T

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P : 1879
S :P G
T : H.P. B

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[Dedicated by the Translator to those sceptics who clamour so loudly, both in print and
private letters—"Show us the wonder-working 'Brothers,' let them come out publicly—
and we will believe in them!"]

[The following is an extract from M. Dostoevsky's celebrated novel, The Brothers

Karamazof, the last publication from the pen of the great Russian novelist, who died a
few months ago, just as the concluding chapters appeared in print. Dostoevsky is
beginning to be recognized as one of the ablest and profoundest among Russian writers.
His characters are invariably typical portraits drawn from various classes of Russian
society, strikingly life-like and realistic to the highest degree. The following extract is a
cutting satire on modern theology generally and the Roman Catholic religion in
particular. The idea is that Christ revisits earth, coming to Spain at the period of the
Inquisition, and is at once arrested as a heretic by the Grand Inquisitor. One of the three
brothers of the story, Ivan, a rank materialist and an atheist of the new school, is
supposed to throw this conception into the form of a poem, which he describes to
Alyosha—the youngest of the brothers, a young Christian mystic brought up by a "saint"
in a monastery—as follows: (—Ed. Theosophist, Nov., )]

"Quite impossible, as you see, to start without an introduction," laughed Ivan. "Well,
then, I mean to place the event described in the poem in the sixteenth century, an age—
as you must have been told at school—when it was the great fashion among poets to
make the denizens and powers of higher worlds descend on earth and mix freely with
mortals... In France all the notaries' clerks, and the monks in the cloisters as well, used
to give grand performances, dramatic plays in which long scenes were enacted by the
Madonna, the angels, the saints, Christ, and even by God Himself. In those days,
everything was very artless and primitive. An instance of it may be found in Victor
Hugo's drama, Notre Dame de Paris, where, at the Municipal Hall, a play called Le Bon
Jugement de la Tres-sainte et Gracièuse Vierge Marie, is enacted in honour of Louis XI,
in which the Virgin appears personally to pronounce her 'good judgment.' In Moscow,
during the prepetrean period, performances of nearly the same character, chosen
especially from the Old Testament, were also in great favour. Apart from such plays, the
world was overflooded with mystical writings, 'verses'—the heroes of which were
always selected from the ranks of angels, saints and other heavenly citizens answering
to the devotional purposes of the age. The recluses of our monasteries, like the Roman
Catholic monks, passed their time in translating, copying, and even producing original
compositions upon such subjects, and that, remember, during the Tarter period!... In this
connection, I am reminded of a poem compiled in a convent—a translation from the
Greek, of course—called, 'The Travels of the Mother of God among the Damned,' with
fitting illustrations and a boldness of conception inferior nowise to that of Dante. The
'Mother of God' visits hell, in company with the archangel Michael as her cicerone to
guide her through the legions of the 'damned.' She sees them all, and is witness to their
multifarious tortures. Among the many other exceedingly remarkably varieties of
torments—every category of sinners having its own—there is one especially worthy of
notice, namely a class of the 'damned' sentenced to gradually sink in a burning lake of
brimstone and fire. Those whose sins cause them to sink so low that they no longer can
rise to the surface are for ever forgotten by God, i.e., they fade out from the omniscient
memory, says the poem—an expression, by the way, of an extraordinary profundity of
thought, when closely analysed. The Virgin is terribly shocked, and falling down upon
her knees in tears before the throne of God, begs that all she has seen in hell—all, all
without exception, should have their sentences remitted to them. Her dialogue with God
is colossally interesting. She supplicates, she will not leave Him. And when God,
pointing to the pierced hands and feet of her Son, cries, 'How can I forgive His
executioners?' She then commands that all the saints, martyrs, angels and archangels,
should prostrate themselves with her before the Immutable and Changeless One and
implore Him to change His wrath into mercy and—forgive them all. The poem closes
upon her obtaining from God a compromise, a kind of yearly respite of tortures between
Good Friday and Trinity, a chorus of the 'damned' singing loud praises to God from their
'bottomless pit,' thanking and telling Him:
Thou art right, O Lord, very right,
Thou hast condemned us justly.
"My poem is of the same character.
"In it, it is Christ who appears on the scene. True, He says nothing, but only appears
and passes out of sight. Fifteen centuries have elapsed since He left the world with the
distinct promise to return 'with power and great glory'; fifteen long centuries since His
prophet cried, 'Prepare ye the way of the Lord!' since He Himself had foretold, while
yet on earth, 'Of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven but my
Father only.' But Christendom expects Him still. ...
 "It waits for Him with the same old faith and the same emotion; aye, with a far greater
faith, for fifteen centuries have rolled away since the last sign from heaven was sent to
man,
And blind faith remained alone
To lull the trusting heart,
As heav'n would send a sign no more.
"True, again, we have all heard of miracles being wrought ever since the 'age of
miracles' passed away to return no more. We had, and still have, our saints credited
with performing the most miraculous cures; and, if we can believe their biographers,
there have been those among them who have been personally visited by the Queen of
Heaven. But Satan sleepeth not, and the first germs of doubt, and ever-increasing
unbelief in such wonders, already had begun to sprout in Christendom as early as the
sixteenth century. It was just at that time that a new and terrible heresy first made its
appearance in the north of Germany.* [*Luther's reform] A great star 'shining as it were
a lamp... fell upon the fountains waters'... and 'they were made bitter.' This 'heresy'
blasphemously denied 'miracles.' But those who had remained faithful believed all the
more ardently, the tears of mankind ascended to Him as heretofore, and the Christian
world was expecting Him as confidently as ever; they loved Him and hoped in Him,
thirsted and hungered to suffer and die for Him just as many of them had done before....
