taking them to that poor officer ... and she told
me all the awful story of how he had been insulted ... and you know,
although mamma muddles things ... she always rushes from one thing to
another ... I cried when I heard. Well, did you give him the money and how
is that poor man getting on?"

"The fact is I didn't give it to him, and it's a long story," answered
Alyosha, as though he, too, could think of nothing but his regret at
having failed, yet Lise saw perfectly well that he, too, looked away, and
that he, too, was trying to talk of other things.

Alyosha sat down to the table and began to tell his story, but at the
first words he lost his embarrassment and gained the whole of Lise's
attention as well. He spoke with deep feeling, under the influence of the
strong impression he had just received, and he succeeded in telling his
story well and circumstantially. In old days in Moscow he had been fond of
coming to Lise and describing to her what had just happened to him, what
he had read, or what he remembered of his childhood. Sometimes they had
made day-dreams and woven whole romances together--generally cheerful and
amusing ones. Now they both felt suddenly transported to the old days in
Moscow, two years before. Lise was extremely touched by his story. Alyosha
described Ilusha with warm feeling. When he finished describing how the
luckless man trampled on the money, Lise could not help clasping her hands
and crying out:

"So you didn't give him the money! So you let him run away! Oh, dear, you
ought to have run after him!"

"No, Lise; it's better I didn't run after him," said Alyosha, getting up
from his chair and walking thoughtfully across the room.

"How so? How is it better? Now they are without food and their case is
hopeless?"

"Not hopeless, for the two hundred roubles will still come to them. He'll
take the money to-morrow. To-morrow he will be sure to take it," said
Alyosha, pacing up and down, pondering. "You see, Lise," he went on,
stopping suddenly before her, "I made one blunder, but that, even that, is
all for the best."

"What blunder, and why is it for the best?"

"I'll tell you. He is a man of weak and timorous character; he has
suffered so much and is very good-natured. I keep wondering why he took
offense so suddenly, for I assure you, up to the last minute, he did not
know that he was going to trample on the notes. And I think now that there
was a great deal to offend him ... and it could not have been otherwise in
his position.... To begin with, he was sore at having been so glad of the
money in my presence and not having concealed it from me. If he had been
pleased, but not so much; if he had not shown it; if he had begun
affecting scruples and difficulties, as other people do when they take
money, he might still endure to take it. But he was too genuinely
delighted, and that was mortifying. Ah, Lise, he is a good and truthful
man--that's the worst of the whole business. All the while he talked, his
voice was so weak, so broken, he talked so fast, so fast, he kept laughing
such a laugh, or perhaps he was crying--yes, I am sure he was crying, he
was so delighted--and he talked about his daughters--and about the situation
he could get in another town.... And when he had poured out his heart, he
felt ashamed at having shown me his inmost soul like that. So he began to
hate me at once. He is one of those awfully sensitive poor people. What
had made him feel most ashamed was that he had given in too soon and
accepted me as a friend, you see. At first he almost flew at me and tried
to intimidate me, but as soon as he saw the money he had begun embracing
me; he kept touching me with his hands. This must have been how he came to
feel it all so humiliating, and then I made that blunder, a very important
one. I suddenly said to him that if he had not money enough to move to
another town, we would give it to him, and, indeed, I myself would give
him as much as he wanted out of my own money. That struck him all at once.
Why, he thought, did I put myself forward to help him? You know, Lise,
it's awfully hard for a man who has been injured, when other people look
at him as though they were his benefactors.... I've heard that; Father
Zossima told me so. I don't know how to put it, but I have often seen it
myself. And I feel like that myself, too. And the worst of it was that
though he did not know, up to the very last minute, that he would trample
on the notes, he had a kind of presentiment of it, I am sure of that.
That's just what made him so ecstatic, that he had that presentiment....
And though it's so dreadful, it's all for the best. In fact, I believe
nothing better could have happened."

"Why, why could nothing better have happened?" cried Lise, looking with
great surprise at Alyosha.

"Because if he had taken the money, in an hour after getting home, he
would be crying with mortification, that's just what would have happened.
And most likely he would have come to me early to-morrow, and perhaps have
flung the notes at me and trampled upon them as he did just now. But now
he has gone home awfully proud and triumphant, though he knows he has
'ruined himself.' So now nothing could be easier than to make him accept
the two hundred roubles by to-morrow, for he has already vindicated his
honor, tossed away the money, and trampled it under foot.... He couldn't
know when he did it that I should bring it to him again to-morrow, and yet
he is in terrible need of that money. Though he is proud of himself now,
yet even to-day he'll be thinking what a help he has lost. He will think
of it more than ever at night, will dream of it, and by to-morrow morning
he may be ready to run to me to ask forgiveness. It's just then that I'll
appear. 'Here, you are a proud man,' I shall say: 'you have shown it; but
now take the money and forgive us!' And then he will take it!"

Alyosha was carried away with joy as he uttered his last words, "And then
he will take it!" Lise clapped her hands.

"Ah, that's true! I understand that perfectly now. Ah, Alyosha, how do you
know all this? So young and yet he knows what's in the heart.... I should
never have worked it out."

"The great thing now is to persuade him that he is on an equal footing
with us, in spite of his taking money from us," Alyosha went on in his
excitement, "and not only on an equal, but even on a higher footing."

" 'On a higher footing' is charming, Alexey Fyodorovitch; but go on, go
on!"

"You mean there isn't such an expression as 'on a higher footing'; but
that doesn't matter because--"

"Oh, no, of course it doesn't matter. Forgive me, Alyosha, dear.... You
know, I scarcely respected you till now--that is I respected you but on an
equal footing; but now I shall begin to respect you on a higher footing.
Don't be angry, dear, at my joking," she put in at once, with strong
feeling. "I am absurd and small, but you, you! Listen, Alexey
Fyodorovitch. Isn't there in all our analysis--I mean your analysis ... no,
better call it ours--aren't we showing contempt for him, for that poor
man--in analyzing his soul like this, as it were, from above, eh? In
deciding so certainly that he will take the money?"

"No, Lise, it's not contempt," Alyosha answered, as though he had prepared
himself for the question. "I was thinking of that on the way here. How can
it be contempt when we are all like him, when we are all just the same as
he is? For you know we are just the same, no better. If we are better, we
should have been just the same in his place.... I don't know about you,
Lise, but I consider that I have a sordid soul in many ways, and his soul
is not sordid; on the contrary, full of fine feeling.... No, Lise, I have
no contempt for him. Do you know, Lise, my elder told me once to care for
most people exactly as one would for children, and for some of them as one
would for the sick in hospitals."

"Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, dear, let us care for people as we would for the
sick!"

"Let us, Lise; I am ready. Though I am not altogether ready in myself. I
am sometimes very impatient and at other times I don't see things. It's
different with you."

"Ah, I don't believe it! Alexey Fyodorovitch, how happy I am!"

"I am so glad you say so, Lise."

"Alexey Fyodorovitch, you are wonderfully good, but you are sometimes sort
of formal.... And yet you are not a bit formal really. Go to the door,
open it gently, and see whether mamma is listening," said Lise, in a
nervous, hurried whisper.

Alyosha went, opened the door, and reported that no one was listening.

"Come here, Alexey Fyodorovitch," Lise went on, flushing redder and
redder. "Give me your hand--that's right. I have to make a great
confession, I didn't write to you yesterday in joke, but in earnest," and
she hid her eyes with her hand. It was evident that she was greatly
ashamed of the confession.

Suddenly she snatched his hand and impulsively kissed it three times.

"Ah, Lise, what a good thing!" cried Alyosha joyfully. "You know, I was
perfectly sure you were in earnest."

"Sure? Upon my word!" She put aside his hand, but did not leave go of it,
blushing hotly, and laughing a little happy laugh. "I kiss his hand and he
says, 'What a good thing!' "

But her reproach was undeserved. Alyosha, too, was greatly overcome.

"I should like to please you always, Lise, but I don't know how to do it,"
he muttered, blushing too.

"Alyosha, dear, you are cold and rude. Do you see? He has chosen me as his
wife and is quite settled about it. He is sure I was in earnest. What a
thing to say! Why, that's impertinence--that's what it is."

"Why, was it wrong of me to feel sure?" Alyosha asked, laughing suddenly.

"Ah, Alyosha, on the contrary, it was delightfully right," cried Lise,
looking tenderly and happily at him.

Alyosha stood still, holding her hand in his. Suddenly he stooped down and
kissed her on her lips.

"Oh, what are you doing?" cried Lise. Alyosha was terribly abashed.

"Oh, forgive me if I shouldn't.... Perhaps I'm awfully stupid.... You said
I was cold, so I kissed you.... But I see it was stupid."

Lise laughed, and hid her face in her hands. "And in that dress!" she
ejaculated in the midst of her mirth. But she suddenly ceased laughing and
became serious, almost stern.

"Alyosha, we must put off kissing. We are not ready for that yet, and we
shall have a long time to wait," she ended suddenly. "Tell me rather why
you who are so clever, so intellectual, so observant, choose a little
idiot, an invalid like me? Ah, Alyosha, I am awfully happy, for I don't
deserve you a bit."

"You do, Lise. I shall be leaving the monastery altogether in a few days.
If I go into the world, I must marry. I know that. _He_ told me to marry,
too. Whom could I marry better than you--and who would have me except you?
I have been thinking it over. In the first place, you've known me from a
child and you've a great many qualities I haven't. You are more light-
hearted than I am; above all, you are more innocent than I am. I have been
brought into contact with many, many things already.... Ah, you don't
know, but I, too, am a Karamazov. What does it matter if you do laugh and
make jokes, and at me, too? Go on laughing. I am so glad you do. You laugh
like a little child, but you think like a martyr."

"Like a martyr? How?"

"Yes, Lise, your question just now: whether we weren't showing contempt
for that poor man by dissecting his soul--that was the question of a
sufferer.... You see, I don't know how to express it, but any one who
thinks of such questions is capable of suffering. Sitting in your invalid
chair you must have thought over many things already."

"Alyosha, give me your hand. Why are you taking it away?" murmured Lise in
a failing voice, weak with happiness. "Listen, Alyosha. What will you wear
when you come out of the monastery? What sort of suit? Don't laugh, don't
be angry, it's very, very important to me."

"I haven't thought about the suit, Lise; but I'll wear whatever you like."

"I should like you to have a dark blue velvet coat, a white pique
waistcoat, and a soft gray felt hat.... Tell me, did you believe that I
didn't care for you when I said I didn't mean what I wrote?"

"No, I didn't believe it."

"Oh, you insupportable person, you are incorrigible."

"You see, I knew that you--seemed to care for me, but I pretended to
believe that you didn't care for me to make it--easier for you."

"That makes it worse! Worse and better than all! Alyosha, I am awfully
fond of you. Just before you came this morning, I tried my fortune. I
decided I would ask you for my letter, and if you brought it out calmly
and gave it to me (as might have been expected from you) it would mean
that you did not love me at all, that you felt nothing, and were simply a
stupid boy, good for nothing, and that I am ruined. But you left the
letter at home and that cheered me. You left it behind on purpose, so as
not to give it back, because you knew I would ask for it? That was it,
wasn't it?"

"Ah, Lise, it was not so a bit. The letter is with me now, and it was this
morning, in this pocket. Here it is."

Alyosha pulled the letter out laughing, and showed it her at a distance.

"But I am not going to give it to you. Look at it from here."

"Why, then you told a lie? You, a monk, told a lie!"

"I told a lie if you like," Alyosha laughed, too. "I told a lie so as not
to give you back the letter. It's very precious to me," he added suddenly,
with strong feeling, and again he flushed. "It always will be, and I won't
give it up to any one!"

Lise looked at him joyfully. "Alyosha," she murmured again, "look at the
door. Isn't mamma listening?"

"Very well, Lise, I'll look; but wouldn't it be better not to look? Why
suspect your mother of such meanness?"

"What meanness? As for her spying on her daughter, it's her right, it's
not meanness!" cried Lise, firing up. "You may be sure, Alexey
Fyodorovitch, that when I am a mother, if I have a daughter like myself I
shall certainly spy on her!"

"Really, Lise? That's not right."

"Oh, my goodness! What has meanness to do with it? If she were listening
to some ordinary worldly conversation, it would be meanness, but when her
own daughter is shut up with a young man.... Listen, Alyosha, do you know
I shall spy upon you as soon as we are married, and let me tell you I
shall open all your letters and read them, so you may as well be
prepared."

"Yes, of course, if so--" muttered Alyosha, "only it's not right."

"Ah, how contemptuous! Alyosha, dear, we won't quarrel the very first day.
I'd better tell you the whole truth. Of course, it's very wrong to spy on
people, and, of course, I am not right and you are, only I shall spy on
you all the same."

"Do, then; you won't find out anything," laughed Alyosha.

"And, Alyosha, will you give in to me? We must decide that too."

"I shall be delighted to, Lise, and certain to, only not in the most
important things. Even if you don't agree with me, I shall do my duty in
the most important things."

"That's right; but let me tell you I am ready to give in to you not only
in the most important matters, but in everything. And I am ready to vow to
do so now--in everything, and for all my life!" cried Lise fervently, "and
I'll do it gladly, gladly! What's more, I'll swear never to spy on you,
never once, never to read one of your letters. For you are right and I am
not. And though I shall be awfully tempted to spy, I know that I won't do
it since you consider it dishonorable. You are my conscience now....
Listen, Alexey Fyodorovitch, why have you been so sad lately--both
yesterday and to-day? I know you have a lot of anxiety and trouble, but I
see you have some special grief besides, some secret one, perhaps?"

"Yes, Lise, I have a secret one, too," answered Alyosha mournfully. "I see
you love me, since you guessed that."

"What grief? What about? Can you tell me?" asked Lise with timid entreaty.

"I'll tell you later, Lise--afterwards," said Alyosha, confused. "Now you
wouldn't understand it perhaps--and perhaps I couldn't explain it."

"I know your brothers and your father are worrying you, too."

"Yes, my brothers too," murmured Alyosha, pondering.

"I don't like your brother Ivan, Alyosha," said Lise suddenly.

He noticed this remark with some surprise, but did not answer it.

"My brothers are destroying themselves," he went on, "my father, too. And
they are destroying others with them. It's 'the primitive force of the
Karamazovs,' as Father Paissy said the other day, a crude, unbridled,
earthly force. Does the spirit of God move above that force? Even that I
don't know. I only know that I, too, am a Karamazov.... Me a monk, a monk!
Am I a monk, Lise? You said just now that I was."

"Yes, I did."

"And perhaps I don't even believe in God."

"You don't believe? What is the matter?" said Lise quietly and gently. But
Alyosha did not answer. There was something too mysterious, too subjective
in these last words of his, perhaps obscure to himself, but yet torturing
him.

"And now on the top of it all, my friend, the best man in the world, is
going, is leaving the earth! If you knew, Lise, how bound up in soul I am
with him! And then I shall be left alone.... I shall come to you, Lise....
For the future we will be together."

"Yes, together, together! Henceforward we shall be always together, all
our lives! Listen, kiss me, I allow you."

Alyosha kissed her.

