 Section 36 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. Book 5, Chapter 5, The Grand Inquisitor Even this must have a preface, that is, a literary preface, laughed Yvonne, 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 learned 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 Hôtel 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 presse intégracieuse 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 in 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 today 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. 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 fervour. O Lord our God, hasten thy coming! So many ages called upon him that in his infinite mercy he dain'd 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 lies. Among us, Chuchev, 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 dain'd 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 Autodafé 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, at Majorum Gloriam Dei, been burnt by the cardinal, the grand inquisitor, in a magnificent Autodafé, 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, everyone 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 response of 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 Hosanna. 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 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, kneeling, 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 death-like silence they lay hands on him and lead him away. The crowd instantly bows down to the earth, like one man, or 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 the 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 tomorrow? I know not who thou art, and care not to know whether it is thou or only a semblance of him, but tomorrow 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 tomorrow at the faintest sign from me will rush to heap up the embers of thy fire. Knowest thou that? Yes, may be thou knowest it, he added, with thoughtful penetration, never for a moment taking his eyes off the prisoner. I don't quite understand, Yvonne. What does it mean, Al-Yasha, 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 qui pro quo? Take it as the last, said Yvonne, 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 autodafé 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, Yvonne 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 wasst 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 not thou often say, then, I will make you free? But now thou hast seen these free men, the old man adds suddenly with a pence of 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. Does thou not believe that it's over for good? Thou luckest meekly at me, and daynest not even to be wroth with me. But let me tell thee that now, today, 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, Al-Yasha 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 Al-Yasha? 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, thus 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 divine 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 unrulyness 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 seeest 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 forever 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 someone to worship. So long as man remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully as to find someone 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 have 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 someone 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 someone 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 forever, 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 forever. 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 forever 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 spirits 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 forever. But thou didst think too highly of man 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. Baved in their foolish tears, they will recognise 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 is unable to receive such terrible gifts? Hence 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 is 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 so much 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? Now, the work is only beginning, but it has begun. It has longed 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? Hethst thou accepted that last counsel of the mighty spirit, thou wouldst have accomplished all that man seeks on earth, that is, someone to worship, someone 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 man. 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, Timers and Genghis Khan's, world 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. Hethst 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 awestruck and 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. 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 saviours 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 wise 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 has 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, tomorrow 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. Tomorrow I shall burn thee. Dixie! 