So many centuries had weak, trusting humanity implored Him, crying with ardent faith
and fervour: 'How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost Thou not come!' So many long
centuries hath it vainly appealed to Him, that at last, in His inexhaustible compassion,
He consenteth to answer the prayer.... He decideth that once more, if it were but for one
short hour, the people—His long-suffering, tortured, fatally sinful, his loving and child-
like, trusting people—shall behold Him again. The scene of action is placed by me in
Spain, at Seville, during that terrible period of the Inquisition, when, for the greater
glory of God, stakes were flaming all over the country.
Burning wicked heretics,
In grand auto-da-fes.
"This particular visit has, of course, nothing to do with the promised Advent, when,
according to the programme, 'after the tribulation of those days,' He will appear 'coming
in the clouds of heaven.' For, that 'coming of the Son of Man,' as we are informed, will
take place as suddenly 'as the lightning cometh out of the east and shineth even unto the
west.' No; this once, He desired to come unknown, and appear among His children, just
when the bones of the heretics, sentenced to be burnt alive, had commenced crackling at
the flaming stakes. Owing to His limitless mercy, He mixes once more with mortals and
in the same form in which He was wont to appear fifteen centuries ago. He descends,
just at the very moment when before king, courtiers, knights, cardinals, and the fairest
dames of court, before the whole population of Seville, upwards of a hundred wicked
heretics are being roasted, in a magnificent auto-da-fe ad majorem Dei gloriam, by the
order of the powerful Cardinal Grand Inquisitor.
 "He comes silently and unannounced; yet all—how strange—yea, all recognize Him,
at once! The population rushes towards Him as if propelled by some irresistible force;
it surrounds, throngs, and presses around, it follows Him.... Silently, and with a smile of
boundless compassion upon His lips, He crosses the dense crowd, and moves softly on.
The Sun of Love burns in His heart, and warm rays of Light, Wisdom and Power beam
forth from His eyes, and pour down their waves upon the swarming multitudes of the
rabble assembled around, making their hearts vibrate with returning love. He extends
His hands over their heads, blesses them, and from mere contact with Him, aye, even
with His garments, a healing power goes forth. An old man, blind from his birth, cries,
'Lord, heal me, that I may see Thee!' and the scales falling off the closed eyes, the blind
man beholds Him... The crowd weeps for joy, and kisses the ground upon which He
treads. Children strew flowers along His path and sing to Him, 'Hosanna!' It is He, it is
Himself, they say to each other, it must be He, it can be none other but He! He pauses at
the portal of the old cathedral, just as a wee white coffin is carried in, with tears and
great lamentations. The lid is off, and in the coffin lies the body of a fair-child, seven
years old, the only child of an eminent citizen of the city. The little corpse lies buried in
flowers. 'He will raise the child to life!' confidently shouts the crowd to the weeping
mother. The officiating priest who had come to meet the funeral procession, looks
perplexed, and frowns. A loud cry is suddenly heard, and the bereaved mother
prostrates herself at His feet. 'If it be Thou, then bring back my child to life!' she cries
beseechingly. The procession halts, and the little coffin is gently lowered at his feet.
Divine compassion beams forth from His eyes, and as He looks at the child, His lips are
heard to whisper once more, 'Talitha Cumi'—and 'straightway the damsel arose.' The
child rises in her coffin. Her little hands still hold the nosegay of white roses which
after death was placed in them, and, looking round with large astonished eyes she
smiles sweetly .... The crowd is violently excited. A terrible commotion rages among
them, the populace shouts and loudly weeps, when suddenly, before the cathedral door,
appears the Cardinal Grand Inquisitor himself.... He is tall, gaunt-looking old man of
nearly four-score years and ten, with a stern, withered face, and deeply sunken eyes,
from the cavity of which glitter two fiery sparks. He has laid aside his gorgeous
cardinal's robes in which he had appeared before the people at the auto da-fe of the
enemies of the Romish Church, and is now clad in his old, rough, monkish cassock. His
sullen assistants and slaves of the 'holy guard' are following at a distance. He pauses
before the crowd and observes. He has seen all. He has witnessed the placing of the
little coffin at His feet, the calling back to life. And now, his dark, grim face has grown
still darker; his bushy grey eyebrows nearly meet, and his sunken eye flashes with
sinister light. Slowly raising his finger, he commands his minions to arrest Him....
"Such is his power over the well-disciplined, submissive and now trembling people,
that the thick crowds immediately give way, and scattering before the guard, amid dead
silence and without one breath of protest, allow them to lay their sacrilegious hands
upon the stranger and lead Him away.... That same populace, like one man, now bows
its head to the ground before the old Inquisitor, who blesses it and slowly moves
onward. The guards conduct their prisoner to the ancient building of the Holy Tribunal;
pushing Him into a narrow, gloomy, vaulted prison-cell, they lock Him in and retire....
"The day wanes, and night—a dark, hot breathless Spanish night—creeps on and
settles upon the city of Seville. The air smells of laurels and orange blossoms. In the
Cimmerian darkness of the old Tribunal Hall the iron door of the cell is suddenly
thrown open, and the Grand Inquisitor, holding a dark lantern, slowly stalks into the
dungeon. He is alone, and, as the heavy door closes behind him, he pauses at the
threshold, and, for a minute or two, silently and gloomily scrutinizes the Face before
him. At last approaching with measured steps, he sets his lantern down upon the table
and addresses Him in these words:
"'It is Thou! ... Thou!' ... Receiving no reply, he rapidly continues: 'Nay, answer not;
be silent! ... And what couldst Thou say? ... I know but too well Thy answer.... Besides,
Thou hast no right to add one syllable to that which was already uttered by Thee
before.... Why shouldst Thou now return, to impede us in our work? For Thou hast come
but for that only, and Thou knowest it well. But art Thou as well aware of what awaits
Thee in the morning? I do not know, nor do I care to know who thou mayest be: be it
Thou or only thine image, to-morrow I will condemn and burn Thee on the stake, as the
most wicked of all the heretics; and that same people, who to-day were kissing Thy feet,
to-morrow at one bend of my finger, will rush to add fuel to Thy funeral pile... Wert
Thou aware of this?' he adds, speaking as if in solemn thought, and never for one instant
taking his piercing glance off the meek Face before him."....
