feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_6_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: The Brothers Karamazov.book 5.chapter 5
feat_summary_id: book 5, chapter 5
feat_summary: {"name": "Book V Pro and Contra, Chapter 5 The Grand Inquisitor", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section7/", "summary": "Ivan explains his prose poem, \"The Grand Inquisitor.\" In a town in Spain, in the sixteenth century, Christ arrives, apparently reborn on Earth. As he walks through the streets, the people gather about him, staring. He begins to heal the sick, but his ministrations are interrupted by the arrival of a powerful cardinal who orders his guards to arrest Christ. Late that night, this cardinal, the Grand Inquisitor, visits Christ's cell and explains why he has taken him prisoner and why he cannot allow Christ to perform his works. Throughout the Grand Inquisitor's lecture, Christ listens silently. The Grand Inquisitor tells Christ that he cannot allow him to do his work on Earth, because his work is at odds with the work of the Church. The Inquisitor reminds Christ of the time, recorded in the Bible, when the Devil presented him with three temptations, each of which he rejected. The Grand Inquisitor says that by rejecting these three temptations, he guaranteed that human beings would have free will. Free will, he says, is a devastating, impossible burden for mankind. Christ gave humanity the freedom to choose whether or not to follow him, but almost no one is strong enough to be faithful, and those who are not will be damned forever. The Grand Inquisitor says that Christ should have given people no choice, and instead taken power and given people security instead of freedom. That way, the same people who were too weak to follow Christ to begin with would still be damned, but at least they could have happiness and security on Earth, rather than the impossible burden of moral freedom. The Grand Inquisitor says that the Church has now undertaken to correct Christ's mistake. The Church is taking away freedom of choice and replacing it with security. Thus, the Grand Inquisitor must keep Christ in prison, because if Christ were allowed to go free, he might undermine the Church's work to lift the burden of free will from mankind. The first temptation Christ rejected was bread. Hungry after his forty days of fasting, Christ was confronted by Satan, who told him that if he were really the son of God, he could turn a stone to bread and satisfy his hunger. Christ refused, replying that man should not live by bread, but by the word of God. The Grand Inquisitor says that most people are too weak to live by the word of God when they are hungry. Christ should have taken the bread and offered mankind freedom from hunger instead of freedom of choice. The second temptation was to perform a miracle. Satan placed Christ upon a pinnacle in Jerusalem and told him to prove that he was the messiah by throwing himself off it. If Christ were really God's son, the angels would bear him up and not allow him to die. Christ refused, telling Satan that he could not tempt God. Beaten, Satan departed. But the Grand Inquisitor says that Christ should have given people a miracle, for most people need to see the miraculous in order to be content in their religious faith. Man needs a supernatural being to worship, and Christ refused to appear as one. The third temptation was power. Satan showed Christ all the kingdoms in the world, and offered him control of them all. Christ refused. The Grand Inquisitor says that Christ should have taken the power, but since he did not, the Church has now has to take it in his name, in order to convince men to give up their free will in favor of their security. The Grand Inquisitor tells Christ that it was Satan, and not Christ, who was in the right during this exchange. He says that ever since the Church took over the Roman Empire, it has been secretly performing the work of Satan, not because it is evil, but because it seeks the best and most secure order for mankind. As the Grand Inquisitor finishes his indictment of Christ, Christ walks up to the old man and kisses him gently on the lips. The Grand Inquisitor suddenly sets Christ free, but tells him never to return again. As Ivan finishes his story, he worries that Alyosha will be disturbed by the idea that if there is no God, there are no moral limitations on man's behavior. But Alyosha leans forward and kisses Ivan on the lips. Ivan, moved, replies that Alyosha has stolen that action from his poem. Ivan and Alyosha leave the restaurant and split up. Ivan begins walking home and Alyosha walks to the monastery where Zosima is dying.", "analysis": "The story of the Grand Inquisitor strongly resembles a biblical parable, the kind of story that Christ tells in the New Testament to illustrate a philosophical point. Both Ivan's story and Christ's stories use a fictional narrative to address a deep philosophical concern and are open to various interpretations. The similarity between Ivan's story and Christ's stories illustrates the uneasy relationship between Ivan and religion. At the