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 of 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 Yvonne. 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 Pisces' teaching? No, no. On the contrary, Father Pisces did once say something rather the same as you. But, of course, it's not the same, not a bit the same, Al-Yasha 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 Al Yasha, 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 Al Yasha. 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 it to end 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 Al-Yasha mournfully. Yvonne laughed. It's all nonsense, Al-Yasha. 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'm going straight off to the Jesuits to join the man 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? Al-Yasha 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, Yvonne 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 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? Yvonne scowled, and all at once turned strangely pale. Ah, you've caught up yesterday's phrase, which so offended Musov, and which Dimitri 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 Mitch's version isn't bad. Alyosha looked at him in silence. I thought that going away from here I have you, at least, Yvonne 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 Yvonne, 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. Yvonne 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 tomorrow, 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 partying for seven years or ten. Come, go now to your potter Sarathakas. He is dying. If he dies without you, you will be angry with me for having kept you. Goodbye. Kiss me once more. That's right. Now go. Yvon turned suddenly and went his way without looking back. It was just as Dmitri had left Al Yasha the day before, though the parting had been very different. The strange resemblance flashed like an arrow through Al Yasha's mind, in the distress and dejection of that moment. He waited a little, looking after his brother. He suddenly noticed that Yvon 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 to 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. Potter Seraphicus. He got that name from somewhere. Where from? Al Yasha wondered. Yvon, poor Yvon, and when shall I see you again? Here is the hermitage. Yes, yes, that he is. Potter Seraphicus. He will save me from him and forever. Several times afterwards he wondered how he could, on leaving Yvon, so completely forget his brother Dmitry, 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. End of Section 36 Section 37 of the Brothers Karamazov by Theodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book 5, Chapter 6. For a while a very obscure one. And Yvon, on parting from Al Yasha, went home to Theodor Pavlovitch's house. But, strange to say, he was overcome by insufferable depression which grew greater at every step he took towards the house. There was nothing strange in his being depressed. What was strange was that Yvon could not have said what was the cause of it. He had often been depressed before, and there was nothing surprising at his feeling so at such a moment, when he had broken off with everything that had brought him here, and was preparing that day to make a new start and enter upon a new, unknown future. He would again be as solitary as ever, and though he had great hopes and great, too great expectations from life, he could not have given any definite account of his hopes, his expectations, or even his desires. Yet at that moment, though the apprehension of the new and unknown certainly found place in his heart, what was worrying him was something quite different. Is it loathing for my father's house? he wondered. Quite likely I am so sick of it, and though it's the last time I shall cross its hateful threshold, still I loathe it. No, it's not that, either. Is it the parting with Al Yasha and the conversation I had with him? For so many years I've been silent with the whole world, and not deigned to speak, and all of a sudden I reel off a rigmarole like that. It certainly might have been the youthful vexation of youthful inexperience and vanity, vexation at having failed to express himself, especially with such a being as Al Yasha, on whom his heart had certainly been reckoning. No doubt that came in, that vexation, it must have done, indeed, but yet that was not it, that was not it, either. I feel sick with depression, and yet I can't tell what I want. Better not think, perhaps. Yvonne tried not to think, but that, too, was no use. What made his depression so vexatious and irritating was that it had had a kind of casual external character. He felt that some person or thing seemed to be standing out somewhere, just as something will sometimes obtrude itself upon the eye, and though one may be so busy with work or conversation that for a long time one does not notice it, yet it irritates and almost torments one till at last one realizes and removes the offending object, often quite a trifling and