"Come, now go. Christ be with you!" and she made the sign of the cross
over him. "Make haste back to _him_ while he is alive. I see I've kept you
cruelly. I'll pray to-day for him and you. Alyosha, we shall be happy!
Shall we be happy, shall we?"

"I believe we shall, Lise."

Alyosha thought it better not to go in to Madame Hohlakov and was going
out of the house without saying good-by to her. But no sooner had he
opened the door than he found Madame Hohlakov standing before him. From
the first word Alyosha guessed that she had been waiting on purpose to
meet him.

"Alexey Fyodorovitch, this is awful. This is all childish nonsense and
ridiculous. I trust you won't dream--It's foolishness, nothing but
foolishness!" she said, attacking him at once.

"Only don't tell her that," said Alyosha, "or she will be upset, and
that's bad for her now."

"Sensible advice from a sensible young man. Am I to understand that you
only agreed with her from compassion for her invalid state, because you
didn't want to irritate her by contradiction?"

"Oh, no, not at all. I was quite serious in what I said," Alyosha declared
stoutly.

"To be serious about it is impossible, unthinkable, and in the first place
I shall never be at home to you again, and I shall take her away, you may
be sure of that."

"But why?" asked Alyosha. "It's all so far off. We may have to wait
another year and a half."

"Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, that's true, of course, and you'll have time to
quarrel and separate a thousand times in a year and a half. But I am so
unhappy! Though it's such nonsense, it's a great blow to me. I feel like
Famusov in the last scene of _Sorrow from Wit_. You are Tchatsky and she
is Sofya, and, only fancy, I've run down to meet you on the stairs, and in
the play the fatal scene takes place on the staircase. I heard it all; I
almost dropped. So this is the explanation of her dreadful night and her
hysterics of late! It means love to the daughter but death to the mother.
I might as well be in my grave at once. And a more serious matter still,
what is this letter she has written? Show it me at once, at once!"

"No, there's no need. Tell me, how is Katerina Ivanovna now? I must know."

"She still lies in delirium; she has not regained consciousness. Her aunts
are here; but they do nothing but sigh and give themselves airs.
Herzenstube came, and he was so alarmed that I didn't know what to do for
him. I nearly sent for a doctor to look after him. He was driven home in
my carriage. And on the top of it all, you and this letter! It's true
nothing can happen for a year and a half. In the name of all that's holy,
in the name of your dying elder, show me that letter, Alexey Fyodorovitch.
I'm her mother. Hold it in your hand, if you like, and I will read it so."

"No, I won't show it to you. Even if she sanctioned it, I wouldn't. I am
coming to-morrow, and if you like, we can talk over many things, but now
good-by!"

And Alyosha ran downstairs and into the street.

Chapter II. Smerdyakov With A Guitar

He had no time to lose indeed. Even while he was saying good-by to Lise,
the thought had struck him that he must attempt some stratagem to find his
brother Dmitri, who was evidently keeping out of his way. It was getting
late, nearly three o'clock. Alyosha's whole soul turned to the monastery,
to his dying saint, but the necessity of seeing Dmitri outweighed
everything. The conviction that a great inevitable catastrophe was about
to happen grew stronger in Alyosha's mind with every hour. What that
catastrophe was, and what he would say at that moment to his brother, he
could perhaps not have said definitely. "Even if my benefactor must die
without me, anyway I won't have to reproach myself all my life with the
thought that I might have saved something and did not, but passed by and
hastened home. If I do as I intend, I shall be following his great
precept."

His plan was to catch his brother Dmitri unawares, to climb over the
fence, as he had the day before, get into the garden and sit in the
summer-house. If Dmitri were not there, thought Alyosha, he would not
announce himself to Foma or the women of the house, but would remain
hidden in the summer-house, even if he had to wait there till evening. If,
as before, Dmitri were lying in wait for Grushenka to come, he would be
very likely to come to the summer-house. Alyosha did not, however, give
much thought to the details of his plan, but resolved to act upon it, even
if it meant not getting back to the monastery that day.

Everything happened without hindrance, he climbed over the hurdle almost
in the same spot as the day before, and stole into the summer-house
unseen. He did not want to be noticed. The woman of the house and Foma
too, if he were here, might be loyal to his brother and obey his
instructions, and so refuse to let Alyosha come into the garden, or might
warn Dmitri that he was being sought and inquired for.

There was no one in the summer-house. Alyosha sat down and began to wait.
He looked round the summer-house, which somehow struck him as a great deal
more ancient than before. Though the day was just as fine as yesterday, it
seemed a wretched little place this time. There was a circle on the table,
left no doubt from the glass of brandy having been spilt the day before.
Foolish and irrelevant ideas strayed about his mind, as they always do in
a time of tedious waiting. He wondered, for instance, why he had sat down
precisely in the same place as before, why not in the other seat. At last
he felt very depressed--depressed by suspense and uncertainty. But he had
not sat there more than a quarter of an hour, when he suddenly heard the
thrum of a guitar somewhere quite close. People were sitting, or had only
just sat down, somewhere in the bushes not more than twenty paces away.
Alyosha suddenly recollected that on coming out of the summer-house the
day before, he had caught a glimpse of an old green low garden-seat among
the bushes on the left, by the fence. The people must be sitting on it
now. Who were they?

A man's voice suddenly began singing in a sugary falsetto, accompanying
himself on the guitar:

    With invincible force
    I am bound to my dear.
    O Lord, have mercy
    On her and on me!
    On her and on me!
    On her and on me!

The voice ceased. It was a lackey's tenor and a lackey's song. Another
voice, a woman's, suddenly asked insinuatingly and bashfully, though with
mincing affectation:

"Why haven't you been to see us for so long, Pavel Fyodorovitch? Why do
you always look down upon us?"

"Not at all," answered a man's voice politely, but with emphatic dignity.
It was clear that the man had the best of the position, and that the woman
was making advances. "I believe the man must be Smerdyakov," thought
Alyosha, "from his voice. And the lady must be the daughter of the house
here, who has come from Moscow, the one who wears the dress with a tail
and goes to Marfa for soup."

"I am awfully fond of verses of all kinds, if they rhyme," the woman's
voice continued. "Why don't you go on?"

The man sang again:

    What do I care for royal wealth
    If but my dear one be in health?
    Lord have mercy
    On her and on me!
    On her and on me!
    On her and on me!

"It was even better last time," observed the woman's voice. "You sang 'If
my darling be in health'; it sounded more tender. I suppose you've
forgotten to-day."

"Poetry is rubbish!" said Smerdyakov curtly.

"Oh, no! I am very fond of poetry."

"So far as it's poetry, it's essential rubbish. Consider yourself, who
ever talks in rhyme? And if we were all to talk in rhyme, even though it
were decreed by government, we shouldn't say much, should we? Poetry is no
good, Marya Kondratyevna."

"How clever you are! How is it you've gone so deep into everything?" The
woman's voice was more and more insinuating.

"I could have done better than that. I could have known more than that, if
it had not been for my destiny from my childhood up. I would have shot a
man in a duel if he called me names because I am descended from a filthy
beggar and have no father. And they used to throw it in my teeth in
Moscow. It had reached them from here, thanks to Grigory Vassilyevitch.
Grigory Vassilyevitch blames me for rebelling against my birth, but I
would have sanctioned their killing me before I was born that I might not
have come into the world at all. They used to say in the market, and your
mamma too, with great lack of delicacy, set off telling me that her hair
was like a mat on her head, and that she was short of five foot by a wee
bit. Why talk of a wee bit while she might have said 'a little bit,' like
every one else? She wanted to make it touching, a regular peasant's
feeling. Can a Russian peasant be said to feel, in comparison with an
educated man? He can't be said to have feeling at all, in his ignorance.
From my childhood up when I hear 'a wee bit,' I am ready to burst with
rage. I hate all Russia, Marya Kondratyevna."

"If you'd been a cadet in the army, or a young hussar, you wouldn't have
talked like that, but would have drawn your saber to defend all Russia."

"I don't want to be a hussar, Marya Kondratyevna, and, what's more, I
should like to abolish all soldiers."

"And when an enemy comes, who is going to defend us?"

"There's no need of defense. In 1812 there was a great invasion of Russia
by Napoleon, first Emperor of the French, father of the present one, and
it would have been a good thing if they had conquered us. A clever nation
would have conquered a very stupid one and annexed it. We should have had
quite different institutions."

"Are they so much better in their own country than we are? I wouldn't
change a dandy I know of for three young Englishmen," observed Marya
Kondratyevna tenderly, doubtless accompanying her words with a most
languishing glance.

"That's as one prefers."

"But you are just like a foreigner--just like a most gentlemanly foreigner.
I tell you that, though it makes me bashful."

"If you care to know, the folks there and ours here are just alike in
their vice. They are swindlers, only there the scoundrel wears polished
boots and here he grovels in filth and sees no harm in it. The Russian
people want thrashing, as Fyodor Pavlovitch said very truly yesterday,
though he is mad, and all his children."

"You said yourself you had such a respect for Ivan Fyodorovitch."

"But he said I was a stinking lackey. He thinks that I might be unruly. He
is mistaken there. If I had a certain sum in my pocket, I would have left
here long ago. Dmitri Fyodorovitch is lower than any lackey in his
behavior, in his mind, and in his poverty. He doesn't know how to do
anything, and yet he is respected by every one. I may be only a soup-
maker, but with luck I could open a cafe restaurant in Petrovka, in
Moscow, for my cookery is something special, and there's no one in Moscow,
except the foreigners, whose cookery is anything special. Dmitri
Fyodorovitch is a beggar, but if he were to challenge the son of the first
count in the country, he'd fight him. Though in what way is he better than
I am? For he is ever so much stupider than I am. Look at the money he has
wasted without any need!"

"It must be lovely, a duel," Marya Kondratyevna observed suddenly.

"How so?"

"It must be so dreadful and so brave, especially when young officers with
pistols in their hands pop at one another for the sake of some lady. A
perfect picture! Ah, if only girls were allowed to look on, I'd give
anything to see one!"

"It's all very well when you are firing at some one, but when he is firing
straight in your mug, you must feel pretty silly. You'd be glad to run
away, Marya Kondratyevna."

"You don't mean you would run away?" But Smerdyakov did not deign to
reply. After a moment's silence the guitar tinkled again, and he sang
again in the same falsetto:

    Whatever you may say,
    I shall go far away.
    Life will be bright and gay
    In the city far away.
    I shall not grieve,
    I shall not grieve at all,
    I don't intend to grieve at all.

Then something unexpected happened. Alyosha suddenly sneezed. They were
silent. Alyosha got up and walked towards them. He found Smerdyakov
dressed up and wearing polished boots, his hair pomaded, and perhaps
curled. The guitar lay on the garden-seat. His companion was the daughter
of the house, wearing a light-blue dress with a train two yards long. She
was young and would not have been bad-looking, but that her face was so
round and terribly freckled.

"Will my brother Dmitri soon be back?" asked Alyosha with as much
composure as he could.

Smerdyakov got up slowly; Marya Kondratyevna rose too.

"How am I to know about Dmitri Fyodorovitch? It's not as if I were his
keeper," answered Smerdyakov quietly, distinctly, and superciliously.

"But I simply asked whether you do know?" Alyosha explained.

"I know nothing of his whereabouts and don't want to."

"But my brother told me that you let him know all that goes on in the
house, and promised to let him know when Agrafena Alexandrovna comes."

Smerdyakov turned a deliberate, unmoved glance upon him.

"And how did you get in this time, since the gate was bolted an hour ago?"
he asked, looking at Alyosha.

"I came in from the back-alley, over the fence, and went straight to the
summer-house. I hope you'll forgive me," he added, addressing Marya
Kondratyevna. "I was in a hurry to find my brother."

"Ach, as though we could take it amiss in you!" drawled Marya
Kondratyevna, flattered by Alyosha's apology. "For Dmitri Fyodorovitch
often goes to the summer-house in that way. We don't know he is here and
he is sitting in the summer-house."

"I am very anxious to find him, or to learn from you where he is now.
Believe me, it's on business of great importance to him."

"He never tells us," lisped Marya Kondratyevna.

"Though I used to come here as a friend," Smerdyakov began again, "Dmitri
Fyodorovitch has pestered me in a merciless way even here by his incessant
questions about the master. 'What news?' he'll ask. 'What's going on in
there now? Who's coming and going?' and can't I tell him something more.
Twice already he's threatened me with death."

"With death?" Alyosha exclaimed in surprise.

"Do you suppose he'd think much of that, with his temper, which you had a
chance of observing yourself yesterday? He says if I let Agrafena
Alexandrovna in and she passes the night there, I'll be the first to
suffer for it. I am terribly afraid of him, and if I were not even more
afraid of doing so, I ought to let the police know. God only knows what he
might not do!"

"His honor said to him the other day, 'I'll pound you in a mortar!' "
added Marya Kondratyevna.

"Oh, if it's pounding in a mortar, it may be only talk," observed Alyosha.
"If I could meet him, I might speak to him about that too."

"Well, the only thing I can tell you is this," said Smerdyakov, as though
thinking better of it; "I am here as an old friend and neighbor, and it
would be odd if I didn't come. On the other hand, Ivan Fyodorovitch sent
me first thing this morning to your brother's lodging in Lake Street,
without a letter, but with a message to Dmitri Fyodorovitch to go to dine
with him at the restaurant here, in the market-place. I went, but didn't
find Dmitri Fyodorovitch at home, though it was eight o'clock. 'He's been
here, but he is quite gone,' those were the very words of his landlady.
It's as though there was an understanding between them. Perhaps at this
moment he is in the restaurant with Ivan Fyodorovitch, for Ivan
Fyodorovitch has not been home to dinner and Fyodor Pavlovitch dined alone
an hour ago, and is gone to lie down. But I beg you most particularly not
to speak of me and of what I have told you, for he'd kill me for nothing
at all."

"Brother Ivan invited Dmitri to the restaurant to-day?" repeated Alyosha
quickly.

"That's so."

"The Metropolis tavern in the market-place?"

"The very same."

"That's quite likely," cried Alyosha, much excited. "Thank you,
Smerdyakov; that's important. I'll go there at once."

"Don't betray me," Smerdyakov called after him.

"Oh, no, I'll go to the tavern as though by chance. Don't be anxious."

"But wait a minute, I'll open the gate to you," cried Marya Kondratyevna.

"No; it's a short cut, I'll get over the fence again."

What he had heard threw Alyosha into great agitation. He ran to the
tavern. It was impossible for him to go into the tavern in his monastic
dress, but he could inquire at the entrance for his brothers and call them
down. But just as he reached the tavern, a window was flung open, and his
brother Ivan called down to him from it.

"Alyosha, can't you come up here to me? I shall be awfully grateful."

"To be sure I can, only I don't quite know whether in this dress--"

"But I am in a room apart. Come up the steps; I'll run down to meet you."

A minute later Alyosha was sitting beside his brother. Ivan was alone
dining.