"I can hardly realize the situation described—what is all this, Ivan?" suddenly
interrupted Alyosha, who had remained silently listening to his brother. "Is this an
extravagant fancy, or some mistake of the old man, an impossible quid pro quo?"
"Let it be the latter, if you like," laughed Ivan, "since modern realism has so
perverted your taste that you feel unable to realize anything from the world of fancy....
Let it be a quid pro quo, if you so choose it. Again, the Inquisitor is ninety years old,
and he might have easily gone mad with his one idee fixe of power; or, it might have as
well been a delirious vision, called forth by dying fancy, overheated by the auto-da-fe
of the hundred heretics in that forenoon.... But what matters for the poem, whether it was
a quid pro quo or an uncontrollable fancy? The question is, that the old man has to open
his heart; that he must give out his thought at last; and that the hour has come when he
does speak it out, and says loudly that which for ninety years he has kept secret within
his own breast."
"And his prisoner, does He never reply? Does He keep silent, looking at him, without
saying a word?"
"Of course; and it could not well be otherwise," again retorted Ivan. "The Grand
Inquisitor begins from his very first words by telling Him that He has no right to add
one syllable to that which He had said before. To make the situation clear at once, the
above preliminary monologue is intended to convey to the reader the very fundamental
idea which underlies Roman Catholicism—as well as I can convey it, his words mean,
in short: 'Everything was given over by Thee to the Pope, and everything now rests with
him alone; Thou hast no business to return and thus hinder us in our work.' In this sense
the Jesuits not only talk but write likewise.
"'Hast thou the right to divulge to us a single one of the mysteries of that world
whence Thou comest?' enquires of Him my old Inquisitor, and forthwith answers for
Him. 'Nay, Thou has no such right. For, that would be adding to that which was already
said by Thee before; hence depriving people of that freedom for which Thou hast so
stoutly stood up while yet on earth.... Anything new that Thou would now proclaim
would have to be regarded as an attempt to interfere with that freedom of choice, as it
would come as a new and a miraculous revelation superseding the old revelation of
fifteen hundred years ago, when Thou didst so repeatedly tell the people: "The truth
shall make you free." Behold then, Thy "free" people now!' adds the old man with
sombre irony. 'Yea!... it has cost us dearly.' he continues, sternly looking at his victim.
'But we have at last accomplished our task, and—in Thy name.... For fifteen long
centuries we had to toil and suffer owing to that "freedom": but now we have prevailed
and our work is done, and well and strongly it is done. ....Believest not Thou it is so
very strong? ... And why should Thou look at me so meekly as if I were not worthy even
of Thy indignation?... Know then, that now, and only now, Thy people feel fully sure and
satisfied of their freedom; and that only since they have themselves and of their own
free will delivered that freedom unto our hands by placing it submissively at our feet.
But then, that is what we have done. Is it that which Thou has striven for? Is this the kind
of "freedom" Thou has promised them?'"
"Now again, I do not understand," interrupted Alyosha. "Does the old man mock and
laugh?"
"Not in the least. He seriously regards it as a great service done by himself, his
brother monks and Jesuits, to humanity, to have conquered and subjected unto their
authority that freedom, and boasts that it was done but for the good of the world. 'For
only now,' he says (speaking of the Inquisition) 'has it become possible to us, for the
first time, to give a serious thought to human happiness. Man is born a rebel, and can
rebels be ever happy?... Thou has been fairly warned of it, but evidently to no use, since
Thou hast rejected the only means which could make mankind happy; fortunately at Thy
departure Thou hast delivered the task to us.... Thou has promised, ratifying the pledge
by Thy own words, in words giving us the right to bind and unbind... and surely, Thou
couldst not think of depriving us of it now!'"
"But what can he mean by the words, 'Thou has been fairly warned'?" asked Alexis.
"These words give the key to what the old man has to say for his justification... But
listen—
"'The terrible and wise spirit, the spirit of self annihilation and non-being,' goes on
the Inquisitor, 'the great spirit of negation conversed with Thee in the wilderness, and
we are told that he "tempted" Thee... Was it so? And if it were so, then it is impossible
to utter anything more truthful than what is contained in his three offers, which Thou
didst reject, and which are usually called "temptations." Yea; if ever there was on earth
a genuine striking wonder produced, it was on that day of Thy three temptations, and it
is precisely in these three short sentences that the marvelous miracle is contained. If it
were possible that they should vanish and disappear for ever, without leaving any trace,
from the record and from the memory of man, and that it should become necessary again
to devise, invent, and make them reappear in Thy history once more, thinkest Thou that
all the world's sages, all the legislators, initiates, philosophers and thinkers, if called
upon to frame three questions which should, like these, besides answering the magnitude
of the event, express in three short sentences the whole future history of this our world
and of mankind—dost Thou believe, I ask Thee, that all their combined efforts could
ever create anything equal in power and depth of thought to the three propositions
offered Thee by the powerful and all-wise spirit in the wilderness? Judging of them by
their marvelous aptness alone, one can at once perceive that they emanated not from a
finite, terrestrial intellect, but indeed, from the Eternal and the Absolute. In these three
offers we find, blended into one and foretold to us, the complete subsequent history of
man; we are shown three images, so to say, uniting in them all the future axiomatic,
insoluble problems and contradictions of human nature, the world over. In those days,
the wondrous wisdom contained in them was not made so apparent as it is now, for
futurity remained still veiled; but now, when fifteen centuries have elapsed, we see that
everything in these three questions is so marvelously foreseen and foretold, that to add
to, or to take away from, the prophecy one jot, would be absolutely impossible!