ridiculous one, some article left about in the wrong place, a handkerchief on the floor, a book not replaced on the shelf, and so on. At last, feeling very cross and ill-humoured, Yvonne arrived home, and suddenly, about fifteen paces from the garden gate, he guessed what was fretting and worrying him. On a bench in the gateway, the valet Smerjakov was sitting enjoying the coolness of the evening, and at the first glance at him Yvonne knew that the valet Smerjakov was on his mind, and that it was this man that his soul loathed. It all dawned upon him suddenly and became clear. Just before when Alyosha had been telling him of his meeting with Smerjakov, he had felt a sudden twinge of gloom and loathing, which had immediately stirred response of anger in his heart. Afterwards, as he talked, Smerjakov had been forgotten for the time, but still he had been in his mind, and as soon as Yvonne parted with Alyosha and was walking home, the forgotten sensation began to obtrude itself again. Is it possible that a miserable, contemptible creature like that can worry me so much? He wondered, with insufferable irritation. It was true that Yvonne had come of late to feel an intense dislike for the man, especially during the last few days. He had even begun to notice in himself a growing feeling that was almost a hatred for the creature. Perhaps this hatred was accentuated by the fact that when Yvonne first came to the neighborhood he had felt quite differently. Then he had taken a marked interest in Smerjakov, and had even thought him very original. He had encouraged him to talk to him, though he had always wondered at a certain incoherence, or rather restlessness in his mind, and could not understand what it was that so continually and insistently worked upon the brain of the contemplative. They discussed philosophical questions and even how there could have been light on the first day when the sun, moon, and stars were only created on the fourth day, and how that was to be understood. But Yvonne soon saw that, though the sun, moon, and stars might be an interesting subject, yet that it was quite secondary to Smerjakov, and that he was looking for something altogether different. In one way and another he began to betray a boundless vanity, and a wounded vanity too, and that, Yvonne disliked, it had first given rise to his aversion. Later on there had been trouble in the house. Grushenko had come on the scene, and there had been the scandals with his brother Dmitry. They discussed that too. But though Smerjakov always talked of that with great excitement, it was impossible to discover what he desired to come of it. There was, in fact, something surprising in the illogicality and incoherence that some of his desires accidentally betrayed, and always vaguely expressed. Smerjakov was always inquiring, putting certain indirect but obviously premeditated questions. But what his object was, he did not explain, and usually at the most important moment he would break off and relapse into silence or pass to another subject. But what finally irritated Yvonne most, and confirmed his dislike for him, was the peculiar, revolting familiarity which Smerjakov began to show more and more markedly. Not that he forgot himself and was rude. On the contrary, he always spoke very respectfully. Yet he had obviously begun to consider, goodness knows why, that there was some sort of understanding between him and Yvonne Fyodorovich. He always spoke in a tone that suggested that those two had some kind of compact, some secret between them, that had at some time been expressed on both sides, only known to them and beyond the comprehension of those around them. But for a long time Yvonne did not recognize the real cause of his growing dislike, and he had only lately realized what was at the root of it. With a feeling of disgust and irritation, he tried to pass in at the gate without speaking or looking at Smerjakov. But Smerjakov rose from the bench, and from that action alone Yvonne knew instantly that he wanted particularly to talk to him. Yvonne looked at him and stopped, and the fact that he did stop instead of passing by, as he meant to the minute before, drove him to fury. With anger and repulsion, he looked at Smerjakov's emasculate, sickly face, with the little curls combed forward on his forehead. His left eye winked, and he grinned as if to say, Where are you going? You won't pass by. You see that we too clever people have something to say to each other. Yvonne shook. Get away, miserable idiot, what have I to do with you? was on the tip of his tongue. But to his profound astonishment he heard himself say, Is my father still asleep or has he waked? He asked the question softly and meekly to his own surprise, and at once, again to his own surprise, sat down on the bench. For an instant he felt almost frightened. He remembered it afterwards. Smerjakov stood, facing him, his hands behind his back, looking at him with assurance and almost severity. His honour is still asleep. He articulated deliberately. You were the first to speak, not I, he seemed to say. I am surprised at you, sir, he added, after a pause, dropping his eyes