Chapter III. The Brothers Make Friends

Ivan was not, however, in a separate room, but only in a place shut off by
a screen, so that it was unseen by other people in the room. It was the
first room from the entrance with a buffet along the wall. Waiters were
continually darting to and fro in it. The only customer in the room was an
old retired military man drinking tea in a corner. But there was the usual
bustle going on in the other rooms of the tavern; there were shouts for
the waiters, the sound of popping corks, the click of billiard balls, the
drone of the organ. Alyosha knew that Ivan did not usually visit this
tavern and disliked taverns in general. So he must have come here, he
reflected, simply to meet Dmitri by arrangement. Yet Dmitri was not there.

"Shall I order you fish, soup or anything. You don't live on tea alone, I
suppose," cried Ivan, apparently delighted at having got hold of Alyosha.
He had finished dinner and was drinking tea.

"Let me have soup, and tea afterwards, I am hungry," said Alyosha gayly.

"And cherry jam? They have it here. You remember how you used to love
cherry jam when you were little?"

"You remember that? Let me have jam too, I like it still."

Ivan rang for the waiter and ordered soup, jam and tea.

"I remember everything, Alyosha, I remember you till you were eleven, I
was nearly fifteen. There's such a difference between fifteen and eleven
that brothers are never companions at those ages. I don't know whether I
was fond of you even. When I went away to Moscow for the first few years I
never thought of you at all. Then, when you came to Moscow yourself, we
only met once somewhere, I believe. And now I've been here more than three
months, and so far we have scarcely said a word to each other. To-morrow I
am going away, and I was just thinking as I sat here how I could see you
to say good-by and just then you passed."

"Were you very anxious to see me, then?"

"Very. I want to get to know you once for all, and I want you to know me.
And then to say good-by. I believe it's always best to get to know people
just before leaving them. I've noticed how you've been looking at me these
three months. There has been a continual look of expectation in your eyes,
and I can't endure that. That's how it is I've kept away from you. But in
the end I have learned to respect you. The little man stands firm, I
thought. Though I am laughing, I am serious. You do stand firm, don't you?
I like people who are firm like that whatever it is they stand by, even if
they are such little fellows as you. Your expectant eyes ceased to annoy
me, I grew fond of them in the end, those expectant eyes. You seem to love
me for some reason, Alyosha?"

"I do love you, Ivan. Dmitri says of you--Ivan is a tomb! I say of you,
Ivan is a riddle. You are a riddle to me even now. But I understand
something in you, and I did not understand it till this morning."

"What's that?" laughed Ivan.

"You won't be angry?" Alyosha laughed too.

"Well?"

"That you are just as young as other young men of three and twenty, that
you are just a young and fresh and nice boy, green in fact! Now, have I
insulted you dreadfully?"

"On the contrary, I am struck by a coincidence," cried Ivan, warmly and
good-humoredly. "Would you believe it that ever since that scene with her,
I have thought of nothing else but my youthful greenness, and just as
though you guessed that, you begin about it. Do you know I've been sitting
here thinking to myself: that if I didn't believe in life, if I lost faith
in the woman I love, lost faith in the order of things, were convinced in
fact that everything is a disorderly, damnable, and perhaps devil-ridden
chaos, if I were struck by every horror of man's disillusionment--still I
should want to live and, having once tasted of the cup, I would not turn
away from it till I had drained it! At thirty, though, I shall be sure to
leave the cup, even if I've not emptied it, and turn away--where I don't
know. But till I am thirty, I know that my youth will triumph over
everything--every disillusionment, every disgust with life. I've asked
myself many times whether there is in the world any despair that would
overcome this frantic and perhaps unseemly thirst for life in me, and I've
come to the conclusion that there isn't, that is till I am thirty, and
then I shall lose it of myself, I fancy. Some driveling consumptive
moralists--and poets especially--often call that thirst for life base. It's
a feature of the Karamazovs, it's true, that thirst for life regardless of
everything; you have it no doubt too, but why is it base? The centripetal
force on our planet is still fearfully strong, Alyosha. I have a longing
for life, and I go on living in spite of logic. Though I may not believe
in the order of the universe, yet I love the sticky little leaves as they
open in spring. I love the blue sky, I love some people, whom one loves
you know sometimes without knowing why. I love some great deeds done by
men, though I've long ceased perhaps to have faith in them, yet from old
habit one's heart prizes them. Here they have brought the soup for you,
eat it, it will do you good. It's first-rate soup, they know how to make
it here. I want to travel in Europe, Alyosha, I shall set off from here.
And yet I know that I am only going to a graveyard, but it's a most
precious graveyard, that's what it is! Precious are the dead that lie
there, every stone over them speaks of such burning life in the past, of
such passionate faith in their work, their truth, their struggle and their
science, that I know I shall fall on the ground and kiss those stones and
weep over them; though I'm convinced in my heart that it's long been
nothing but a graveyard. And I shall not weep from despair, but simply
because I shall be happy in my tears, I shall steep my soul in my emotion.
I love the sticky leaves in spring, the blue sky--that's all it is. It's
not a matter of intellect or logic, it's loving with one's inside, with
one's stomach. One loves the first strength of one's youth. Do you
understand anything of my tirade, Alyosha?" Ivan laughed suddenly.

"I understand too well, Ivan. One longs to love with one's inside, with
one's stomach. You said that so well and I am awfully glad that you have
such a longing for life," cried Alyosha. "I think every one should love
life above everything in the world."

"Love life more than the meaning of it?"

"Certainly, love it, regardless of logic as you say, it must be regardless
of logic, and it's only then one will understand the meaning of it. I have
thought so a long time. Half your work is done, Ivan, you love life, now
you've only to try to do the second half and you are saved."

"You are trying to save me, but perhaps I am not lost! And what does your
second half mean?"

"Why, one has to raise up your dead, who perhaps have not died after all.
Come, let me have tea. I am so glad of our talk, Ivan."

"I see you are feeling inspired. I am awfully fond of such _professions de
foi_ from such--novices. You are a steadfast person, Alexey. Is it true
that you mean to leave the monastery?"

"Yes, my elder sends me out into the world."

"We shall see each other then in the world. We shall meet before I am
thirty, when I shall begin to turn aside from the cup. Father doesn't want
to turn aside from his cup till he is seventy, he dreams of hanging on to
eighty in fact, so he says. He means it only too seriously, though he is a
buffoon. He stands on a firm rock, too, he stands on his sensuality--though
after we are thirty, indeed, there may be nothing else to stand on.... But
to hang on to seventy is nasty, better only to thirty; one might retain 'a
shadow of nobility' by deceiving oneself. Have you seen Dmitri to-day?"

"No, but I saw Smerdyakov," and Alyosha rapidly, though minutely,
described his meeting with Smerdyakov. Ivan began listening anxiously and
questioned him.

"But he begged me not to tell Dmitri that he had told me about him," added
Alyosha. Ivan frowned and pondered.

"Are you frowning on Smerdyakov's account?" asked Alyosha.

"Yes, on his account. Damn him, I certainly did want to see Dmitri, but
now there's no need," said Ivan reluctantly.

"But are you really going so soon, brother?"

"Yes."

"What of Dmitri and father? how will it end?" asked Alyosha anxiously.

"You are always harping upon it! What have I to do with it? Am I my
brother Dmitri's keeper?" Ivan snapped irritably, but then he suddenly
smiled bitterly. "Cain's answer about his murdered brother, wasn't it?
Perhaps that's what you're thinking at this moment? Well, damn it all, I
can't stay here to be their keeper, can I? I've finished what I had to do,
and I am going. Do you imagine I am jealous of Dmitri, that I've been
trying to steal his beautiful Katerina Ivanovna for the last three months?
Nonsense, I had business of my own. I finished it. I am going. I finished
it just now, you were witness."

"At Katerina Ivanovna's?"

"Yes, and I've released myself once for all. And after all, what have I to
do with Dmitri? Dmitri doesn't come in. I had my own business to settle
with Katerina Ivanovna. You know, on the contrary, that Dmitri behaved as
though there was an understanding between us. I didn't ask him to do it,
but he solemnly handed her over to me and gave us his blessing. It's all
too funny. Ah, Alyosha, if you only knew how light my heart is now! Would
you believe, it, I sat here eating my dinner and was nearly ordering
champagne to celebrate my first hour of freedom. Tfoo! It's been going on
nearly six months, and all at once I've thrown it off. I could never have
guessed even yesterday, how easy it would be to put an end to it if I
wanted."

"You are speaking of your love, Ivan?"

"Of my love, if you like. I fell in love with the young lady, I worried
myself over her and she worried me. I sat watching over her ... and all at
once it's collapsed! I spoke this morning with inspiration, but I went
away and roared with laughter. Would you believe it? Yes, it's the literal
truth."

"You seem very merry about it now," observed Alyosha, looking into his
face, which had suddenly grown brighter.

"But how could I tell that I didn't care for her a bit! Ha ha! It appears
after all I didn't. And yet how she attracted me! How attractive she was
just now when I made my speech! And do you know she attracts me awfully
even now, yet how easy it is to leave her. Do you think I am boasting?"

"No, only perhaps it wasn't love."

"Alyosha," laughed Ivan, "don't make reflections about love, it's unseemly
for you. How you rushed into the discussion this morning! I've forgotten
to kiss you for it.... But how she tormented me! It certainly was sitting
by a 'laceration.' Ah, she knew how I loved her! She loved me and not
Dmitri," Ivan insisted gayly. "Her feeling for Dmitri was simply a self-
laceration. All I told her just now was perfectly true, but the worst of
it is, it may take her fifteen or twenty years to find out that she
doesn't care for Dmitri, and loves me whom she torments, and perhaps she
may never find it out at all, in spite of her lesson to-day. Well, it's
better so; I can simply go away for good. By the way, how is she now? What
happened after I departed?"

Alyosha told him she had been hysterical, and that she was now, he heard,
unconscious and delirious.

"Isn't Madame Hohlakov laying it on?"

"I think not."

"I must find out. Nobody dies of hysterics, though. They don't matter. God
gave woman hysterics as a relief. I won't go to her at all. Why push
myself forward again?"

"But you told her that she had never cared for you."

"I did that on purpose. Alyosha, shall I call for some champagne? Let us
drink to my freedom. Ah, if only you knew how glad I am!"

"No, brother, we had better not drink," said Alyosha suddenly. "Besides I
feel somehow depressed."

"Yes, you've been depressed a long time, I've noticed it."

"Have you settled to go to-morrow morning, then?"

"Morning? I didn't say I should go in the morning.... But perhaps it may
be the morning. Would you believe it, I dined here to-day only to avoid
dining with the old man, I loathe him so. I should have left long ago, so
far as he is concerned. But why are you so worried about my going away?
We've plenty of time before I go, an eternity!"

"If you are going away to-morrow, what do you mean by an eternity?"

"But what does it matter to us?" laughed Ivan. "We've time enough for our
talk, for what brought us here. Why do you look so surprised? Answer: why
have we met here? To talk of my love for Katerina Ivanovna, of the old man
and Dmitri? of foreign travel? of the fatal position of Russia? Of the
Emperor Napoleon? Is that it?"

"No."

"Then you know what for. It's different for other people; but we in our
green youth have to settle the eternal questions first of all. That's what
we care about. Young Russia is talking about nothing but the eternal
questions now. Just when the old folks are all taken up with practical
questions. Why have you been looking at me in expectation for the last
three months? To ask me, 'What do you believe, or don't you believe at
all?' That's what your eyes have been meaning for these three months,
haven't they?"

"Perhaps so," smiled Alyosha. "You are not laughing at me, now, Ivan?"

"Me laughing! I don't want to wound my little brother who has been
watching me with such expectation for three months. Alyosha, look straight
at me! Of course I am just such a little boy as you are, only not a
novice. And what have Russian boys been doing up till now, some of them, I
mean? In this stinking tavern, for instance, here, they meet and sit down
in a corner. They've never met in their lives before and, when they go out
of the tavern, they won't meet again for forty years. And what do they
talk about in that momentary halt in the tavern? Of the eternal questions,
of the existence of God and immortality. And those who do not believe in
God talk of socialism or anarchism, of the transformation of all humanity
on a new pattern, so that it all comes to the same, they're the same
questions turned inside out. And masses, masses of the most original
Russian boys do nothing but talk of the eternal questions! Isn't it so?"

"Yes, for real Russians the questions of God's existence and of
immortality, or, as you say, the same questions turned inside out, come
first and foremost, of course, and so they should," said Alyosha, still
watching his brother with the same gentle and inquiring smile.

"Well, Alyosha, it's sometimes very unwise to be a Russian at all, but
anything stupider than the way Russian boys spend their time one can
hardly imagine. But there's one Russian boy called Alyosha I am awfully
fond of."

"How nicely you put that in!" Alyosha laughed suddenly.

"Well, tell me where to begin, give your orders. The existence of God,
eh?"

"Begin where you like. You declared yesterday at father's that there was
no God." Alyosha looked searchingly at his brother.

"I said that yesterday at dinner on purpose to tease you and I saw your
eyes glow. But now I've no objection to discussing with you, and I say so
very seriously. I want to be friends with you, Alyosha, for I have no
friends and want to try it. Well, only fancy, perhaps I too accept God,"
laughed Ivan; "that's a surprise for you, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course, if you are not joking now."

"Joking? I was told at the elder's yesterday that I was joking. You know,
dear boy, there was an old sinner in the eighteenth century who declared
that, if there were no God, he would have to be invented. _S'il n'existait
pas Dieu, il faudrait l'inventer._ And man has actually invented God. And
what's strange, what would be marvelous, is not that God should really
exist; the marvel is that such an idea, the idea of the necessity of God,
could enter the head of such a savage, vicious beast as man. So holy it
is, so touching, so wise and so great a credit it does to man. As for me,
I've long resolved not to think whether man created God or God man. And I
won't go through all the axioms laid down by Russian boys on that subject,
all derived from European hypotheses; for what's a hypothesis there, is an
axiom with the Russian boy, and not only with the boys but with their
teachers too, for our Russian professors are often just the same boys
themselves. And so I omit all the hypotheses. For what are we aiming at
now? I am trying to explain as quickly as possible my essential nature,
that is what manner of man I am, what I believe in, and for what I hope,
that's it, isn't it? And therefore I tell you that I accept God simply.
But you must note this: if God exists and if He really did create the
world, then, as we all know, He created it according to the geometry of
Euclid and the human mind with the conception of only three dimensions in
space. Yet there have been and still are geometricians and philosophers,
and even some of the most distinguished, who doubt whether the whole
universe, or to speak more widely the whole of being, was only created in
Euclid's geometry; they even dare to dream that two parallel lines, which
according to Euclid can never meet on earth, may meet somewhere in
infinity. I have come to the conclusion that, since I can't understand
even that, I can't expect to understand about God. I acknowledge humbly
that I have no faculty for settling such questions, I have a Euclidian
earthly mind, and how could I solve problems that are not of this world?
And I advise you never to think about it either, my dear Alyosha,
especially about God, whether He exists or not. All such questions are
utterly inappropriate for a mind created with an idea of only three
dimensions. And so I accept God and am glad to, and what's more, I accept
His wisdom, His purpose--which are utterly beyond our ken; I believe in the
underlying order and the meaning of life; I believe in the eternal harmony
in which they say we shall one day be blended. I believe in the Word to
Which the universe is striving, and Which Itself was 'with God,' and Which
Itself is God and so on, and so on, to infinity. There are all sorts of
phrases for it. I seem to be on the right path, don't I? Yet would you
believe it, in the final result I don't accept this world of God's, and,
although I know it exists, I don't accept it at all. It's not that I don't
accept God, you must understand, it's the world created by Him I don't and
cannot accept. Let me make it plain. I believe like a child that suffering
will be healed and made up for, that all the humiliating absurdity of
human contradictions will vanish like a pitiful mirage, like the
despicable fabrication of the impotent and infinitely small Euclidian mind
of man, that in the world's finale, at the moment of eternal harmony,
something so precious will come to pass that it will suffice for all
hearts, for the comforting of all resentments, for the atonement of all
the crimes of humanity, of all the blood they've shed; that it will make
it not only possible to forgive but to justify all that has happened with
men--but though all that may come to pass, I don't accept it. I won't
accept it. Even if parallel lines do meet and I see it myself, I shall see
it and say that they've met, but still I won't accept it. That's what's at
the root of me, Alyosha; that's my creed. I am in earnest in what I say. I
began our talk as stupidly as I could on purpose, but I've led up to my
confession, for that's all you want. You didn't want to hear about God,
but only to know what the brother you love lives by. And so I've told
you."