"'Decide then thyself.' sternly proceeded the Inquisitor, 'which of ye twain was right:
Thou who didst reject, or he who offered? Remember the subtle meaning of question the
first, which runs thus: Wouldst Thou go into the world empty-handed? Would Thou
venture thither with Thy vague and undefined promise of freedom, which men, dull and
unruly as they are by nature, are unable so much as to understand, which they avoid and
fear?—for never was there anything more unbearable to the human race than personal
freedom! Dost Thou see these stones in the desolate and glaring wilderness? Command
that these stones be made bread—and mankind will run after Thee, obedient and
grateful like a herd of cattle. But even then it will be ever diffident and trembling, lest
Thou should take away Thy hand, and they lose thereby their bread! Thou didst refuse to
accept the offer for fear of depriving men of their free choice; for where is there
freedom of choice where men are bribed with bread? Man shall not live by bread alone
—was Thine answer. Thou knewest not, it seems, that it was precisely in the name of
that earthly bread that the terrestrial spirit would one day rise against, struggle with, and
finally conquer Thee, followed by the hungry multitudes shouting: "Who is like unto that
Beast, who maketh fire come down from heaven upon the earth!" Knowest Thou not that,
but a few centuries hence, and the whole of mankind will have proclaimed in its
wisdom and through its mouthpiece, Science, that there is no more crime, hence no more
sin on earth, but only hungry people? "Feed us first and then command us to be
virtuous!" will be the words written upon the banner lifted against Thee—a banner
which shall destroy Thy Church to its very foundations, and in the place of Thy Temple
shall raise once more the terrible Tower of Babel; and though its building be left
unfinished, as was that of the first one, yet the fact will remain recorded that Thou
couldst, but wouldst not, prevent the attempt to build that new tower by accepting the
offer, and thus saving mankind a millennium of useless suffering on earth. And it is to us
that the people will return again. They will search for us catacombs, as we shall once
more be persecuted and martyred—and they will begin crying unto us: "Feed us, for
they who promised us the fire from heaven have deceived us!" It is then that we will
finish building their tower for them. For they alone who feed them shall finish it, and we
shall feed them in Thy name, and lying to them that it is in that name. Oh, never, never,
will they learn to feed themselves without our help! No science will ever give them
bread so long as they remain free, so long as they refuse to lay that freedom at our feet,
and say: "Enslave, but feed us!" That day must come when men will understand that
freedom and daily bread enough to satisfy all are unthinkable and can never be had
together, as men will never be able to fairly divide the two among themselves. And they
will also learn that they can never be free, for they are weak, vicious, miserable
nonentities born wicked and rebellious. Thou has promised to them the bread of life, the
bread of heaven; but I ask Thee again, can that bread ever equal in the sight of the weak
and the vicious, the ever ungrateful human race, their daily bread on earth? And even
supposing that thousands and tens of thousands follow Thee in the name of, and for the
sake of, Thy heavenly bread, what will become of the millions and hundreds of millions
of human beings to weak to scorn the earthly for the sake of Thy heavenly bread? Or is
it but those tens of thousands chosen among the great and the mighty, that are so dear to
Thee, while the remaining millions, innumerable as the grains of sand in the seas, the
weak and the loving, have to be used as material for the former? No, no! In our sight and
for our purpose the weak and the lowly are the more dear to us. True, they are vicious
and rebellious, but we will force them into obedience, and it is they who will admire us
the most. They will regard us as gods, and feel grateful to those who have consented to
lead the masses and bear their burden of freedom by ruling over them—so terrible will
that freedom at last appear to men! Then we will tell them that it is in obedience to Thy
will and in Thy name that we rule over them. We will deceive them once more and lie
to them once again—for never, never more will we allow Thee to come among us. In
this deception we will find our suffering, for we must needs lie eternally, and never
cease to lie!
"Such is the secret meaning of "temptation" the first, and that is what Thou didst
reject in the wilderness for the sake of that freedom which Thou didst prize above all.
Meanwhile Thy tempter's offer contained another great world-mystery. By accepting the
"bread," Thou wouldst have satisfied and answered a universal craving, a ceaseless
longing alive in the heart of every individual human being, lurking in the breast of
collective mankind, that most perplexing problem—"whom or what shall we worship?"
There exists no greater or more painful anxiety for a man who has freed himself from all
religious bias, than how he shall soonest find a new object or idea to worship. But man
seeks to bow before that only which is recognized by the greater majority, if not by all
his fellow-men, as having a right to be worshipped; whose rights are so unquestionable
that men agree unanimously to bow down to it. For the chief concern of these miserable
creatures is not to find and worship the idol of their own choice, but to discover that
which all others will believe in, and consent to bow down to in a mass. It is that
instinctive need of having a worship in common that is the chief suffering of every man,
the chief concern of mankind from the beginning of times. It is for that universality of
religious worship that people destroyed each other by sword. Creating gods unto
themselves, they forwith began appealing to each other: "Abandon your deities, come
and bow down to ours, or death to ye and your idols!" And so will they do till the end
of this world; they will do so even then, when all the gods themselves have
disappeared, for then men will prostrate themselves before and worship some idea.