effectively, setting his right foot forward and playing with the tip of his polished boot. Why are you surprised at me? Yvonne asked, abruptly and sullenly, doing his utmost to restrain himself, and suddenly realising with disgust that he was feeling intense curiosity and would not on any account have gone away without satisfying it. Why don't you go to Chermashnya, sir? Smerjakov suddenly raised his eyes and smiled familiarly. Why, I smile, you must understand of yourself if you are a clever man, his screwed up left eye seemed to say. Why should I go to Chermashnya? Yvonne asked in surprise. Smerjakov was silent again. Fyodor Pavlovich himself has so begged you to, he said at last, slowly and apparently attaching no significance to his answer. I put you off with a secondary reason, he seemed to suggest, simply to say something. Damn you, speak out what you want, Yvonne cried angrily at last, passing from meekness to violence. Smerjakov drew his right foot up to his left, pulled himself up, but still looked at him with the same serenity and the same little smile. Substantially nothing, but just by way of conversation. Another silence followed. They did not speak for nearly a minute. Yvonne knew that he ought to get up and show anger and Smerjakov stood before him and seemed to be waiting as though to see whether he would be angry or not, so at least it seemed to Yvonne. At last he moved to get up. Smerjakov seemed to seize the moment. I'm in an awful position, Yvonne Fyodorovich. I don't know how to help myself, he said resolutely and distinctly, and at his last word he sighed. Yvonne Fyodorovich sat down again. They are both utterly crazy, they are no better than little children, Smerjakov went on. I am speaking of your parent and your brother Dmitry Fyodorovich. Here Fyodor Pavlovich will get up directly and begin worrying me every minute. Has she come, why hasn't she come, and so on up till midnight and even after midnight? And if Agrofena Alexandrovna doesn't come, for very likely she does not mean to come at all, then he will be at me again tomorrow morning. Why hasn't she come, when will she come, as though I were to blame for it? On the other side it's no better. As soon as it gets dark or even before, your brother will appear with his gun in his hands. Look out, you rogue, you soup-maker. If you miss her and don't let me know she's been, I'll kill you before anyone. When the night's over in the morning he too, like Fyodor Pavlovich, begins worrying me to death. Why hasn't she come, will she come soon? And he too thanks me to blame because his lady hasn't come. And every day and every hour they get angrier and angrier so that I sometimes think I shall kill myself in a fright. I can't depend upon them, sir. And why have you meddled? Why did you begin to spy for Dmitri Fyodorovich? said Yvon irritably. How could I help meddling? Though indeed I haven't meddled at all if you want to know the truth of the matter. I kept quiet from the very beginning, not daring to answer, but he pitched on me to be his servant. He has had only one thing to say since. I'll kill you, you scoundrel, if you miss her. I feel certain, sir, that I shall have a long fit tomorrow. What do you mean by a long fit? A long fit, lasting a long time, several hours or perhaps a day or two. Once it went on for three days. I fell from the garret that time. The struggling ceased and then began again, and for three days I couldn't come back to my senses. Fyodor Pavlovich sent for Hetson Stuba, the doctor, here, and he put ice on my head and tried another remedy, too. I might have died. But they say one can't tell with epilepsy when a fit is coming. What makes you say you will have one tomorrow, Yvon inquired, with the peculiar irritable curiosity. That's just so. You can't tell beforehand. Besides, you fell from the garret, then. I climb up to the garret every day. I might fall from the garret again tomorrow. And if not, I might fall down the cellar steps. I have to go into the cellar every day, too. Yvon took a long look at him. You are talking nonsense, I see, and I don't quite understand you. He said softly, but with a sort of menace. Do you mean to pretend to be ill tomorrow for three days, eh? Smerjakov, who was looking at the ground again and playing with the toe of his right foot, set the foot down, moved the left one forward, and, grinning, articulated. If I were able to play such a trick, that is, pretend to have a fit, and it would not be difficult for a man accustomed to them, I should have a perfect right to use such a means to save myself from death. For even if Agrafena Alexandrovna comes to see his father while I am ill, his honour can't blame a sick man for not telling him. He'd be ashamed to. Hang it all, Yvon cried, his face working with anger. Why are you always in such a funk for your life? All my brother Dimitri's threats are only hasty words and mean nothing. He won't kill you, it's not you he'll kill. He'd kill me first of all like a fly, but even more than that I am afraid I shall be taken for an accomplice of his when he does something crazy to his father. Why should you be taken for an accomplice? They'll