Ivan concluded his long tirade with marked and unexpected feeling.

"And why did you begin 'as stupidly as you could'?" asked Alyosha, looking
dreamily at him.

"To begin with, for the sake of being Russian. Russian conversations on
such subjects are always carried on inconceivably stupidly. And secondly,
the stupider one is, the closer one is to reality. The stupider one is,
the clearer one is. Stupidity is brief and artless, while intelligence
wriggles and hides itself. Intelligence is a knave, but stupidity is
honest and straightforward. I've led the conversation to my despair, and
the more stupidly I have presented it, the better for me."

"You will explain why you don't accept the world?" said Alyosha.

"To be sure I will, it's not a secret, that's what I've been leading up
to. Dear little brother, I don't want to corrupt you or to turn you from
your stronghold, perhaps I want to be healed by you." Ivan smiled suddenly
quite like a little gentle child. Alyosha had never seen such a smile on
his face before.

Chapter IV. Rebellion

"I must make you one confession," Ivan began. "I could never understand
how one can love one's neighbors. It's just one's neighbors, to my mind,
that one can't love, though one might love those at a distance. I once
read somewhere of John the Merciful, a saint, that when a hungry, frozen
beggar came to him, he took him into his bed, held him in his arms, and
began breathing into his mouth, which was putrid and loathsome from some
awful disease. I am convinced that he did that from 'self-laceration,'
from the self-laceration of falsity, for the sake of the charity imposed
by duty, as a penance laid on him. For any one to love a man, he must be
hidden, for as soon as he shows his face, love is gone."

"Father Zossima has talked of that more than once," observed Alyosha; "he,
too, said that the face of a man often hinders many people not practiced
in love, from loving him. But yet there's a great deal of love in mankind,
and almost Christ-like love. I know that myself, Ivan."

"Well, I know nothing of it so far, and can't understand it, and the
innumerable mass of mankind are with me there. The question is, whether
that's due to men's bad qualities or whether it's inherent in their
nature. To my thinking, Christ-like love for men is a miracle impossible
on earth. He was God. But we are not gods. Suppose I, for instance, suffer
intensely. Another can never know how much I suffer, because he is another
and not I. And what's more, a man is rarely ready to admit another's
suffering (as though it were a distinction). Why won't he admit it, do you
think? Because I smell unpleasant, because I have a stupid face, because I
once trod on his foot. Besides, there is suffering and suffering;
degrading, humiliating suffering such as humbles me--hunger, for
instance--my benefactor will perhaps allow me; but when you come to higher
suffering--for an idea, for instance--he will very rarely admit that,
perhaps because my face strikes him as not at all what he fancies a man
should have who suffers for an idea. And so he deprives me instantly of
his favor, and not at all from badness of heart. Beggars, especially
genteel beggars, ought never to show themselves, but to ask for charity
through the newspapers. One can love one's neighbors in the abstract, or
even at a distance, but at close quarters it's almost impossible. If it
were as on the stage, in the ballet, where if beggars come in, they wear
silken rags and tattered lace and beg for alms dancing gracefully, then
one might like looking at them. But even then we should not love them. But
enough of that. I simply wanted to show you my point of view. I meant to
speak of the suffering of mankind generally, but we had better confine
ourselves to the sufferings of the children. That reduces the scope of my
argument to a tenth of what it would be. Still we'd better keep to the
children, though it does weaken my case. But, in the first place, children
can be loved even at close quarters, even when they are dirty, even when
they are ugly (I fancy, though, children never are ugly). The second
reason why I won't speak of grown-up people is that, besides being
disgusting and unworthy of love, they have a compensation--they've eaten
the apple and know good and evil, and they have become 'like gods.' They
go on eating it still. But the children haven't eaten anything, and are so
far innocent. Are you fond of children, Alyosha? I know you are, and you
will understand why I prefer to speak of them. If they, too, suffer
horribly on earth, they must suffer for their fathers' sins, they must be
punished for their fathers, who have eaten the apple; but that reasoning
is of the other world and is incomprehensible for the heart of man here on
earth. The innocent must not suffer for another's sins, and especially
such innocents! You may be surprised at me, Alyosha, but I am awfully fond
of children, too. And observe, cruel people, the violent, the rapacious,
the Karamazovs are sometimes very fond of children. Children while they
are quite little--up to seven, for instance--are so remote from grown-up
people; they are different creatures, as it were, of a different species.
I knew a criminal in prison who had, in the course of his career as a
burglar, murdered whole families, including several children. But when he
was in prison, he had a strange affection for them. He spent all his time
at his window, watching the children playing in the prison yard. He
trained one little boy to come up to his window and made great friends
with him.... You don't know why I am telling you all this, Alyosha? My
head aches and I am sad."

"You speak with a strange air," observed Alyosha uneasily, "as though you
were not quite yourself."

"By the way, a Bulgarian I met lately in Moscow," Ivan went on, seeming
not to hear his brother's words, "told me about the crimes committed by
Turks and Circassians in all parts of Bulgaria through fear of a general
rising of the Slavs. They burn villages, murder, outrage women and
children, they nail their prisoners by the ears to the fences, leave them
so till morning, and in the morning they hang them--all sorts of things you
can't imagine. People talk sometimes of bestial cruelty, but that's a
great injustice and insult to the beasts; a beast can never be so cruel as
a man, so artistically cruel. The tiger only tears and gnaws, that's all
he can do. He would never think of nailing people by the ears, even if he
were able to do it. These Turks took a pleasure in torturing children,
too; cutting the unborn child from the mother's womb, and tossing babies
up in the air and catching them on the points of their bayonets before
their mothers' eyes. Doing it before the mothers' eyes was what gave zest
to the amusement. Here is another scene that I thought very interesting.
Imagine a trembling mother with her baby in her arms, a circle of invading
Turks around her. They've planned a diversion: they pet the baby, laugh to
make it laugh. They succeed, the baby laughs. At that moment a Turk points
a pistol four inches from the baby's face. The baby laughs with glee,
holds out its little hands to the pistol, and he pulls the trigger in the
baby's face and blows out its brains. Artistic, wasn't it? By the way,
Turks are particularly fond of sweet things, they say."

"Brother, what are you driving at?" asked Alyosha.

"I think if the devil doesn't exist, but man has created him, he has
created him in his own image and likeness."

"Just as he did God, then?" observed Alyosha.

" 'It's wonderful how you can turn words,' as Polonius says in _Hamlet_,"
laughed Ivan. "You turn my words against me. Well, I am glad. Yours must
be a fine God, if man created Him in his image and likeness. You asked
just now what I was driving at. You see, I am fond of collecting certain
facts, and, would you believe, I even copy anecdotes of a certain sort
from newspapers and books, and I've already got a fine collection. The
Turks, of course, have gone into it, but they are foreigners. I have
specimens from home that are even better than the Turks. You know we
prefer beating--rods and scourges--that's our national institution. Nailing
ears is unthinkable for us, for we are, after all, Europeans. But the rod
and the scourge we have always with us and they cannot be taken from us.
Abroad now they scarcely do any beating. Manners are more humane, or laws
have been passed, so that they don't dare to flog men now. But they make
up for it in another way just as national as ours. And so national that it
would be practically impossible among us, though I believe we are being
inoculated with it, since the religious movement began in our aristocracy.
I have a charming pamphlet, translated from the French, describing how,
quite recently, five years ago, a murderer, Richard, was executed--a young
man, I believe, of three and twenty, who repented and was converted to the
Christian faith at the very scaffold. This Richard was an illegitimate
child who was given as a child of six by his parents to some shepherds on
the Swiss mountains. They brought him up to work for them. He grew up like
a little wild beast among them. The shepherds taught him nothing, and
scarcely fed or clothed him, but sent him out at seven to herd the flock
in cold and wet, and no one hesitated or scrupled to treat him so. Quite
the contrary, they thought they had every right, for Richard had been
given to them as a chattel, and they did not even see the necessity of
feeding him. Richard himself describes how in those years, like the
Prodigal Son in the Gospel, he longed to eat of the mash given to the
pigs, which were fattened for sale. But they wouldn't even give him that,
and beat him when he stole from the pigs. And that was how he spent all
his childhood and his youth, till he grew up and was strong enough to go
away and be a thief. The savage began to earn his living as a day laborer
in Geneva. He drank what he earned, he lived like a brute, and finished by
killing and robbing an old man. He was caught, tried, and condemned to
death. They are not sentimentalists there. And in prison he was
immediately surrounded by pastors, members of Christian brotherhoods,
philanthropic ladies, and the like. They taught him to read and write in
prison, and expounded the Gospel to him. They exhorted him, worked upon
him, drummed at him incessantly, till at last he solemnly confessed his
crime. He was converted. He wrote to the court himself that he was a
monster, but that in the end God had vouchsafed him light and shown grace.
All Geneva was in excitement about him--all philanthropic and religious
Geneva. All the aristocratic and well-bred society of the town rushed to
the prison, kissed Richard and embraced him; 'You are our brother, you
have found grace.' And Richard does nothing but weep with emotion, 'Yes,
I've found grace! All my youth and childhood I was glad of pigs' food, but
now even I have found grace. I am dying in the Lord.' 'Yes, Richard, die
in the Lord; you have shed blood and must die. Though it's not your fault
that you knew not the Lord, when you coveted the pigs' food and were
beaten for stealing it (which was very wrong of you, for stealing is
forbidden); but you've shed blood and you must die.' And on the last day,
Richard, perfectly limp, did nothing but cry and repeat every minute:
'This is my happiest day. I am going to the Lord.' 'Yes,' cry the pastors
and the judges and philanthropic ladies. 'This is the happiest day of your
life, for you are going to the Lord!' They all walk or drive to the
scaffold in procession behind the prison van. At the scaffold they call to
Richard: 'Die, brother, die in the Lord, for even thou hast found grace!'
And so, covered with his brothers' kisses, Richard is dragged on to the
scaffold, and led to the guillotine. And they chopped off his head in
brotherly fashion, because he had found grace. Yes, that's characteristic.
That pamphlet is translated into Russian by some Russian philanthropists
of aristocratic rank and evangelical aspirations, and has been distributed
gratis for the enlightenment of the people. The case of Richard is
interesting because it's national. Though to us it's absurd to cut off a
man's head, because he has become our brother and has found grace, yet we
have our own speciality, which is all but worse. Our historical pastime is
the direct satisfaction of inflicting pain. There are lines in Nekrassov
describing how a peasant lashes a horse on the eyes, 'on its meek eyes,'
every one must have seen it. It's peculiarly Russian. He describes how a
feeble little nag has foundered under too heavy a load and cannot move.
The peasant beats it, beats it savagely, beats it at last not knowing what
he is doing in the intoxication of cruelty, thrashes it mercilessly over
and over again. 'However weak you are, you must pull, if you die for it.'
The nag strains, and then he begins lashing the poor defenseless creature
on its weeping, on its 'meek eyes.' The frantic beast tugs and draws the
load, trembling all over, gasping for breath, moving sideways, with a sort
of unnatural spasmodic action--it's awful in Nekrassov. But that's only a
horse, and God has given horses to be beaten. So the Tatars have taught
us, and they left us the knout as a remembrance of it. But men, too, can
be beaten. A well-educated, cultured gentleman and his wife beat their own
child with a birch-rod, a girl of seven. I have an exact account of it.
The papa was glad that the birch was covered with twigs. 'It stings more,'
said he, and so he began stinging his daughter. I know for a fact there
are people who at every blow are worked up to sensuality, to literal
sensuality, which increases progressively at every blow they inflict. They
beat for a minute, for five minutes, for ten minutes, more often and more
savagely. The child screams. At last the child cannot scream, it gasps,
'Daddy! daddy!' By some diabolical unseemly chance the case was brought
into court. A counsel is engaged. The Russian people have long called a
barrister 'a conscience for hire.' The counsel protests in his client's
defense. 'It's such a simple thing,' he says, 'an everyday domestic event.
A father corrects his child. To our shame be it said, it is brought into
court.' The jury, convinced by him, give a favorable verdict. The public
roars with delight that the torturer is acquitted. Ah, pity I wasn't
there! I would have proposed to raise a subscription in his honor!
Charming pictures.

"But I've still better things about children. I've collected a great,
great deal about Russian children, Alyosha. There was a little girl of
five who was hated by her father and mother, 'most worthy and respectable
people, of good education and breeding.' You see, I must repeat again, it
is a peculiar characteristic of many people, this love of torturing
children, and children only. To all other types of humanity these
torturers behave mildly and benevolently, like cultivated and humane
Europeans; but they are very fond of tormenting children, even fond of
children themselves in that sense. It's just their defenselessness that
tempts the tormentor, just the angelic confidence of the child who has no
refuge and no appeal, that sets his vile blood on fire. In every man, of
course, a demon lies hidden--the demon of rage, the demon of lustful heat
at the screams of the tortured victim, the demon of lawlessness let off
the chain, the demon of diseases that follow on vice, gout, kidney
disease, and so on.

"This poor child of five was subjected to every possible torture by those
cultivated parents. They beat her, thrashed her, kicked her for no reason
till her body was one bruise. Then, they went to greater refinements of
cruelty--shut her up all night in the cold and frost in a privy, and
because she didn't ask to be taken up at night (as though a child of five
sleeping its angelic, sound sleep could be trained to wake and ask), they
smeared her face and filled her mouth with excrement, and it was her
mother, her mother did this. And that mother could sleep, hearing the poor
child's groans! Can you understand why a little creature, who can't even
understand what's done to her, should beat her little aching heart with
her tiny fist in the dark and the cold, and weep her meek unresentful
tears to dear, kind God to protect her? Do you understand that, friend and
brother, you pious and humble novice? Do you understand why this infamy
must be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have
existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he
know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why, the whole
world of knowledge is not worth that child's prayer to 'dear, kind God'! I
say nothing of the sufferings of grown-up people, they have eaten the
apple, damn them, and the devil take them all! But these little ones! I am
making you suffer, Alyosha, you are not yourself. I'll leave off if you
like."