Thou didst know, Thou couldst not be ignorant of, that mysterious fundamental principle
in human nature, and still thou hast rejected the only absolute banner offered Thee, to
which all the nations would remain true, and before which all would have bowed—the
banner of earthly bread, rejected in the name of freedom and of "bread in the kingdom of
God"! Behold, then, what Thou hast done furthermore for that "freedom's" sake! I repeat
to Thee, man has no greater anxiety in life than to find some one to whom he can make
over that gift of freedom with which the unfortunate creature is born. But he alone will
prove capable of silencing and quieting their consciences, that shall succeed in
possessing himself of the freedom of men. With "daily bread" an irresistible power was
offered Thee: show a man "bread" and he will follow Thee, for what can he resist less
than the attraction of bread? But if, at the same time, another succeed in possessing
himself of his conscience—oh! then even Thy bread will be forgotten, and man will
follow him who seduced his conscience. So far Thou wert right. For the mystery of
human being does not solely rest in the desire to live, but in the problem—for what
should one live at all? Without a clear perception of his reasons for living, man will
never consent to live, and will rather destroy himself than tarry on earth, though he be
surrounded with bread. This is the truth. But what has happened? Instead of getting hold
of man's freedom, Thou has enlarged it still more! Hast Thou again forgotten that to man
rest and even death are preferable to a free choice between the knowledge of Good and
Evil? Nothing seems more seductive in his eyes than freedom of conscience, and
nothing proves more painful. And behold! instead of laying a firm foundation whereon
to rest once for all man's conscience, Thou hast chosen to stir up in him all that is
abnormal, mysterious, and indefinite, all that is beyond human strength, and has acted as
if Thou never hadst any love for him, and yet Thou wert He who came to "lay down His
life for His friends!" Thou hast burdened man's soul with anxieties hitherto unknown to
him. Thirsting for human love freely given, seeking to enable man, seduced and charmed
by Thee, to follow Thy path of his own free-will, instead of the old and wise law which
held him in subjection, Thou hast given him the right henceforth to choose and freely
decide what is good and bad for him, guided but by Thine image in his heart. But hast
Thou never dreamt of the probability, nay, of the certainty, of that same man one day
rejected finally, and controverting even Thine image and Thy truth, once he would find
himself laden with such a terrible burden as freedom of choice? That a time would
surely come when men would exclaim that Truth and Light cannot be in Thee, for no one
could have left them in a greater perplexity and mental suffering than Thou has done,
lading them with so many cares and insoluble problems. Thus, it is Thyself who hast
laid the foundation for the destruction of Thine own kingdom and no one but Thou is to
be blamed for it.
"'Meantime, every chance of success was offered Thee. There are three Powers,
three unique Forces upon earth, capable of conquering for ever by charming the
conscience of these weak rebels—men—for their own good; and these Forces are:
Miracle, Mystery and Authority. Thou hast rejected all the three, and thus wert the first
to set them an example. When the terrible and all-wise spirit placed Thee on a pinnacle
of the temple and said unto Thee, "If Thou be the son of God, cast Thyself down, for it
is written, He shall give His angels charge concerning Thee: and in their hands they
shall bear Thee up, lest at any time Thou dash Thy foot against a stone!"—for thus Thy
faith in Thy father should have been made evident, Thou didst refuse to accept his
suggestion and didst not follow it. Oh, undoubtedly, Thou didst act in this with all the
magnificent pride of a god, but then men—that weak and rebel race—are they also gods,
to understand Thy refusal? Of course, Thou didst well know that by taking one single
step forward, by making the slightest motion to throw Thyself down, Thou wouldst have
tempted "the Lord Thy God," lost suddenly all faith in Him, and dashed Thyself to atoms
against that same earth which Thou camest to save, and thus wouldst have allowed the
wise spirit which tempted Thee to triumph and rejoice. But, then, how many such as
Thee are to be found on this globe, I ask Thee? Couldst Thou ever for a moment imagine
that men would have the same strength to resist such a temptation? Is human nature
calculated to reject miracle, and trust, during the most terrible moments in life, when the
most momentous, painful and perplexing problems struggle within man's soul, to the free
decisions of his heart for the true solution? Oh, Thou knewest well that that action of
Thine would remain recorded in books for ages to come, reaching to the confines of the
globe, and Thy hope was, that following Thy example, man would remain true to his
God, without needing any miracle to keep his faith alive! But Thou knewest not, it
seems, that no sooner would man reject miracle than he would reject God likewise, for
he seeketh less God than "a sign" from Him. And thus, as it is beyond the power of man
to remain without miracles, so, rather than live without, he will create for himself new
wonders of his own making; and he will bow to and worship the soothsayer's miracles,
the old witch's sorcery, were he a rebel, a heretic, and an atheist a hundred times over.
Thy refusal to come down from the cross when people, mocking and wagging their
heads were saying to Thee—"Save Thyself if Thou be the son of God, and we will
believe in Thee," was due to the same determination—not to enslave man through
miracle, but to obtain faith in Thee freely and apart from any miraculous influence. Thou
thirstest for free and uninfluenced love, and refuses the passionate adoration of the slave
before a Potency which would have subjected his will once for ever. Thou judgest of
men too highly here, again, for though rebels they be, they are born slaves and nothing
more. Behold, and judge of them once more, now that fifteen centuries have elapsed
since that moment. Look at them, whom Thou didst try to elevate unto Thee! I swear man
is weaker and lower than Thou hast ever imagined him to be! Can he ever do that which
Thou art said to have accomplished? By valuing him so highly Thou hast acted as if
there were no love for him in Thine heart, for Thou hast demanded of him more than he
could ever give—Thou, who lovest him more than Thyself! Hadst Thou esteemed him
less, less wouldst Thou have demanded of him, and that would have been more like
love, for his burden would have been made thereby lighter. Man is weak and cowardly.