think I am an accomplice because I let him know the signals as a great secret. What signals? Whom did you tell? Confound you, speak more plainly. I'm bound to admit the fact, Smerdukov drawled with pedantic composure, that I have a secret with Fyodor Pavlovich in this business. As you know yourself, if only you do know it, he has for several days passed locked himself in as soon as night or even evening comes on. Of late you've been going upstairs to your room early every evening, and yesterday you did not come down at all, and so perhaps you don't know how carefully he has begun to lock himself in at night. And even if Grigory Vasilyevich comes to the door, he won't open to him till he hears his voice. But Grigory Vasilyevich does not come because I wait upon him alone in his room now. That's the arrangement he made himself ever since this to do with Agrifena Alexandrovna began. But at night, by his orders, I go away to the lodge, so that I don't get to sleep till midnight, but I am on the watch, getting up and walking about the yard, waiting for Agrifena Alexandrovna to come. For the last few days he's been perfectly frantic expecting her. What he argues is she is afraid of him, Dmitri Fyodorovich, Mitya as he calls him, and so says he, she'll come the back way, late at night to me. You look out for her, says he, till midnight and later, and if she does come you run up and knock at my door, or at the window from the garden, knock at first twice rather gently, and then three times more quickly. Then, says he, I shall understand at once that she has come, and will open the door to you quietly. Another signal he gave me, in case anything unexpected happens, at first two knocks, and then, after an interval, another much louder. Then he will understand that something has happened suddenly, and that I must see him, and he will open to me so that I can go and speak to him. That's all in case Agrifena Alexandrovna can't come herself, but sends a message. Besides, Dmitri Fyodorovich might come too, so I must let him know he is near. His honour is awfully afraid of Dmitri Fyodorovich, so that even if Agrifena Alexandrovna had come and were locked in with him, and Dmitri Fyodorovich were to turn up anywhere near at the time, I should be bound to let him know at once, knocking three times, so that the first signal of five knocks means Agrifena Alexandrovna has come, while the second signal of three knocks means something important to tell you. His honour has shown me them several times, and explained them, and as in the whole universe no one knows of these signals but myself and his honour, so he'd opened the door without the slightest hesitation and without calling out. He is awfully afraid of calling out aloud. Well, those signals are known to Dmitri Fyodorovich too, now. How are they known? Did you tell him? How dared you tell him? It was through fright I did it. How could I dare to keep it back from him? Dmitri Fyodorovich kept persisting every day. You are deceiving me, you are hiding something from me. I'll break both your legs for you. So I told him, those secret signals, that he might see my slavish devotion, and might be satisfied that I was not deceiving him, but was telling him all I could. If you think that he'll make use of those signals and try to get in, don't let him in. But if I should be laid up with a fit, how can I prevent him coming in then, even if I dared prevent him, knowing how desperate he is? Hang it, how can you be so sure you are going to have a fit, confound you? Are you laughing at me? How could I dare laugh at you? I am in no laughing humour with this fear on me. I feel I am going to have a fit. I have a presentiment. Freight alone will bring it on. Confound it, if you are laid up, Grigori will be on the watch. Let Grigori know beforehand, he will be sure not to let him in. I should never dare to tell Grigori Vasilievich about the signals without orders from my master. And as for Grigori Vasilievich hearing him and not admitting him, he has been ill ever since yesterday, and Marfa Ignatyevna intends to give him medicine tomorrow. They've just arranged it. It's a very strange remedy of hers. Marfa Ignatyevna knows of a preparation and always keeps it. It's a strong thing made from some herb. She has the secret of it, and she always gives it to Grigori Vasilievich three times a year when his lumbago's so bad he is almost paralyzed by it. Then she takes a towel, wets it with the stuff, and rubs his whole back for half an hour till it's quite red and swollen, and what's left in the bottle she gives him to drink, with a special prayer. But not quite all, for on such occasions she leaves some for herself and drinks it herself. And as they never take strong drink, I assure you they both drop a sleep at once, and sleep sound a very long time. And when Grigori Vasilievich wakes up, he is perfectly well after it, but Marfa Ignatyevna always has a headache from it. So if Marfa Ignatyevna carries out her intention tomorrow, they won't hear anything and hinder Dmitrii Fyodorovich. They'll be asleep. What a rigmarole! And it all seems to happen at once, as though it were planned. You'll