"Never mind. I want to suffer too," muttered Alyosha.

"One picture, only one more, because it's so curious, so characteristic,
and I have only just read it in some collection of Russian antiquities.
I've forgotten the name. I must look it up. It was in the darkest days of
serfdom at the beginning of the century, and long live the Liberator of
the People! There was in those days a general of aristocratic connections,
the owner of great estates, one of those men--somewhat exceptional, I
believe, even then--who, retiring from the service into a life of leisure,
are convinced that they've earned absolute power over the lives of their
subjects. There were such men then. So our general, settled on his
property of two thousand souls, lives in pomp, and domineers over his poor
neighbors as though they were dependents and buffoons. He has kennels of
hundreds of hounds and nearly a hundred dog-boys--all mounted, and in
uniform. One day a serf-boy, a little child of eight, threw a stone in
play and hurt the paw of the general's favorite hound. 'Why is my favorite
dog lame?' He is told that the boy threw a stone that hurt the dog's paw.
'So you did it.' The general looked the child up and down. 'Take him.' He
was taken--taken from his mother and kept shut up all night. Early that
morning the general comes out on horseback, with the hounds, his
dependents, dog-boys, and huntsmen, all mounted around him in full hunting
parade. The servants are summoned for their edification, and in front of
them all stands the mother of the child. The child is brought from the
lock-up. It's a gloomy, cold, foggy autumn day, a capital day for hunting.
The general orders the child to be undressed; the child is stripped naked.
He shivers, numb with terror, not daring to cry.... 'Make him run,'
commands the general. 'Run! run!' shout the dog-boys. The boy runs.... 'At
him!' yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the
child. The hounds catch him, and tear him to pieces before his mother's
eyes!... I believe the general was afterwards declared incapable of
administering his estates. Well--what did he deserve? To be shot? To be
shot for the satisfaction of our moral feelings? Speak, Alyosha!"

"To be shot," murmured Alyosha, lifting his eyes to Ivan with a pale,
twisted smile.

"Bravo!" cried Ivan, delighted. "If even you say so.... You're a pretty
monk! So there is a little devil sitting in your heart, Alyosha
Karamazov!"

"What I said was absurd, but--"

"That's just the point, that 'but'!" cried Ivan. "Let me tell you, novice,
that the absurd is only too necessary on earth. The world stands on
absurdities, and perhaps nothing would have come to pass in it without
them. We know what we know!"

"What do you know?"

"I understand nothing," Ivan went on, as though in delirium. "I don't want
to understand anything now. I want to stick to the fact. I made up my mind
long ago not to understand. If I try to understand anything, I shall be
false to the fact, and I have determined to stick to the fact."

"Why are you trying me?" Alyosha cried, with sudden distress. "Will you
say what you mean at last?"

"Of course, I will; that's what I've been leading up to. You are dear to
me, I don't want to let you go, and I won't give you up to your Zossima."

Ivan for a minute was silent, his face became all at once very sad.

"Listen! I took the case of children only to make my case clearer. Of the
other tears of humanity with which the earth is soaked from its crust to
its center, I will say nothing. I have narrowed my subject on purpose. I
am a bug, and I recognize in all humility that I cannot understand why the
world is arranged as it is. Men are themselves to blame, I suppose; they
were given paradise, they wanted freedom, and stole fire from heaven,
though they knew they would become unhappy, so there is no need to pity
them. With my pitiful, earthly, Euclidian understanding, all I know is
that there is suffering and that there are none guilty; that cause follows
effect, simply and directly; that everything flows and finds its level--but
that's only Euclidian nonsense, I know that, and I can't consent to live
by it! What comfort is it to me that there are none guilty and that cause
follows effect simply and directly, and that I know it?--I must have
justice, or I will destroy myself. And not justice in some remote infinite
time and space, but here on earth, and that I could see myself. I have
believed in it. I want to see it, and if I am dead by then, let me rise
again, for if it all happens without me, it will be too unfair. Surely I
haven't suffered, simply that I, my crimes and my sufferings, may manure
the soil of the future harmony for somebody else. I want to see with my
own eyes the hind lie down with the lion and the victim rise up and
embrace his murderer. I want to be there when every one suddenly
understands what it has all been for. All the religions of the world are
built on this longing, and I am a believer. But then there are the
children, and what am I to do about them? That's a question I can't
answer. For the hundredth time I repeat, there are numbers of questions,
but I've only taken the children, because in their case what I mean is so
unanswerably clear. Listen! If all must suffer to pay for the eternal
harmony, what have children to do with it, tell me, please? It's beyond
all comprehension why they should suffer, and why they should pay for the
harmony. Why should they, too, furnish material to enrich the soil for the
harmony of the future? I understand solidarity in sin among men. I
understand solidarity in retribution, too; but there can be no such
solidarity with children. And if it is really true that they must share
responsibility for all their fathers' crimes, such a truth is not of this
world and is beyond my comprehension. Some jester will say, perhaps, that
the child would have grown up and have sinned, but you see he didn't grow
up, he was torn to pieces by the dogs, at eight years old. Oh, Alyosha, I
am not blaspheming! I understand, of course, what an upheaval of the
universe it will be, when everything in heaven and earth blends in one
hymn of praise and everything that lives and has lived cries aloud: 'Thou
art just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed.' When the mother embraces the
fiend who threw her child to the dogs, and all three cry aloud with tears,
'Thou art just, O Lord!' then, of course, the crown of knowledge will be
reached and all will be made clear. But what pulls me up here is that I
can't accept that harmony. And while I am on earth, I make haste to take
my own measures. You see, Alyosha, perhaps it really may happen that if I
live to that moment, or rise again to see it, I, too, perhaps, may cry
aloud with the rest, looking at the mother embracing the child's torturer,
'Thou art just, O Lord!' but I don't want to cry aloud then. While there
is still time, I hasten to protect myself, and so I renounce the higher
harmony altogether. It's not worth the tears of that one tortured child
who beat itself on the breast with its little fist and prayed in its
stinking outhouse, with its unexpiated tears to 'dear, kind God'! It's not
worth it, because those tears are unatoned for. They must be atoned for,
or there can be no harmony. But how? How are you going to atone for them?
Is it possible? By their being avenged? But what do I care for avenging
them? What do I care for a hell for oppressors? What good can hell do,
since those children have already been tortured? And what becomes of
harmony, if there is hell? I want to forgive. I want to embrace. I don't
want more suffering. And if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum
of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that
the truth is not worth such a price. I don't want the mother to embrace
the oppressor who threw her son to the dogs! She dare not forgive him! Let
her forgive him for herself, if she will, let her forgive the torturer for
the immeasurable suffering of her mother's heart. But the sufferings of
her tortured child she has no right to forgive; she dare not forgive the
torturer, even if the child were to forgive him! And if that is so, if
they dare not forgive, what becomes of harmony? Is there in the whole
world a being who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? I
don't want harmony. From love for humanity I don't want it. I would rather
be left with the unavenged suffering. I would rather remain with my
unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation, _even if I were wrong_.
Besides, too high a price is asked for harmony; it's beyond our means to
pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance
ticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as
possible. And that I am doing. It's not God that I don't accept, Alyosha,
only I most respectfully return Him the ticket."

"That's rebellion," murmured Alyosha, looking down.

"Rebellion? I am sorry you call it that," said Ivan earnestly. "One can
hardly live in rebellion, and I want to live. Tell me yourself, I
challenge you--answer. Imagine that you are creating a fabric of human
destiny with the object of making men happy in the end, giving them peace
and rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable to torture to
death only one tiny creature--that baby beating its breast with its fist,
for instance--and to found that edifice on its unavenged tears, would you
consent to be the architect on those conditions? Tell me, and tell the
truth."

"No, I wouldn't consent," said Alyosha softly.

"And can you admit the idea that men for whom you are building it would
agree to accept their happiness on the foundation of the unexpiated blood
of a little victim? And accepting it would remain happy for ever?"

"No, I can't admit it. Brother," said Alyosha suddenly, with flashing
eyes, "you said just now, is there a being in the whole world who would
have the right to forgive and could forgive? But there is a Being and He
can forgive everything, all and for all, because He gave His innocent
blood for all and everything. You have forgotten Him, and on Him is built
the edifice, and it is to Him they cry aloud, 'Thou art just, O Lord, for
Thy ways are revealed!' "

"Ah! the One without sin and His blood! No, I have not forgotten Him; on
the contrary I've been wondering all the time how it was you did not bring
Him in before, for usually all arguments on your side put Him in the
foreground. Do you know, Alyosha--don't laugh! I made a poem about a year
ago. If you can waste another ten minutes on me, I'll tell it to you."

"You wrote a poem?"

"Oh, no, I didn't write it," laughed Ivan, "and I've never written two
lines of poetry in my life. But I made up this poem in prose and I
remembered it. I was carried away when I made it up. You will be my first
reader--that is listener. Why should an author forego even one listener?"
smiled Ivan. "Shall I tell it to you?"

"I am all attention," said Alyosha.

"My poem is called 'The Grand Inquisitor'; it's a ridiculous thing, but I
want to tell it to you."

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 Hotel de Ville of Paris in the reign of Louis XI. in honor of the
birth of the dauphin. It was called _Le bon jugement de la tres 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 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 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 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 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, 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, 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 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 fe_ 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 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 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 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 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
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 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 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 Caesar, 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 Caesars, and then we shall plan
the universal happiness of man. But Thou mightest have taken even then the
sword of Caesar. 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 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 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 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 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 Paissy's
teaching?"

"No, no, on the contrary, Father Paissy 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 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 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 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."

"And you with him, you too?" cried Alyosha, mournfully.

Ivan laughed.

"Why, it's all nonsense, Alyosha. It's only a senseless poem of a
senseless student, who could never write two lines of verse. Why do you
take it so seriously? Surely you don't suppose I am going straight off to
the Jesuits, to join the men who are correcting His work? Good Lord, it's
no business of mine. I told you, all I want is to live on to thirty, and
then ... dash the cup to the ground!"

"But the little sticky leaves, and the precious tombs, and the blue sky,
and the woman you love! How will you live, how will you love them?"
Alyosha cried sorrowfully. "With such a hell in your heart and your head,
how can you? No, that's just what you are going away for, to join them ...
if not, you will kill yourself, you can't endure it!"

"There is a strength to endure everything," Ivan said with a cold smile.

"What strength?"

"The strength of the Karamazovs--the strength of the Karamazov baseness."

"To sink into debauchery, to stifle your soul with corruption, yes?"

"Possibly even that ... only perhaps till I am thirty I shall escape it,
and then--"

"How will you escape it? By what will you escape it? That's impossible
with your ideas."

"In the Karamazov way, again."

" 'Everything is lawful,' you mean? Everything is lawful, is that it?"

Ivan scowled, and all at once turned strangely pale.

"Ah, you've caught up yesterday's phrase, which so offended Miuesov--and
which Dmitri pounced upon so naively, and paraphrased!" he smiled queerly.
"Yes, if you like, 'everything is lawful' since the word has been said. I
won't deny it. And Mitya's version isn't bad."

Alyosha looked at him in silence.

"I thought that going away from here I have you at least," Ivan said
suddenly, with unexpected feeling; "but now I see that there is no place
for me even in your heart, my dear hermit. The formula, 'all is lawful,' I
won't renounce--will you renounce me for that, yes?"

Alyosha got up, went to him and softly kissed him on the lips.

"That's plagiarism," cried Ivan, highly delighted. "You stole that from my
poem. Thank you though. Get up, Alyosha, it's time we were going, both of
us."

They went out, but stopped when they reached the entrance of the
restaurant.

"Listen, Alyosha," Ivan began in a resolute voice, "if I am really able to
care for the sticky little leaves I shall only love them, remembering you.
It's enough for me that you are somewhere here, and I shan't lose my
desire for life yet. Is that enough for you? Take it as a declaration of
love if you like. And now you go to the right and I to the left. And it's
enough, do you hear, enough. I mean even if I don't go away to-morrow (I
think I certainly shall go) and we meet again, don't say a word more on
these subjects. I beg that particularly. And about Dmitri too, I ask you
specially, never speak to me again," he added, with sudden irritation;
"it's all exhausted, it has all been said over and over again, hasn't it?
And I'll make you one promise in return for it. When at thirty, I want to
'dash the cup to the ground,' wherever I may be I'll come to have one more
talk with you, even though it were from America, you may be sure of that.
I'll come on purpose. It will be very interesting to have a look at you,
to see what you'll be by that time. It's rather a solemn promise, you see.
And we really may be parting for seven years or ten. Come, go now to your
Pater Seraphicus, he is dying. If he dies without you, you will be angry
with me for having kept you. Good-by, kiss me once more; that's right, now
go."

Ivan turned suddenly and went his way without looking back. It was just as
Dmitri had left Alyosha the day before, though the parting had been very
different. The strange resemblance flashed like an arrow through Alyosha's
mind in the distress and dejection of that moment. He waited a little,
looking after his brother. He suddenly noticed that Ivan swayed as he
walked and that his right shoulder looked lower than his left. He had
never noticed it before. But all at once he turned too, and almost ran to
the monastery. It was nearly dark, and he felt almost frightened;
something new was growing up in him for which he could not account. The
wind had risen again as on the previous evening, and the ancient pines
murmured gloomily about him when he entered the hermitage copse. He almost
ran. "Pater Seraphicus--he got that name from somewhere--where from?"
Alyosha wondered. "Ivan, poor Ivan, and when shall I see you again?...
Here is the hermitage. Yes, yes, that he is, Pater Seraphicus, he will
save me--from him and for ever!"

Several times afterwards he wondered how he could on leaving Ivan so
completely forget his brother Dmitri, though he had that morning, only a
few hours before, so firmly resolved to find him and not to give up doing
so, even should he be unable to return to the monastery that night.

Chapter VI. For Awhile A Very Obscure One

And Ivan, on parting from Alyosha, went home to Fyodor Pavlovitch's house.
But, strange to say, he was overcome by insufferable depression, which
grew greater at every step he took towards the house. There was nothing
strange in his being depressed; what was strange was that Ivan could not
have said what was the cause of it. He had often been depressed before,
and there was nothing surprising at his feeling so at such a moment, when
he had broken off with everything that had brought him here, and was
preparing that day to make a new start and enter upon a new, unknown
future. He would again be as solitary as ever, and though he had great
hopes, and great--too great--expectations from life, he could not have given
any definite account of his hopes, his expectations, or even his desires.

Yet at that moment, though the apprehension of the new and unknown
certainly found place in his heart, what was worrying him was something
quite different. "Is it loathing for my father's house?" he wondered.
"Quite likely; I am so sick of it; and though it's the last time I shall
cross its hateful threshold, still I loathe it.... No, it's not that
either. Is it the parting with Alyosha and the conversation I had with
him? For so many years I've been silent with the whole world and not
deigned to speak, and all of a sudden I reel off a rigmarole like that."
It certainly might have been the youthful vexation of youthful
inexperience and vanity--vexation at having failed to express himself,
especially with such a being as Alyosha, on whom his heart had certainly
been reckoning. No doubt that came in, that vexation, it must have done
indeed; but yet that was not it, that was not it either. "I feel sick with
depression and yet I can't tell what I want. Better not think, perhaps."