same time that Ivan rejects religion's ability to effectively guide human life, he relies on many of its principles in forming his own philosophical system. Like Christ, Ivan is deeply concerned with understanding the way we define what is right and what is wrong, and with understanding how morality guides human actions. However, Ivan ultimately rejects both Christ's and God's existence, as he cannot accept a supreme being with absolute power who would nonetheless allow the suffering that occurs on Earth. The story also implicitly brings up a new point with regard to Ivan's argument about expanding the power of ecclesiastical courts. By setting his story in sixteenth-century Spain, where ecclesiastical courts were at the height of their power to try and punish criminals, Ivan asks what verdict such a court would have reached in judging Christ's life. Since Christian religions teach that Christ lived a sinless life, presumably an ecclesiastical court would have been unable to find Christ guilty of any sin. However, the fact that Ivan's court finds Christ guilty of sins against mankind illustrates the difference between Ivan's religious beliefs and his beliefs in the efficacy of ecclesiastical courts. He sees the courts as an effective way to guide human action, but not necessarily as a way to induce men to believe more strongly in God or religion. The conflict between free will and security further illustrates the reasons for Ivan's dissent from Christianity. The fundamental difference between Christ's point of view and that of the Grand Inquisitor is the value that each of them places on freedom and comfort. Christ's responses to the three temptations emphasize the importance of man's ability to choose between right and wrong, while the Inquisitor's interpretation of Christ's actions emphasizes the greater value of living a comfortable life in which the right path has already been chosen by someone else. The assumption at the heart of the Inquisitor's case is that Christ's resistance of Satan's temptations is meant to provide a symbolic example for the rest of mankind. The Inquisitor interprets the rejection of the temptations as Christ's argument that humanity must reject certain securities: comfort, represented by bread; power and the safety that power brings, represented by the kingdoms; and superstition, represented by the miracle. The Inquisitor believes that Christ's example places an impossible burden on mankind, which is inherently too weak to use its free will to find salvation. Effectively, the Inquisitor argues, the only option is for people to lead sinful lives ending in damnation. The Inquisitor's Church, which is allied with Satan, seeks to provide people with stability and security in their lives, even if by doing so it ensures that they will be damned in the afterlife. Ivan's story presents the Inquisitor, a man who considers himself an ally of Satan, as an admirable human being, acting against God but with humanity's best interest at heart. Ivan does not believe that God acts in the best interest of mankind, but the implication that human nature is so weak that people are better off succumbing to the power of Satan is a radical response to the problem of free will. Ivan's attitude stems from the psychology of doubt. Ivan's over-riding skepticism makes it impossible for him to see anything but the bad side of human nature. As a result, he believes that people would be better off under the thumb of even a fraudulent religious authority rather than making their own decisions. Even though his argument is pessimistic, his reasoning is compelling. Just as Alyosha is unable to offer a satisfactory response to Ivan's critique of God, Christ says nothing during the Inquisitor's critique of him, one of several parallels between Alyosha and Christ during this chapter. But Christ's enigmatic kiss on the Inquisitor's lips after his indictment completely changes the tenor of the scene. Recalling Zosima's bow before Dmitri at the monastery in Book I, the kiss represents an overriding act of love and forgiveness so innate that it can only be expressed wordlessly. On its deepest level, it defies explanation. The power of faith and love, Dostoevsky implies, is rooted in mystery--not simply in the empty and easily digestible idea that God's will is too complex for people to understand, but in a resonant, active, unanswerable profundity. The kiss cannot overcome a logical argument, but at the same time there is no logical argument that can overcome the kiss. It represents the triumph of love and faith, on their own terms, over rational skepticism. In having Ivan end his poem on a note of such deep and moving ambiguity, Dostoevsky has his major opponent of religion acknowledge the power of faith, just as Dostoevsky himself, a proponent of faith, has used Ivan to acknowledge the power of doubt. Alyosha's kiss for Ivan indicates how well the young Alyosha understands the problems of faith and doubt in a world characterized by free will, and just how committed his own will is to the positive goodness of faith."}
text: 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.