What matters it, if he now riots and rebels throughout the world against our will and
power, and prides himself upon that rebellion? It is but the petty pride and vanity of a
school-boy. It is the rioting of little children, getting up a mutiny in the class-room and
driving their schoolmaster out of it. But it will not last long, and when the day of their
triumph is over, they will have to pay dearly for it. They will destroy the temples and
raze them to the ground, flooding the earth with blood. But the foolish children will
have to learn some day that, rebels though they be and riotous from nature, they are too
weak to maintain the spirit of mutiny for any length of time. Suffused with idiotic tears,
they will confess that He who created them rebellious undoubtedly did so but to mock
them. They will pronounce these words in despair, and such blasphemous utterances
will but add to their misery—for human nature cannot endure blasphemy, and takes her
own revenge in the end.
"'And thus, after all Thou has suffered for mankind and its freedom, the present fate of
men may be summed up in three words: Unrest, Confusion, Misery! Thy great prophet
John records in his vision, that he saw, during the first resurrection of the chosen
servants of God—"the number of them which were sealed" in their foreheads, "twelve
thousand" of every tribe. But were they, indeed, as many? Then they must have been
gods, not men. They had shared Thy Cross for long years, suffered scores of years'
hunger and thirst in dreary wildernesses and deserts, feeding upon locusts and roots—
and of these children of free love for Thee, and self-sacrifice in Thy name, Thou mayest
well feel proud. But remember that these are but a few thousands—of gods, not men;
and how about all others? And why should the weakest be held guilty for not being able
to endure what the strongest have endured? Why should a soul incapable of containing
such terrible gifts be punished for its weakness? Didst Thou really come to, and for, the
"elect" alone? If so, then the mystery will remain for ever mysterious to our finite
minds. And if a mystery, then were we right to proclaim it as one, and preach it,
teaching them that neither their freely given love to Thee nor freedom of conscience
were essential, but only that incomprehensible mystery which they must blindly obey
even against the dictates of their conscience. Thus did we. We corrected and improved
Thy teaching and based it upon "Miracle, Mystery, and Authority." And men rejoiced at
finding themselves led once more like a herd of cattle, and at finding their hearts at last
delivered of the terrible burden laid upon them by Thee, which caused them so much
suffering. Tell me, were we right in doing as we did. Did not we show our great love
for humanity, by realizing in such a humble spirit its helplessness, by so mercifully
lightening its great burden, and by permitting and remitting for its weak nature every sin,
provided it be committed with our authorization? For what, then, hast Thou come again
to trouble us in our work? And why lookest Thou at me so penetratingly with Thy meek
eyes, and in such a silence? Rather shouldst Thou feel wroth, for I need not Thy love, I
reject it, and love Thee not, myself. Why should I conceal the truth from Thee? I know
but too well with whom I am now talking! What I had to say was known to Thee before,
I read it in Thine eye. How should I conceal from Thee our secret? If perchance Thou
wouldst hear it from my own lips, then listen: We are not with Thee, but with him, and
that is our secret! For centuries have we abandoned Thee to follow him, yes—eight
centuries. Eight hundred years now since we accepted from him the gift rejected by
Thee with indignation; that last gift which he offered Thee from the high mountain when,
showing all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them, he saith unto Thee: "All
these things will I give Thee, if Thou will fall down and worship me!" We took Rome
from him and the glaive of Caesar, and declared ourselves alone the kings of this earth,
its sole kings, though our work is not yet fully accomplished. But who is to blame for it?
Our work is but in its incipient stage, but it is nevertheless started. We may have long to
wait until its culmination, and mankind have to suffer much, but we shall reach the goal
some day, and become sole Caesars, and then will be the time to think of universal
happiness for men.
"'Thou couldst accept the glaive of Caesar Thyself; why didst Thou reject the offer?
By accepting from the powerful spirit his third offer Thou would have realized every
aspiration man seeketh for himself on earth; man would have found a constant object for
worship; one to deliver his conscience up to, and one that should unite all together into
one common and harmonious ant-hill; for an innate necessity for universal union
constitutes the third and final affliction of mankind. Humanity as a whole has ever
aspired to unite itself universally. Many were, the great nations with great histories, but
the greater they were, the more unhappy they felt, as they felt the stronger necessity of a
universal union among men. Great conquerors, like Timoor and Tchengis-Khan, passed
like a cyclone upon the face of the earth in their efforts to conquer the universe, but even
they, albeit unconsciously, expressed the same aspiration towards universal and
common union. In accepting the kingdom of the world and Caesar's purple, one would
found a universal kingdom and secure to mankind eternal peace. And who can rule
mankind better than those who have possessed themselves of man's conscience, and
hold in their hand man's daily bread? Having accepted Caesar's glaive and purple, we
had, of course, but to deny Thee, to henceforth follow him alone. Oh, centuries of
intellectual riot and rebellious free thought are yet before us, and their science will end
by anthropophagy, for having begun to build their Babylonian tower without our help
they will have to end by anthropophagy. But it is precisely at that time that the Beast
will crawl up to us in full submission, and lick the soles of our feet, and sprinkle them
with tears of blood and we shall sit upon the scarlet-colored Beast, and lifting up high
the golden cup "full of abomination and filthiness," shall show written upon it the word
"Mystery"! But it is only then that men will see the beginning of a kingdom of peace and
happiness. Thou art proud of Thine own elect, but Thou has none other but these elect,
and we—we will give rest to all. But that is not the end. Many are those among thine
elect and the laborers of Thy vineyard, who, tired of waiting for Thy coming, already
have carried and will yet carry, the great fervor of their hearts and their spiritual
strength into another field, and will end by lifting up against Thee Thine own banner of
freedom. But it is Thyself Thou hast to thank. Under our rule and sway all will be
happy, and will neither rebel nor destroy each other as they did while under Thy free
banner. Oh, we will take good care to prove to them that they will become absolutely
free only when they have abjured their freedom in our favor and submit to us absolutely.