Ivan tried "not to think," but that, too, was no use. What made his
depression so vexatious and irritating was that it had a kind of casual,
external character--he felt that. Some person or thing seemed to be
standing out somewhere, just as something will sometimes obtrude itself
upon the eye, and though one may be so busy with work or conversation that
for a long time one does not notice it, yet it irritates and almost
torments one till at last one realizes, and removes the offending object,
often quite a trifling and ridiculous one--some article left about in the
wrong place, a handkerchief on the floor, a book not replaced on the
shelf, and so on.

At last, feeling very cross and ill-humored, Ivan arrived home, and
suddenly, about fifteen paces from the garden gate, he guessed what was
fretting and worrying him.

On a bench in the gateway the valet Smerdyakov was sitting enjoying the
coolness of the evening, and at the first glance at him Ivan knew that the
valet Smerdyakov was on his mind, and that it was this man that his soul
loathed. It all dawned upon him suddenly and became clear. Just before,
when Alyosha had been telling him of his meeting with Smerdyakov, he had
felt a sudden twinge of gloom and loathing, which had immediately stirred
responsive anger in his heart. Afterwards, as he talked, Smerdyakov had
been forgotten for the time; but still he had been in his mind, and as
soon as Ivan parted with Alyosha and was walking home, the forgotten
sensation began to obtrude itself again. "Is it possible that a miserable,
contemptible creature like that can worry me so much?" he wondered, with
insufferable irritation.

It was true that Ivan had come of late to feel an intense dislike for the
man, especially during the last few days. He had even begun to notice in
himself a growing feeling that was almost of hatred for the creature.
Perhaps this hatred was accentuated by the fact that when Ivan first came
to the neighborhood he had felt quite differently. Then he had taken a
marked interest in Smerdyakov, and had even thought him very original. He
had encouraged him to talk to him, although he had always wondered at a
certain incoherence, or rather restlessness, in his mind, and could not
understand what it was that so continually and insistently worked upon the
brain of "the contemplative." They discussed philosophical questions and
even how there could have been light on the first day when the sun, moon,
and stars were only created on the fourth day, and how that was to be
understood. But Ivan soon saw that, though the sun, moon, and stars might
be an interesting subject, yet that it was quite secondary to Smerdyakov,
and that he was looking for something altogether different. In one way and
another, he began to betray a boundless vanity, and a wounded vanity, too,
and that Ivan disliked. It had first given rise to his aversion. Later on,
there had been trouble in the house. Grushenka had come on the scene, and
there had been the scandals with his brother Dmitri--they discussed that,
too. But though Smerdyakov always talked of that with great excitement, it
was impossible to discover what he desired to come of it. There was, in
fact, something surprising in the illogicality and incoherence of some of
his desires, accidentally betrayed and always vaguely expressed.
Smerdyakov was always inquiring, putting certain indirect but obviously
premeditated questions, but what his object was he did not explain, and
usually at the most important moment he would break off and relapse into
silence or pass to another subject. But what finally irritated Ivan most
and confirmed his dislike for him was the peculiar, revolting familiarity
which Smerdyakov began to show more and more markedly. Not that he forgot
himself and was rude; on the contrary, he always spoke very respectfully,
yet he had obviously begun to consider--goodness knows why!--that there was
some sort of understanding between him and Ivan Fyodorovitch. He always
spoke in a tone that suggested that those two had some kind of compact,
some secret between them, that had at some time been expressed on both
sides, only known to them and beyond the comprehension of those around
them. But for a long while Ivan did not recognize the real cause of his
growing dislike and he had only lately realized what was at the root of
it.

With a feeling of disgust and irritation he tried to pass in at the gate
without speaking or looking at Smerdyakov. But Smerdyakov rose from the
bench, and from that action alone, Ivan knew instantly that he wanted
particularly to talk to him. Ivan looked at him and stopped, and the fact
that he did stop, instead of passing by, as he meant to the minute before,
drove him to fury. With anger and repulsion he looked at Smerdyakov's
emasculate, sickly face, with the little curls combed forward on his
forehead. His left eye winked and he grinned as if to say, "Where are you
going? You won't pass by; you see that we two clever people have something
to say to each other."

Ivan shook. "Get away, miserable idiot. What have I to do with you?" was
on the tip of his tongue, but to his profound astonishment he heard
himself say, "Is my father still asleep, or has he waked?"

He asked the question softly and meekly, to his own surprise, and at once,
again to his own surprise, sat down on the bench. For an instant he felt
almost frightened; he remembered it afterwards. Smerdyakov stood facing
him, his hands behind his back, looking at him with assurance and almost
severity.

"His honor is still asleep," he articulated deliberately ("You were the
first to speak, not I," he seemed to say). "I am surprised at you, sir,"
he added, after a pause, dropping his eyes affectedly, setting his right
foot forward, and playing with the tip of his polished boot.

"Why are you surprised at me?" Ivan asked abruptly and sullenly, doing his
utmost to restrain himself, and suddenly realizing, with disgust, that he
was feeling intense curiosity and would not, on any account, have gone
away without satisfying it.

"Why don't you go to Tchermashnya, sir?" Smerdyakov suddenly raised his
eyes and smiled familiarly. "Why I smile you must understand of yourself,
if you are a clever man," his screwed-up left eye seemed to say.

"Why should I go to Tchermashnya?" Ivan asked in surprise.

Smerdyakov was silent again.

"Fyodor Pavlovitch himself has so begged you to," he said at last, slowly
and apparently attaching no significance to his answer. "I put you off
with a secondary reason," he seemed to suggest, "simply to say something."

"Damn you! Speak out what you want!" Ivan cried angrily at last, passing
from meekness to violence.

Smerdyakov drew his right foot up to his left, pulled himself up, but
still looked at him with the same serenity and the same little smile.

"Substantially nothing--but just by way of conversation."

Another silence followed. They did not speak for nearly a minute. Ivan
knew that he ought to get up and show anger, and Smerdyakov stood before
him and seemed to be waiting as though to see whether he would be angry or
not. So at least it seemed to Ivan. At last he moved to get up. Smerdyakov
seemed to seize the moment.

"I'm in an awful position, Ivan Fyodorovitch. I don't know how to help
myself," he said resolutely and distinctly, and at his last word he
sighed. Ivan Fyodorovitch sat down again.

"They are both utterly crazy, they are no better than little children,"
Smerdyakov went on. "I am speaking of your parent and your brother Dmitri
Fyodorovitch. Here Fyodor Pavlovitch will get up directly and begin
worrying me every minute, 'Has she come? Why hasn't she come?' and so on
up till midnight and even after midnight. And if Agrafena Alexandrovna
doesn't come (for very likely she does not mean to come at all) then he
will be at me again to-morrow morning, 'Why hasn't she come? When will she
come?'--as though I were to blame for it. On the other side it's no better.
As soon as it gets dark, or even before, your brother will appear with his
gun in his hands: 'Look out, you rogue, you soup-maker. If you miss her
and don't let me know she's been--I'll kill you before any one.' When the
night's over, in the morning, he, too, like Fyodor Pavlovitch, begins
worrying me to death. 'Why hasn't she come? Will she come soon?' And he,
too, thinks me to blame because his lady hasn't come. And every day and
every hour they get angrier and angrier, so that I sometimes think I shall
kill myself in a fright. I can't depend upon them, sir."

"And why have you meddled? Why did you begin to spy for Dmitri
Fyodorovitch?" said Ivan irritably.

"How could I help meddling? Though, indeed, I haven't meddled at all, if
you want to know the truth of the matter. I kept quiet from the very
beginning, not daring to answer; but he pitched on me to be his servant.
He has had only one thing to say since: 'I'll kill you, you scoundrel, if
you miss her,' I feel certain, sir, that I shall have a long fit to-
morrow."

"What do you mean by 'a long fit'?"

"A long fit, lasting a long time--several hours, or perhaps a day or two.
Once it went on for three days. I fell from the garret that time. The
struggling ceased and then began again, and for three days I couldn't come
back to my senses. Fyodor Pavlovitch sent for Herzenstube, the doctor
here, and he put ice on my head and tried another remedy, too.... I might
have died."

"But they say one can't tell with epilepsy when a fit is coming. What
makes you say you will have one to-morrow?" Ivan inquired, with a
peculiar, irritable curiosity.

"That's just so. You can't tell beforehand."

"Besides, you fell from the garret then."

"I climb up to the garret every day. I might fall from the garret again
to-morrow. And, if not, I might fall down the cellar steps. I have to go
into the cellar every day, too."

Ivan took a long look at him.

"You are talking nonsense, I see, and I don't quite understand you," he
said softly, but with a sort of menace. "Do you mean to pretend to be ill
to-morrow for three days, eh?"

Smerdyakov, who was looking at the ground again, and playing with the toe
of his right foot, set the foot down, moved the left one forward, and,
grinning, articulated:

"If I were able to play such a trick, that is, pretend to have a fit--and
it would not be difficult for a man accustomed to them--I should have a
perfect right to use such a means to save myself from death. For even if
Agrafena Alexandrovna comes to see his father while I am ill, his honor
can't blame a sick man for not telling him. He'd be ashamed to."

"Hang it all!" Ivan cried, his face working with anger, "why are you
always in such a funk for your life? All my brother Dmitri's threats are
only hasty words and mean nothing. He won't kill you; it's not you he'll
kill!"

"He'd kill me first of all, like a fly. But even more than that, I am
afraid I shall be taken for an accomplice of his when he does something
crazy to his father."

"Why should you be taken for an accomplice?"

"They'll think I am an accomplice, because I let him know the signals as a
great secret."

"What signals? Whom did you tell? Confound you, speak more plainly."

"I'm bound to admit the fact," Smerdyakov drawled with pedantic composure,
"that I have a secret with Fyodor Pavlovitch in this business. As you know
yourself (if only you do know it) he has for several days past locked
himself in as soon as night or even evening comes on. Of late you've been
going upstairs to your room early every evening, and yesterday you did not
come down at all, and so perhaps you don't know how carefully he has begun
to lock himself in at night, and even if Grigory Vassilyevitch comes to
the door he won't open to him till he hears his voice. But Grigory
Vassilyevitch does not come, because I wait upon him alone in his room
now. That's the arrangement he made himself ever since this to-do with
Agrafena Alexandrovna began. But at night, by his orders, I go away to the
lodge so that I don't get to sleep till midnight, but am on the watch,
getting up and walking about the yard, waiting for Agrafena Alexandrovna
to come. For the last few days he's been perfectly frantic expecting her.
What he argues is, she is afraid of him, Dmitri Fyodorovitch (Mitya, as he
calls him), 'and so,' says he, 'she'll come the back-way, late at night,
to me. You look out for her,' says he, 'till midnight and later; and if
she does come, you run up and knock at my door or at the window from the
garden. Knock at first twice, rather gently, and then three times more
quickly, then,' says he, 'I shall understand at once that she has come,
and will open the door to you quietly.' Another signal he gave me in case
anything unexpected happens. At first, two knocks, and then, after an
interval, another much louder. Then he will understand that something has
happened suddenly and that I must see him, and he will open to me so that
I can go and speak to him. That's all in case Agrafena Alexandrovna can't
come herself, but sends a message. Besides, Dmitri Fyodorovitch might
come, too, so I must let him know he is near. His honor is awfully afraid
of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, so that even if Agrafena Alexandrovna had come and
were locked in with him, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch were to turn up anywhere
near at the time, I should be bound to let him know at once, knocking
three times. So that the first signal of five knocks means Agrafena
Alexandrovna has come, while the second signal of three knocks means
'something important to tell you.' His honor has shown me them several
times and explained them. And as in the whole universe no one knows of
these signals but myself and his honor, so he'd open the door without the
slightest hesitation and without calling out (he is awfully afraid of
calling out aloud). Well, those signals are known to Dmitri Fyodorovitch
too, now."

"How are they known? Did you tell him? How dared you tell him?"

"It was through fright I did it. How could I dare to keep it back from
him? Dmitri Fyodorovitch kept persisting every day, 'You are deceiving me,
you are hiding something from me! I'll break both your legs for you.' So I
told him those secret signals that he might see my slavish devotion, and
might be satisfied that I was not deceiving him, but was telling him all I
could."

"If you think that he'll make use of those signals and try to get in,
don't let him in."

"But if I should be laid up with a fit, how can I prevent him coming in
then, even if I dared prevent him, knowing how desperate he is?"

"Hang it! How can you be so sure you are going to have a fit, confound
you? Are you laughing at me?"

"How could I dare laugh at you? I am in no laughing humor with this fear
on me. I feel I am going to have a fit. I have a presentiment. Fright
alone will bring it on."

"Confound it! If you are laid up, Grigory will be on the watch. Let
Grigory know beforehand; he will be sure not to let him in."

"I should never dare to tell Grigory Vassilyevitch about the signals
without orders from my master. And as for Grigory Vassilyevitch hearing
him and not admitting him, he has been ill ever since yesterday, and Marfa
Ignatyevna intends to give him medicine to-morrow. They've just arranged
it. It's a very strange remedy of hers. Marfa Ignatyevna knows of a
preparation and always keeps it. It's a strong thing made from some herb.
She has the secret of it, and she always gives it to Grigory Vassilyevitch
three times a year when his lumbago's so bad he is almost paralyzed by it.
Then she takes a towel, wets it with the stuff, and rubs his whole back
for half an hour till it's quite red and swollen, and what's left in the
bottle she gives him to drink with a special prayer; but not quite all,
for on such occasions she leaves some for herself, and drinks it herself.
And as they never take strong drink, I assure you they both drop asleep at
once and sleep sound a very long time. And when Grigory Vassilyevitch
wakes up he is perfectly well after it, but Marfa Ignatyevna always has a
headache from it. So, if Marfa Ignatyevna carries out her intention to-
morrow, they won't hear anything and hinder Dmitri Fyodorovitch. They'll
be asleep."

"What a rigmarole! And it all seems to happen at once, as though it were
planned. You'll have a fit and they'll both be unconscious," cried Ivan.
"But aren't you trying to arrange it so?" broke from him suddenly, and he
frowned threateningly.

"How could I?... And why should I, when it all depends on Dmitri
Fyodorovitch and his plans?... If he means to do anything, he'll do it;
but if not, I shan't be thrusting him upon his father."

"And why should he go to father, especially on the sly, if, as you say
yourself, Agrafena Alexandrovna won't come at all?" Ivan went on, turning
white with anger. "You say that yourself, and all the while I've been
here, I've felt sure it was all the old man's fancy, and the creature
won't come to him. Why should Dmitri break in on him if she doesn't come?
Speak, I want to know what you are thinking!"

"You know yourself why he'll come. What's the use of what I think? His
honor will come simply because he is in a rage or suspicious on account of
my illness perhaps, and he'll dash in, as he did yesterday through
impatience to search the rooms, to see whether she hasn't escaped him on
the sly. He is perfectly well aware, too, that Fyodor Pavlovitch has a big
envelope with three thousand roubles in it, tied up with ribbon and sealed
with three seals. On it is written in his own hand, 'To my angel
Grushenka, if she will come,' to which he added three days later, 'for my
little chicken.' There's no knowing what that might do."