  
  
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Book V Pro and Contra, Chapter 5 The Grand Inquisitor
target: Ivan explains his prose poem, "The Grand Inquisitor." In a town in Spain, in the sixteenth century, Christ arrives, apparently reborn on Earth. As he walks through the streets, the people gather about him, staring. He begins to heal the sick, but his ministrations are interrupted by the arrival of a powerful cardinal who orders his guards to arrest Christ. Late that night, this cardinal, the Grand Inquisitor, visits Christ's cell and explains why he has taken him prisoner and why he cannot allow Christ to perform his works. Throughout the Grand Inquisitor's lecture, Christ listens silently. The Grand Inquisitor tells Christ that he cannot allow him to do his work on Earth, because his work is at odds with the work of the Church. The Inquisitor reminds Christ of the time, recorded in the Bible, when the Devil presented him with three temptations, each of which he rejected. The Grand Inquisitor says that by rejecting these three temptations, he guaranteed that human beings would have free will. Free will, he says, is a devastating, impossible burden for mankind. Christ gave humanity the freedom to choose whether or not to follow him, but almost no one is strong enough to be faithful, and those who are not will be damned forever. The Grand Inquisitor says that Christ should have given people no choice, and instead taken power and given people security instead of freedom. That way, the same people who were too weak to follow Christ to begin with would still be damned, but at least they could have happiness and security on Earth, rather than the impossible burden of moral freedom. The Grand Inquisitor says that the Church has now undertaken to correct Christ's mistake. The Church is taking away freedom of choice and replacing it with security. Thus, the Grand Inquisitor must keep Christ in prison, because if Christ were allowed to go free, he might undermine the Church's work to lift the burden of free will from mankind. The first temptation Christ rejected was bread. Hungry after his forty days of fasting, Christ was confronted by Satan, who told him that if he were really the son of God, he could turn a stone to bread and satisfy his hunger. Christ refused, replying that man should not live by bread, but by the word of God. The Grand Inquisitor says that most people are too weak to live by the word of God when they are hungry. Christ should have taken the bread and offered mankind freedom from hunger instead of freedom of choice. The second temptation was to perform a miracle. Satan placed Christ upon a pinnacle in Jerusalem and told him to prove that he was the messiah by throwing himself off it. If Christ were really God's son, the angels would bear him up and not allow him to die. Christ refused, telling Satan that he could not tempt God. Beaten, Satan departed. But the Grand Inquisitor says that Christ should have given people a miracle, for most people need to see the miraculous in order to be content in their religious faith. Man needs a supernatural being to worship, and Christ refused to appear as one. The third temptation was power. Satan showed Christ all the kingdoms in the world, and offered him control of them all. Christ refused. The Grand Inquisitor says that Christ should have taken the power, but since he did not, the Church has now has to take it in his name, in order to convince men to give up their free will in favor of their security. The Grand Inquisitor tells Christ that it was Satan, and not Christ, who was in the right during this exchange. He says that ever since the Church took over the Roman Empire, it has been secretly performing the work of Satan, not because it is evil, but because it seeks the best and most secure order for mankind. As the Grand Inquisitor finishes his indictment of Christ, Christ walks up to the old man and kisses him gently on the lips. The Grand Inquisitor suddenly sets Christ free, but tells him never to return again. As Ivan finishes his story, he worries that Alyosha will be disturbed by the idea that if there is no God, there are no moral limitations on man's behavior. But Alyosha leans forward and kisses Ivan on the lips. Ivan, moved, replies that Alyosha has stolen that action from his poem. Ivan and Alyosha leave the restaurant and split up. Ivan begins walking home and Alyosha walks to the monastery where Zosima is dying.