Thinkest Thou we shall be right or still lying? They will convince themselves of our
rightness, for they will see what a depth of degrading slavery and strife that liberty of
Thine has led them into. Liberty, Freedom of Thought and Conscience, and Science will
lead them into such impassable chasms, place them face to face before such wonders
and insoluble mysteries, that some of them—more rebellious and ferocious than the rest
—will destroy themselves; others—rebellious but weak—will destroy each other;
while the remainder, weak, helpless and miserable, will crawl back to our feet and cry:
"'Yes; right were ye, oh Fathers of Jesus; ye alone are in possession of His mystery, and
we return to you, praying that ye save us from ourselves!" Receiving their bread from
us, they will clearly see that we take the bread from them, the bread made by their own
hands, but to give it back to them in equal shares and that without any miracle; and
having ascertained that, though we have not changed stones into bread, yet bread they
have, while every other bread turned verily in their own hands into stones, they will be
only to glad to have it so. Until that day, they will never be happy. And who is it that
helped the most to blind them, tell me? Who separated the flock and scattered it over
ways unknown if it be not Thee? But we will gather the sheep once more and subject
them to our will for ever. We will prove to them their own weakness and make them
humble again, whilst with Thee they have learnt but pride, for Thou hast made more of
them than they ever were worth. We will give them that quiet, humble happiness, which
alone benefits such weak, foolish creatures as they are, and having once had proved to
them their weakness, they will become timid and obedient, and gather around us as
chickens around their hen. They will wonder at and feel a superstitious admiration for
us, and feel proud to be led by men so powerful and wise that a handful of them can
subject a flock a thousand millions strong. Gradually men will begin to fear us. They
will nervously dread our slightest anger, their intellects will weaken, their eyes become
as easily accessible to tears as those of children and women; but we will teach them an
easy transition from grief and tears to laughter, childish joy and mirthful song. Yes; we
will make them work like slaves, but during their recreation hours they shall have an
innocent child-like life, full of play and merry laughter. We will even permit them sin,
for, weak and helpless, they will feel the more love for us for permitting them to indulge
in it. We will tell them that every kind of sin will be remitted to them, so long as it is
done with our permission; that we take all these sins upon ourselves, for we so love the
world, that we are even willing to sacrifice our souls for its satisfaction. And,
appearing before them in the light of their scapegoats and redeemers, we shall be
adored the more for it. They will have no secrets from us. It will rest with us to permit
them to live with their wives and concubines, or to forbid them, to have children or
remain childless, either way depending on the degree of their obedience to us; and they
will submit most joyfully to us the most agonizing secrets of their souls—all, all will
they lay down at our feet, and we will authorize and remit them all in Thy name, and
they will believe us and accept our mediation with rapture, as it will deliver them from
their greatest anxiety and torture—that of having to decide freely for themselves. And
all will be happy, all except the one or two hundred thousands of their rulers. For it is
but we, we the keepers of the great Mystery who will be miserable. There will be
thousands of millions of happy infants, and one hundred thousand martyrs who have
taken upon themselves the curse of knowledge of good and evil. Peaceable will be their
end, and peacefully will they die, in Thy name, to find behind the portals of the grave—
but death. But we will keep the secret inviolate, and deceive them for their own good
with the mirage of life eternal in Thy kingdom. For, were there really anything like life
beyond the grave, surely it would never fall to the lot of such as they! People tell us and
prophesy of Thy coming and triumphing once more on earth; of Thy appearing with the
army of Thy elect, with Thy proud and mighty ones; but we will answer Thee that they
have saved but themselves while we have saved all. We are also threatened with the
great disgrace which awaits the whore, "Babylon the great, the mother of harlots"—who
sits upon the Beast, holding in her hands the Mystery, the word written upon her
forehead; and we are told that the weak ones, the lambs shall rebel against her and shall
make her desolate and naked. But then will I arise, and point out to Thee the thousands
of millions of happy infants free from any sin. And we who have taken their sins upon
us, for their own good, shall stand before Thee and say: "Judge us if Thou canst and
darest!" Know then that I fear Thee not. Know that I too have lived in the dreary
wilderness, where I fed upon locusts and roots, that I too have blessed freedom with
which thou hast blessed men, and that I too have once prepared to join the ranks of Thy
elect, the proud and the mighty. But I awoke from my delusion and refused since then to
serve insanity. I returned to join the legion of those who corrected Thy mistakes. I left
the proud and returned to the really humble, and for their own happiness. What I now
tell thee will come to pass, and our kingdom shall be built, I tell Thee not later than to-
morrow Thou shalt see that obedient flock which at one simple motion of my hand will
rush to add burning coals to Thy stake, on which I will burn Thee for having dared to
come and trouble us in our work. For, if there ever was one who deserved more than
any of the others our inquisitorial fires—it is Thee! To-morrow I will burn Thee. Dixi'."
Ivan paused. He had entered into the situation and had spoken with great animation,
but now he suddenly burst out laughing.
"But all that is absurd!" suddenly exclaimed Alyosha, who had hitherto listened
perplexed and agitated but in profound silence. "Your poem is a glorification of Christ,
not an accusation, as you, perhaps, meant to be. And who will believe you when you
speak of 'freedom'? Is it thus that we Christians must understand it? It is Rome (not all
Rome, for that would be unjust), but the worst of the Roman Catholics, the Inquisitors
and Jesuits, that you have been exposing! Your Inquisitor is an impossible character.