"Nonsense!" cried Ivan, almost beside himself. "Dmitri won't come to steal
money and kill my father to do it. He might have killed him yesterday on
account of Grushenka, like the frantic, savage fool he is, but he won't
steal."

"He is in very great need of money now--the greatest need, Ivan
Fyodorovitch. You don't know in what need he is," Smerdyakov explained,
with perfect composure and remarkable distinctness. "He looks on that
three thousand as his own, too. He said so to me himself. 'My father still
owes me just three thousand,' he said. And besides that, consider, Ivan
Fyodorovitch, there is something else perfectly true. It's as good as
certain, so to say, that Agrafena Alexandrovna will force him, if only she
cares to, to marry her--the master himself, I mean, Fyodor Pavlovitch--if
only she cares to, and of course she may care to. All I've said is that
she won't come, but maybe she's looking for more than that--I mean to be
mistress here. I know myself that Samsonov, her merchant, was laughing
with her about it, telling her quite openly that it would not be at all a
stupid thing to do. And she's got plenty of sense. She wouldn't marry a
beggar like Dmitri Fyodorovitch. So, taking that into consideration, Ivan
Fyodorovitch, reflect that then neither Dmitri Fyodorovitch nor yourself
and your brother, Alexey Fyodorovitch, would have anything after the
master's death, not a rouble, for Agrafena Alexandrovna would marry him
simply to get hold of the whole, all the money there is. But if your
father were to die now, there'd be some forty thousand for sure, even for
Dmitri Fyodorovitch whom he hates so, for he's made no will.... Dmitri
Fyodorovitch knows all that very well."

A sort of shudder passed over Ivan's face. He suddenly flushed.

"Then why on earth," he suddenly interrupted Smerdyakov, "do you advise me
to go to Tchermashnya? What did you mean by that? If I go away, you see
what will happen here." Ivan drew his breath with difficulty.

"Precisely so," said Smerdyakov, softly and reasonably, watching Ivan
intently, however.

"What do you mean by 'precisely so'?" Ivan questioned him, with a menacing
light in his eyes, restraining himself with difficulty.

"I spoke because I felt sorry for you. If I were in your place I should
simply throw it all up ... rather than stay on in such a position,"
answered Smerdyakov, with the most candid air looking at Ivan's flashing
eyes. They were both silent.

"You seem to be a perfect idiot, and what's more ... an awful scoundrel,
too." Ivan rose suddenly from the bench. He was about to pass straight
through the gate, but he stopped short and turned to Smerdyakov. Something
strange followed. Ivan, in a sudden paroxysm, bit his lip, clenched his
fists, and, in another minute, would have flung himself on Smerdyakov. The
latter, anyway, noticed it at the same moment, started, and shrank back.
But the moment passed without mischief to Smerdyakov, and Ivan turned in
silence, as it seemed in perplexity, to the gate.

"I am going away to Moscow to-morrow, if you care to know--early to-morrow
morning. That's all!" he suddenly said aloud angrily, and wondered himself
afterwards what need there was to say this then to Smerdyakov.

"That's the best thing you can do," he responded, as though he had
expected to hear it; "except that you can always be telegraphed for from
Moscow, if anything should happen here."

Ivan stopped again, and again turned quickly to Smerdyakov. But a change
had passed over him, too. All his familiarity and carelessness had
completely disappeared. His face expressed attention and expectation,
intent but timid and cringing.

"Haven't you something more to say--something to add?" could be read in the
intent gaze he fixed on Ivan.

"And couldn't I be sent for from Tchermashnya, too--in case anything
happened?" Ivan shouted suddenly, for some unknown reason raising his
voice.

"From Tchermashnya, too ... you could be sent for," Smerdyakov muttered,
almost in a whisper, looking disconcerted, but gazing intently into Ivan's
eyes.

"Only Moscow is farther and Tchermashnya is nearer. Is it to save my
spending money on the fare, or to save my going so far out of my way, that
you insist on Tchermashnya?"

"Precisely so ..." muttered Smerdyakov, with a breaking voice. He looked
at Ivan with a revolting smile, and again made ready to draw back. But to
his astonishment Ivan broke into a laugh, and went through the gate still
laughing. Any one who had seen his face at that moment would have known
that he was not laughing from lightness of heart, and he could not have
explained himself what he was feeling at that instant. He moved and walked
as though in a nervous frenzy.

Chapter VII. "It's Always Worth While Speaking To A Clever Man"

And in the same nervous frenzy, too, he spoke. Meeting Fyodor Pavlovitch
in the drawing-room directly he went in, he shouted to him, waving his
hands, "I am going upstairs to my room, not in to you. Good-by!" and
passed by, trying not even to look at his father. Very possibly the old
man was too hateful to him at that moment; but such an unceremonious
display of hostility was a surprise even to Fyodor Pavlovitch. And the old
man evidently wanted to tell him something at once and had come to meet
him in the drawing-room on purpose. Receiving this amiable greeting, he
stood still in silence and with an ironical air watched his son going
upstairs, till he passed out of sight.

"What's the matter with him?" he promptly asked Smerdyakov, who had
followed Ivan.

"Angry about something. Who can tell?" the valet muttered evasively.

"Confound him! Let him be angry then. Bring in the samovar, and get along
with you. Look sharp! No news?"

Then followed a series of questions such as Smerdyakov had just complained
of to Ivan, all relating to his expected visitor, and these questions we
will omit. Half an hour later the house was locked, and the crazy old man
was wandering along through the rooms in excited expectation of hearing
every minute the five knocks agreed upon. Now and then he peered out into
the darkness, seeing nothing.

It was very late, but Ivan was still awake and reflecting. He sat up late
that night, till two o'clock. But we will not give an account of his
thoughts, and this is not the place to look into that soul--its turn will
come. And even if one tried, it would be very hard to give an account of
them, for there were no thoughts in his brain, but something very vague,
and, above all, intense excitement. He felt himself that he had lost his
bearings. He was fretted, too, by all sorts of strange and almost
surprising desires; for instance, after midnight he suddenly had an
intense irresistible inclination to go down, open the door, go to the
lodge and beat Smerdyakov. But if he had been asked why, he could not have
given any exact reason, except perhaps that he loathed the valet as one
who had insulted him more gravely than any one in the world. On the other
hand, he was more than once that night overcome by a sort of inexplicable
humiliating terror, which he felt positively paralyzed his physical
powers. His head ached and he was giddy. A feeling of hatred was rankling
in his heart, as though he meant to avenge himself on some one. He even
hated Alyosha, recalling the conversation he had just had with him. At
moments he hated himself intensely. Of Katerina Ivanovna he almost forgot
to think, and wondered greatly at this afterwards, especially as he
remembered perfectly that when he had protested so valiantly to Katerina
Ivanovna that he would go away next day to Moscow, something had whispered
in his heart, "That's nonsense, you are not going, and it won't be so easy
to tear yourself away as you are boasting now."

Remembering that night long afterwards, Ivan recalled with peculiar
repulsion how he had suddenly got up from the sofa and had stealthily, as
though he were afraid of being watched, opened the door, gone out on the
staircase and listened to Fyodor Pavlovitch stirring down below, had
listened a long while--some five minutes--with a sort of strange curiosity,
holding his breath while his heart throbbed. And why he had done all this,
why he was listening, he could not have said. That "action" all his life
afterwards he called "infamous," and at the bottom of his heart, he
thought of it as the basest action of his life. For Fyodor Pavlovitch
himself he felt no hatred at that moment, but was simply intensely curious
to know how he was walking down there below and what he must be doing now.
He wondered and imagined how he must be peeping out of the dark windows
and stopping in the middle of the room, listening, listening--for some one
to knock. Ivan went out on to the stairs twice to listen like this.

About two o'clock when everything was quiet, and even Fyodor Pavlovitch
had gone to bed, Ivan had got into bed, firmly resolved to fall asleep at
once, as he felt fearfully exhausted. And he did fall asleep at once, and
slept soundly without dreams, but waked early, at seven o'clock, when it
was broad daylight. Opening his eyes, he was surprised to feel himself
extraordinarily vigorous. He jumped up at once and dressed quickly; then
dragged out his trunk and began packing immediately. His linen had come
back from the laundress the previous morning. Ivan positively smiled at
the thought that everything was helping his sudden departure. And his
departure certainly was sudden. Though Ivan had said the day before (to
Katerina Ivanovna, Alyosha, and Smerdyakov) that he was leaving next day,
yet he remembered that he had no thought of departure when he went to bed,
or, at least, had not dreamed that his first act in the morning would be
to pack his trunk. At last his trunk and bag were ready. It was about nine
o'clock when Marfa Ignatyevna came in with her usual inquiry, "Where will
your honor take your tea, in your own room or downstairs?" He looked
almost cheerful, but there was about him, about his words and gestures,
something hurried and scattered. Greeting his father affably, and even
inquiring specially after his health, though he did not wait to hear his
answer to the end, he announced that he was starting off in an hour to
return to Moscow for good, and begged him to send for the horses. His
father heard this announcement with no sign of surprise, and forgot in an
unmannerly way to show regret at losing him. Instead of doing so, he flew
into a great flutter at the recollection of some important business of his
own.

"What a fellow you are! Not to tell me yesterday! Never mind; we'll manage
it all the same. Do me a great service, my dear boy. Go to Tchermashnya on
the way. It's only to turn to the left from the station at Volovya, only
another twelve versts and you come to Tchermashnya."

"I'm sorry, I can't. It's eighty versts to the railway and the train
starts for Moscow at seven o'clock to-night. I can only just catch it."

"You'll catch it to-morrow or the day after, but to-day turn off to
Tchermashnya. It won't put you out much to humor your father! If I hadn't
had something to keep me here, I would have run over myself long ago, for
I've some business there in a hurry. But here I ... it's not the time for
me to go now.... You see, I've two pieces of copse land there. The
Maslovs, an old merchant and his son, will give eight thousand for the
timber. But last year I just missed a purchaser who would have given
twelve. There's no getting any one about here to buy it. The Maslovs have
it all their own way. One has to take what they'll give, for no one here
dare bid against them. The priest at Ilyinskoe wrote to me last Thursday
that a merchant called Gorstkin, a man I know, had turned up. What makes
him valuable is that he is not from these parts, so he is not afraid of
the Maslovs. He says he will give me eleven thousand for the copse. Do you
hear? But he'll only be here, the priest writes, for a week altogether, so
you must go at once and make a bargain with him."

"Well, you write to the priest; he'll make the bargain."

"He can't do it. He has no eye for business. He is a perfect treasure, I'd
give him twenty thousand to take care of for me without a receipt; but he
has no eye for business, he is a perfect child, a crow could deceive him.
And yet he is a learned man, would you believe it? This Gorstkin looks
like a peasant, he wears a blue kaftan, but he is a regular rogue. That's
the common complaint. He is a liar. Sometimes he tells such lies that you
wonder why he is doing it. He told me the year before last that his wife
was dead and that he had married another, and would you believe it, there
was not a word of truth in it? His wife has never died at all, she is
alive to this day and gives him a beating twice a week. So what you have
to find out is whether he is lying or speaking the truth, when he says he
wants to buy it and would give eleven thousand."

"I shall be no use in such a business. I have no eye either."

"Stay, wait a bit! You will be of use, for I will tell you the signs by
which you can judge about Gorstkin. I've done business with him a long
time. You see, you must watch his beard; he has a nasty, thin, red beard.
If his beard shakes when he talks and he gets cross, it's all right, he is
saying what he means, he wants to do business. But if he strokes his beard
with his left hand and grins--he is trying to cheat you. Don't watch his
eyes, you won't find out anything from his eyes, he is a deep one, a
rogue--but watch his beard! I'll give you a note and you show it to him.
He's called Gorstkin, though his real name is Lyagavy(4); but don't call
him so, he will be offended. If you come to an understanding with him, and
see it's all right, write here at once. You need only write: 'He's not
lying.' Stand out for eleven thousand; one thousand you can knock off, but
not more. Just think! there's a difference between eight thousand and
eleven thousand. It's as good as picking up three thousand; it's not so
easy to find a purchaser, and I'm in desperate need of money. Only let me
know it's serious, and I'll run over and fix it up. I'll snatch the time
somehow. But what's the good of my galloping over, if it's all a notion of
the priest's? Come, will you go?"

"Oh, I can't spare the time. You must excuse me."

"Come, you might oblige your father. I shan't forget it. You've no heart,
any of you--that's what it is? What's a day or two to you? Where are you
going now--to Venice? Your Venice will keep another two days. I would have
sent Alyosha, but what use is Alyosha in a thing like that? I send you
just because you are a clever fellow. Do you suppose I don't see that? You
know nothing about timber, but you've got an eye. All that is wanted is to
see whether the man is in earnest. I tell you, watch his beard--if his
beard shakes you know he is in earnest."

"You force me to go to that damned Tchermashnya yourself, then?" cried
Ivan, with a malignant smile.

Fyodor Pavlovitch did not catch, or would not catch, the malignancy, but
he caught the smile.

"Then you'll go, you'll go? I'll scribble the note for you at once."

"I don't know whether I shall go. I don't know. I'll decide on the way."

"Nonsense! Decide at once. My dear fellow, decide! If you settle the
matter, write me a line; give it to the priest and he'll send it on to me
at once. And I won't delay you more than that. You can go to Venice. The
priest will give you horses back to Volovya station."

The old man was quite delighted. He wrote the note, and sent for the
horses. A light lunch was brought in, with brandy. When Fyodor Pavlovitch
was pleased, he usually became expansive, but to-day he seemed to restrain
himself. Of Dmitri, for instance, he did not say a word. He was quite
unmoved by the parting, and seemed, in fact, at a loss for something to
say. Ivan noticed this particularly. "He must be bored with me," he
thought. Only when accompanying his son out on to the steps, the old man
began to fuss about. He would have kissed him, but Ivan made haste to hold
out his hand, obviously avoiding the kiss. His father saw it at once, and
instantly pulled himself up.

"Well, good luck to you, good luck to you!" he repeated from the steps.
"You'll come again some time or other? Mind you do come. I shall always be
glad to see you. Well, Christ be with you!"

Ivan got into the carriage.

"Good-by, Ivan! Don't be too hard on me!" the father called for the last
time.

The whole household came out to take leave--Smerdyakov, Marfa and Grigory.
Ivan gave them ten roubles each. When he had seated himself in the
carriage, Smerdyakov jumped up to arrange the rug.

"You see ... I am going to Tchermashnya," broke suddenly from Ivan. Again,
as the day before, the words seemed to drop of themselves, and he laughed,
too, a peculiar, nervous laugh. He remembered it long after.

"It's a true saying then, that 'it's always worth while speaking to a
clever man,' " answered Smerdyakov firmly, looking significantly at Ivan.