feat_summary_analysis: The story of the Grand Inquisitor strongly resembles a biblical parable, the kind of story that Christ tells in the New Testament to illustrate a philosophical point. Both Ivan's story and Christ's stories use a fictional narrative to address a deep philosophical concern and are open to various interpretations. The similarity between Ivan's story and Christ's stories illustrates the uneasy relationship between Ivan and religion. At the same time that Ivan rejects religion's ability to effectively guide human life, he relies on many of its principles in forming his own philosophical system. Like Christ, Ivan is deeply concerned with understanding the way we define what is right and what is wrong, and with understanding how morality guides human actions. However, Ivan ultimately rejects both Christ's and God's existence, as he cannot accept a supreme being with absolute power who would nonetheless allow the suffering that occurs on Earth. The story also implicitly brings up a new point with regard to Ivan's argument about expanding the power of ecclesiastical courts. By setting his story in sixteenth-century Spain, where ecclesiastical courts were at the height of their power to try and punish criminals, Ivan asks what verdict such a court would have reached in judging Christ's life. Since Christian religions teach that Christ lived a sinless life, presumably an ecclesiastical court would have been unable to find Christ guilty of any sin. However, the fact that Ivan's court finds Christ guilty of sins against mankind illustrates the difference between Ivan's religious beliefs and his beliefs in the efficacy of ecclesiastical courts. He sees the courts as an effective way to guide human action, but not necessarily as a way to induce men to believe more strongly in God or religion. The conflict between free will and security further illustrates the reasons for Ivan's dissent from Christianity. The fundamental difference between Christ's point of view and that of the Grand Inquisitor is the value that each of them places on freedom and comfort. Christ's responses to the three temptations emphasize the importance of man's ability to choose between right and wrong, while the Inquisitor's interpretation of Christ's actions emphasizes the greater value of living a comfortable life in which the right path has already been chosen by someone else. The assumption at the heart of the Inquisitor's case is that Christ's resistance of Satan's temptations is meant to provide a symbolic example for the rest of mankind. The Inquisitor interprets the rejection of the temptations as Christ's argument that humanity must reject certain securities: comfort, represented by bread; power and the safety that power brings, represented by the kingdoms; and superstition, represented by the miracle. The Inquisitor believes that Christ's example places an impossible burden on mankind, which is inherently too weak to use its free will to find salvation. Effectively, the Inquisitor argues, the only option is for people to lead sinful lives ending in damnation. The Inquisitor's Church, which is allied with Satan, seeks to provide people with stability and security in their lives, even if by doing so it ensures that they will be damned in the afterlife. Ivan's story presents the Inquisitor, a man who considers himself an ally of Satan, as an admirable human being, acting against God but with humanity's best interest at heart. Ivan does not believe that God acts in the best interest of mankind, but the implication that human nature is so weak that people are better off succumbing to the power of Satan is a radical response to the problem of free will. Ivan's attitude stems from the psychology of doubt. Ivan's over-riding skepticism makes it impossible for him to see anything but the bad side of human nature. As a result, he believes that people would be better off under the thumb of even a fraudulent religious authority rather than making their own decisions. Even though his argument is pessimistic, his reasoning is compelling. Just as Alyosha is unable to offer a satisfactory response to Ivan's critique of God, Christ says nothing during the Inquisitor's critique of him, one of several parallels between Alyosha and Christ during this chapter. But Christ's enigmatic kiss on the Inquisitor's lips after his indictment completely changes the tenor of the scene. Recalling Zosima's bow before Dmitri at the monastery in Book I, the kiss represents an overriding act of love and forgiveness so innate that it can only be expressed wordlessly. On its deepest level, it defies explanation. The power of faith and love, Dostoevsky implies, is rooted in mystery--not simply in the empty and easily digestible idea that God's will is too complex for people to understand, but in a resonant, active, unanswerable profundity. The kiss cannot overcome a logical argument, but at the same time there is no logical argument that can overcome the kiss. It represents the triumph of love and faith, on their own terms, over rational skepticism. In having Ivan end his poem on a note of such deep and moving ambiguity, Dostoevsky has his major opponent of religion acknowledge the power of faith, just as Dostoevsky himself, a proponent of faith, has used Ivan to acknowledge the power of doubt. Alyosha's kiss for Ivan indicates how well the young Alyosha understands the problems of faith and doubt in a world characterized by free will, and just how committed his own will is to the positive goodness of faith.