What are these sins they are taking upon themselves? Who are those keepers of mystery
who took upon themselves a curse for the good of mankind? Who ever met them? We all
know the Jesuits, and no one has a good word to say in their favor; but when were they
as you depict them? Never, never! The Jesuits are merely a Romish army making ready
for their future temporal kingdom, with a mitred emperor—a Roman high priest at their
head. That is their ideal and object, without any mystery or elevated suffering. The most
prosaic thirsting for power, for the sake of the mean and earthly pleasures of life, a
desire to enslave their fellow-men, something like our late system of serfs, with
themselves at the head as landed proprietors—that is all that they can be accused of.
They may not believe in God, that is also possible, but your suffering Inquisitor is
simply—a fancy!"
"Hold, hold!" interrupted Ivan, smiling. "Do not be so excited. A fancy, you say; be it
so! Of course, it is a fancy. But stop. Do you really imagine that all this Catholic
movement during the last centuries is naught but a desire for power for the mere purpose
of 'mean pleasures'? Is this what your Father Paissiy taught you?"
"No, no, quite the reverse, for Father Paissiy once told me something very similar to
what you yourself say, though, of course, not that—something quite different," suddenly
added Alexis, blushing.
"A precious piece of information, notwithstanding your 'not that.' I ask you, why
should the Inquisitors and the Jesuits of your imagination live but for the attainment of
'mean material pleasures?' Why should there not be found among them one single
genuine martyr suffering under a great and holy idea and loving humanity with all his
heart? Now let us suppose that among all these Jesuits thirsting and hungering but after
'mean material pleasures' there may be one, just one like my old Inquisitor, who had
himself fed upon roots in the wilderness, suffered the tortures of damnation while trying
to conquer flesh, in order to become free and perfect, but who had never ceased to love
humanity, and who one day prophetically beheld the truth; who saw as plain as he could
see that the bulk of humanity could never be happy under the old system, that it was not
for them that the great Idealist had come and died and dreamt of His Universal
Harmony. Having realized that truth, he returned into the world and joined—intelligent
and practical people. Is this so impossible?"
"Joined whom? What intelligent and practical people?" exclaimed Alyosha quite
excited. "Why should they be more intelligent than other men, and what secrets and
mysteries can they have? They have neither. Atheism and infidelity is all the secret they
have. Your Inquisitor does not believe in God, and that is all the Mystery there is in it!"
"It may be so. You have guessed rightly there. And it is so, and that is his whole
secret; but is this not the acutest sufferings for such a man as he, who killed all his young
life in asceticism in the desert, and yet could not cure himself of his love towards his
fellowmen? Toward the end of his life he becomes convinced that it is only by
following the advice of the great and terrible spirit that the fate of these millions of
weak rebels, these 'half-finished samples of humanity created in mockery' can be made
tolerable. And once convinced of it, he sees as clearly that to achieve that object, one
must follow blindly the guidance of the wise spirit, the fearful spirit of death and
destruction, hence accept a system of lies and deception and lead humanity consciously
this time toward death and destruction, and moreover, be deceiving them all the while in
order to prevent them from realizing where they are being led, and so force the
miserable blind men to feel happy, at least while here on earth. And note this: a
wholesale deception in the name of Him, in whose ideal the old man had so
passionately, so fervently, believed during nearly his whole life! Is this no suffering?
And were such a solitary exception found amidst, and at the head of, that army 'that
thirsts for power but for the sake of the mean pleasures of life,' think you one such man
would not suffice to bring on a tragedy? Moreover, one single man like my Inquisitor as
a principal leader, would prove sufficient to discover the real guiding idea of the
Romish system with all its armies of Jesuits, the greatest and chiefest conviction that the
solitary type described in my poem has at no time ever disappeared from among the
chief leaders of that movement. Who knows but that terrible old man, loving humanity
so stubbornly and in such an original way, exists even in our days in the shape of a
whole host of such solitary exceptions, whose existence is not due to mere chance, but
to a well-defined association born of mutual consent, to a secret league, organized
several centuries back, in order to guard the Mystery from the indiscreet eyes of the
miserable and weak people, and only in view of their own happiness? And so it is; it
cannot be otherwise. I suspect that even Masons have some such Mystery underlying the
basis of their organization, and that it is just the reason why the Roman Catholic clergy
hate them so, dreading to find in them rivals, competition, the dismemberment of the
unity of the idea, for the realization of which one flock and one Shepherd are needed.
However, in defending my idea, I look like an author whose production is unable to
stand criticism. Enough of this."
"You are, perhaps, a Mason yourself!" exclaimed Alyosha. "You do not believe in
God," he added, with a note of profound sadness in his voice. But suddenly remarking
that his brother was looking at him with mockery, "How do you mean then to bring your
poem to a close?" he unexpectedly enquired, casting his eyes downward, "or does it
break off here?"
"My intention is to end it with the following scene: Having disburdened his heart, the
Inquisitor waits for some time to hear his prisoner speak in His turn. His silence weighs
upon him. He has seen that his captive has been attentively listening to him all the time,
with His eyes fixed penetratingly and softly on the face of his jailer, and evidently bent
upon not replying to him. The old man longs to hear His voice, to hear Him reply; better
words of bitterness and scorn than His silence. Suddenly He rises; slowly and silently
approaching the Inquisitor, He bends towards him and softly kisses the bloodless, four-
score and-ten-year-old lips. That is all the answer. The Grand Inquisitor shudders.
There is a convulsive twitch at the corner of his mouth. He goes to the door, opens it,
and addressing Him, 'Go,' he says, 'go, and return no more... do not come again... never,
never!' and—lets Him out into the dark night. The prisoner vanishes."
"And the old man?"
"The kiss burns his heart, but the old man remains firm in his own ideas and
unbelief."
"And you, together with him? You too!" despairingly exclaimed Alyosha, while Ivan
burst into a still louder fit of laughter.

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1. THE GRAND INQUISITOR
2. Fyodor Dostoyevsky
1. (Translation by H.P. Blavatsky)