The carriage rolled away. Nothing was clear in Ivan's soul, but he looked
eagerly around him at the fields, at the hills, at the trees, at a flock
of geese flying high overhead in the bright sky. And all of a sudden he
felt very happy. He tried to talk to the driver, and he felt intensely
interested in an answer the peasant made him; but a minute later he
realized that he was not catching anything, and that he had not really
even taken in the peasant's answer. He was silent, and it was pleasant
even so. The air was fresh, pure and cool, the sky bright. The images of
Alyosha and Katerina Ivanovna floated into his mind. But he softly smiled,
blew softly on the friendly phantoms, and they flew away. "There's plenty
of time for them," he thought. They reached the station quickly, changed
horses, and galloped to Volovya. "Why is it worth while speaking to a
clever man? What did he mean by that?" The thought seemed suddenly to
clutch at his breathing. "And why did I tell him I was going to
Tchermashnya?" They reached Volovya station. Ivan got out of the carriage,
and the drivers stood round him bargaining over the journey of twelve
versts to Tchermashnya. He told them to harness the horses. He went into
the station house, looked round, glanced at the overseer's wife, and
suddenly went back to the entrance.

"I won't go to Tchermashnya. Am I too late to reach the railway by seven,
brothers?"

"We shall just do it. Shall we get the carriage out?"

"At once. Will any one of you be going to the town to-morrow?"

"To be sure. Mitri here will."

"Can you do me a service, Mitri? Go to my father's, to Fyodor Pavlovitch
Karamazov, and tell him I haven't gone to Tchermashnya. Can you?"

"Of course I can. I've known Fyodor Pavlovitch a long time."

"And here's something for you, for I dare say he won't give you anything,"
said Ivan, laughing gayly.

"You may depend on it he won't." Mitya laughed too. "Thank you, sir. I'll
be sure to do it."

At seven o'clock Ivan got into the train and set off to Moscow "Away with
the past. I've done with the old world for ever, and may I have no news,
no echo, from it. To a new life, new places and no looking back!" But
instead of delight his soul was filled with such gloom, and his heart
ached with such anguish, as he had never known in his life before. He was
thinking all the night. The train flew on, and only at daybreak, when he
was approaching Moscow, he suddenly roused himself from his meditation.

"I am a scoundrel," he whispered to himself.

Fyodor Pavlovitch remained well satisfied at having seen his son off. For
two hours afterwards he felt almost happy, and sat drinking brandy. But
suddenly something happened which was very annoying and unpleasant for
every one in the house, and completely upset Fyodor Pavlovitch's
equanimity at once. Smerdyakov went to the cellar for something and fell
down from the top of the steps. Fortunately, Marfa Ignatyevna was in the
yard and heard him in time. She did not see the fall, but heard his
scream--the strange, peculiar scream, long familiar to her--the scream of
the epileptic falling in a fit. They could not tell whether the fit had
come on him at the moment he was descending the steps, so that he must
have fallen unconscious, or whether it was the fall and the shock that had
caused the fit in Smerdyakov, who was known to be liable to them. They
found him at the bottom of the cellar steps, writhing in convulsions and
foaming at the mouth. It was thought at first that he must have broken
something--an arm or a leg--and hurt himself, but "God had preserved him,"
as Marfa Ignatyevna expressed it--nothing of the kind had happened. But it
was difficult to get him out of the cellar. They asked the neighbors to
help and managed it somehow. Fyodor Pavlovitch himself was present at the
whole ceremony. He helped, evidently alarmed and upset. The sick man did
not regain consciousness; the convulsions ceased for a time, but then
began again, and every one concluded that the same thing would happen, as
had happened a year before, when he accidentally fell from the garret.
They remembered that ice had been put on his head then. There was still
ice in the cellar, and Marfa Ignatyevna had some brought up. In the
evening, Fyodor Pavlovitch sent for Doctor Herzenstube, who arrived at
once. He was a most estimable old man, and the most careful and
conscientious doctor in the province. After careful examination, he
concluded that the fit was a very violent one and might have serious
consequences; that meanwhile he, Herzenstube, did not fully understand it,
but that by to-morrow morning, if the present remedies were unavailing, he
would venture to try something else. The invalid was taken to the lodge,
to a room next to Grigory's and Marfa Ignatyevna's.

Then Fyodor Pavlovitch had one misfortune after another to put up with
that day. Marfa Ignatyevna cooked the dinner, and the soup, compared with
Smerdyakov's, was "no better than dish-water," and the fowl was so dried
up that it was impossible to masticate it. To her master's bitter, though
deserved, reproaches, Marfa Ignatyevna replied that the fowl was a very
old one to begin with, and that she had never been trained as a cook. In
the evening there was another trouble in store for Fyodor Pavlovitch; he
was informed that Grigory, who had not been well for the last three days,
was completely laid up by his lumbago. Fyodor Pavlovitch finished his tea
as early as possible and locked himself up alone in the house. He was in
terrible excitement and suspense. That evening he reckoned on Grushenka's
coming almost as a certainty. He had received from Smerdyakov that morning
an assurance "that she had promised to come without fail." The
incorrigible old man's heart throbbed with excitement; he paced up and
down his empty rooms listening. He had to be on the alert. Dmitri might be
on the watch for her somewhere, and when she knocked on the window
(Smerdyakov had informed him two days before that he had told her where
and how to knock) the door must be opened at once. She must not be a
second in the passage, for fear--which God forbid!--that she should be
frightened and run away. Fyodor Pavlovitch had much to think of, but never
had his heart been steeped in such voluptuous hopes. This time he could
say almost certainly that she would come!

When Alyosha returns to see Katerina, he finds that she has fallen ill. Alyosha explains to Lise what happened with the captain because Katerina is asleep. Lise is affected by Alyosha's loving compassion for the man, and she is moved to confess to Alyosha that the letter was not a joke and that she did mean what she said. Alyosha confesses that he has lied; he does have the letter, and he keeps it near to his heart because it is so meaningful to him. They realize that they care for each other, and they decide to get married. Lise's mother has been listening to their conversation, and she tells Alyosha she does not approve of the marriage. She thinks Lise is too young. Alyosha tells her that the marriage is still a long way off, so she does not have to worry about Lise's age. Alyosha goes to find Dmitri. He decides that it is more important to help his brother than to hurry back to Father Zossima's side. Instead, he finds Smerdyakov, and he asks him if he has seen Dmitri. Smerdyakov tells Alyosha that Ivan is going to meet Dmitri at a restaurant, so Alyosha goes to meet his two brothers there. He cannot find Dmitri--only Ivan is there. Ivan says he has grown to like and respect Alyosha. He tells Alyosha that he has a desire for living, but the world seems to be an unfair, ugly place. Alyosha is too preoccupied with the situation between his father and Dmitri, however, to focus on this conversation. He is worried that something dreadful might happen between the two of them if Ivan goes to Moscow. Ivan responds that it is not his responsibility to take care of his brother or his licentious father. He tells Alyosha that he hates even being around his father; this is why he came to the restaurant. Ivan lays out his theological opinions for Alyosha. He says what he " not accept and cannot accept is the God-created world." He believes that the mystery of God does not make sense to him; man should be able to comprehend God if he is God's own creation. Ivan ponders that this means he necessarily has to reject God. Alyosha wonders why Ivan cannot accept the world. Ivan adds that he has "never been able to understand how it is possible to love one's neighbors." He cannot stand the barbarism that seems to be inherent in man. He hates the suffering of children the most. He says that the only rationalization for the suffering of children is that they are "paying for the sins of their fathers who ate the apple." He cannot accept a God that allows this sort of injustice. He feels that loving God is like loving one who tortures you. Alyosha is appalled by all this, and he asks how Ivan can be so pessimistic about the world. Ivan responds that he is not being pessimistic; he simply does not think that anything is worth the suffering of an innocent like a child. He asks Alyosha if he would "torture just one single creature" if, by doing so, he could establish peace and tranquility for all mankind. Alyosha says he would not. Ivan begins to recite to Alyosha a poem that he has composed, "The Grand Inquisitor": In the sixteenth century, during the Inquisition, Christ returns to the world, healing and preaching in the streets. As he is healing some gatherers, a cardinal realizes who he is and has him arrested. In prison, Christ is visited by the Grand Inquisitor, who admonishes Christ for reappearing; he says that Christ's presence is interfering with the church. When Christ resisted temptations from Satan in the desert, he cursed man with liberty. Ever since, the church has had to work to reverse the damage. For instance, human nature dictates that man will not give up nourishment or safety for the promise of something as ill-defined as a heavenly reward. Thus, given a choice, man will always fail to follow a heavenly path. The Grand Inquisitor argues that "security" is preferable to "freedom." Also, if Christ had demonstrated his heavenly ability by performing a miracle instead of humbly resisting temptation, man would "have something to worship," which is "man's greatest need on Earth." The Grand Inquisitor also says that since Christ did not accept the power offered him by the devil, he forced the church to assert power over man. The church has finally gotten man to give up his Christ-given freedom in exchange for "happiness and security." The Grand Inquisitor says he realizes that this puts him on Satan's side of the argument, but he asserts that the precedent that Christ set when he resisted the temptations is very high. It is very difficult for man to achieve this level of strength, and only a few can do so. If only a few strong men can be saved anyway, at least the Grand Inquisitor's plan grants pleasure and satisfaction on Earth. Christ kisses the Inquisitor, never saying a word. Inexplicably, the Grand Inquisitor sets him free and tells him never to return. Ivan concludes his story and looks to Alyosha for his reaction. Alyosha only kisses his brother, and Ivan says, "That's plagiarism!" They conclude their meal happily and part ways. Ivan is troubled after he leaves Alyosha. He starts to feel physically ill, but he does not understand why. When he sees Smerdyakov sitting outside, however, he realizes that this "miserable wretch" has been weighing on his mind. Instead of lashing out at him, he approaches him very amiably, and the two begin to talk. Smerdyakov says that he is worried by the love triangle consisting of Grushenka, Fyodor, and Dmitri. Both Dmitri and Fyodor are so worked up about the girl that they have both threatened Smerdyakov. He says that he might have an epileptic seizure because of the stress, hinting that he may even fake a seizure for his own safety. He then admits that he is burdened with the knowledge of what Grushenka's "signals" to old Karamazov will be when she visits him. He knows that if Grushenka goes to Fyodor, it will throw Dmitri into a rage, and he will come after his father. Smerdyakov fears that Fyodor will be helpless because Grigory and Marfa will not be able to protect him. They are both ill. In addition, Smerdyakov will not be able to help if he is incapacitated by a seizure. This information is alarming to Ivan, and he is skeptical of Smerdyakov's intentions for telling him all of this. He asks Smerdyakov if he has intentionally created a situation where Dmitri will have free reign to murder his father. Ivan realizes that he cannot protect his father since he is going to Moscow. Smerdyakov unsuccessfully pleads with Ivan not to go to Moscow, and they both retire. Ivan lies awake, distressed by his talk with Smerdyakov. When morning comes, he meets with Fyodor, who also pleads with him to stay home with him. Ivan, worn down, decides to stay in town. He informs Smerdyakov that he will indeed stay at home. Later on, Smerdyakov in fact has a seizure and falls down the stairs. As Smerdyakov foresaw, Fyodor is left unprotected, waiting for Grushenka.

Ivan reveals much more of his character in these chapters. For the first time, he talks about what he truly cares about, and though he is still speaking about sweeping issues, he is no longer detached and aloof. He is admitting his deepest concerns and principles. He longs for a world without cruelty, but he feels that most people are cruel. Children are the only ones who are innocent. Even though Ivan says he cannot love his neighbor, it is not because he hates people; he thinks people, on the whole, do not live up to their potential. Ivan is not the cold-hearted intellectual he seemed at first. He is a frustrated idealist. He feels that he is not responsible for his father's safety or his brother's actions. Whereas Father Zossima thinks that every man shares part of the responsibility for the sins of all other men, Ivan feels independent of his fellow men. This is one of many ways that Ivan tries to assert his independence. Since he has been a child, he has felt embarrassed about his father, and he does not like to be associated with him. He did not like living off other people's charity, and he tried to become financially independent. Now, just because he is related to Dmitri and Fyodor, he does not feel compelled to help them as Alyosha does. He feels that he is responsible only for his own actions. His opinion will change after his father is murdered, when his realization of his complicity drives him insane. The lesson Ivan learns about responsibility serves as a sort of parable. Ivan is uneasy about Smerdyakov, but he is not immediately sure why. The servant expresses concern for his own safety and that of his master. He tells Ivan all of the reasons why Fyodor will be vulnerable to an attacker, and the list sounds like too many coincidences to be true. When Smerdyakov explains to Ivan that it is possible to fake an epileptic seizure, his motives become slightly more suspicious. The idea that Smerdyakov can fake a seizure shows Ivan that Smerdyakov is not as helpless as he seems. Perhaps the pathetic servant is capable of manipulating a situation instead of simply commenting on it.  He is not the harmless servant he first appeared to be. It also seems that Smerdyakov looks up to Ivan. Smerdyakov's motives are unclear, but his adulation of the Karamazov brother does not seem purely innocent. Smerdyakov's mix of weakness, bitterness, and manipulation is a disturbing combination. The story of the Grand Inquisitor is an allegory for the difference between Ivan's and Alyosha's world views. Like Ivan, the Grand Inquisitor only wants peace and happiness for mankind. He disagrees with Christ, however, about how to achieve this goal. Even though Ivan and Alyosha disagree, they both want the same thing. The most interesting thing about this chapter, however, is that Dostoevsky has included a parable in the middle of the novel. Why would he do this? What could Ivan's poem express that could not be expressed in the story? For one thing, the novel has a deep reverence for storytelling. The whole novel is told as a story recounted by an outside observer. Countless references are made to townspeople and citizens talking about each other, telling stories they have heard about one another. The trial is itself an excuse to tell the story of the Karamazovs in front of an audience. This poem adds another layer of mythology, theology, and philosophy to the novel. The parable deserves an essay in itself, and it will repay a close reading. Ivan brings up an interesting point. He says to Alyosha that if children suffer, it is because they "are paying for the sins of their fathers who ate the apple." This is the first time a character in the novel has directly referred to the concept of the "sins of the father." Ivan does not believe that one should suffer for something someone else has done.  He believes that a man should be accountable for his actions and his actions alone. He must acknowledge, however, that the world does not quite work this way. It seems as though people are unfairly punished for their predecessors' or others' mistakes.  Sometimes, though, it may not be nature or God enacting an unjust penalty on the innocent. Perhaps the suffering one experiences is internal, self-generated. For instance, Ivan feels embarrassed about his own dependence on others, and he tries to stay independent of those around him.  He is not being punished from above for Fyodor's neglect; he has made a decision based on his own feelings. He may have developed these feelings in part because of his father, but his desire for independence is his own. Sometimes, then, one learns to be concerned about poignant issues from the concerns of his ancestors. Perhaps Dmitri does not feel doomed to become an amoral fiend because he is a Karamazov and cannot escape it; or perhaps he feels worried about becoming a bad person because he knows this stigma has plagued his father, and he has developed an irrational fear of this result himself. In any case, Fyodor's actions weigh heavy on each of his sons, and whether Heaven is exacting torture on them for his sins or whether they have individual battles to fight, they are all haunted by Fyodor's ghost.