have a fit, and they'll both be unconscious, cried Yvonne. But aren't you trying to arrange it so? Broke from him suddenly, and he frowned threateningly. How could I, and why should I, when it all depends on Dmitrii Fyodorovich and his plans? If he means to do anything, he'll do it. But if not, I shan't be thrusting him upon his father. And why should he go to father, especially on the sly, if, as you say yourself, Agrifena Alexandrovna won't come at all? Yvonne went on, turning white with anger. You say that yourself, and all the while I've been here I've felt sure it was all the old man's fancy, and the creature won't come to him. Why should Dmitrii break in on him if she doesn't come? Speak, I want to know what you are thinking. You know yourself why he'll come. What's the use of what I think? His honour will come simply because he is in a rage, or suspicious, on account of my illness, perhaps, and he'll dash in, as he did yesterday, through impatience to search the rooms, to see whether she hasn't escaped him on the sly. He is perfectly well aware, too, that Fyodor Pavlovich has a big envelope with three thousand rubles in it, tied up with ribbon and sealed with three seals, on it is written in his own hand, To my angel Grushenko if she will come, to which she added three days later, For my little chicken. There's no knowing what that might do. Nonsense! cried Yvon, almost beside himself. Dmitrii won't come to steal money and kill my father to do it. He might have killed him yesterday on account of Grushenko, like the frantic savage fool he is, but he won't steal. He is in very great need of money now, the greatest need, Yvon Fyodorovich. You don't know in what need he is. Smerdyakov explained with perfect composure and remarkable distinctness. He looks on that three thousand as his own, too. He said so to me himself. My father still owes me just three thousand, he said, and besides that, consider, Yvon Fyodorovich, there is something else perfectly true. It's as good as certain, so to say, that Agrifena Alexandrovna will force him, if only she cares to, to marry her. The master himself, I mean, Fyodor Pavlovich, if only she cares to, and of course she may care to. All I've said is that she won't come, but maybe she's looking for more than that. I mean, to be mistress here. I know myself that Samsonov, her merchant, was laughing with her about it, telling her quite openly that it would not be a tall, stupid thing to do, and she's got plenty of sense. She wouldn't marry a beggar like Dmitri Fyodorovich. So, taking that into consideration, Yvon Fyodorovich, reflect that then neither Dmitri Fyodorovich nor yourself and your brother, Alexei Fyodorovich, would have anything after the master's death, not a ruble, for Agrifena Alexandrovna would marry him simply to get hold of the whole, all the money there is. But, if your father were to die now, there'd be some forty thousand for sure, even for Dmitri Fyodorovich, whom he hates so, for he's made no will. Dmitri Fyodorovich knows all that very well. A sort of shudder passed over Yvon's face. He suddenly flushed. Then why on earth, he suddenly interrupted Smerjakov, do you advise me to go to Chermashnya? What did you mean by that? If I go away, you see what will happen here. Yvon drew his breath with difficulty. Precisely so, said Smerjakov, softly and reasonably, watching Yvon intently, however. What do you mean by precisely so? Yvon questioned him, with a menacing light in his eyes, restraining himself with difficulty. I spoke because I felt sorry for you. If I were in your place, I should simply throw it all up, rather than stay on in such a position, answered Smerjakov with the most candid air, looking at Yvon's flashing eyes. They were both silent. You seem to be a perfect idiot, and what's more, an awful scoundrel, too. Yvon rose suddenly from the bench. He was about to pass straight through the gate, but he stopped short and turned to Smerjakov. Something strange followed. Yvon, in a sudden paroxysm, bit his lip, plunged his fists, and, in another minute, would have flung himself on Smerjakov. The latter, anyway, noticed it at the same moment, started and shrank back. But the moment passed without mischief to Smerjakov, and Yvon turned in silence, as it seemed in perplexity, to the gate. I am going away to Moscow tomorrow, if you care to know. Early tomorrow morning, that's all, he suddenly said aloud, angrily, and wondered himself afterwards what need there was to say this, then, to Smerjakov. That's the best thing you can do, he responded, as though he had expected to hear it, except that you can always be telegraphed for from Moscow, if anything should happen here. Yvon stopped again, and again turned quickly to Smerjakov, but a change had passed over him too. All his familiarity and carelessness had completely disappeared. His face expressed attention and expectation, intent but timid and cringing. Haven't you something more to say, something to add, could be read in the intent gaze he fixed on Yvon? And couldn't I be sent for from Chermashnya too, in case anything happened? Yvon shouted, suddenly, for some unknown reason, raising his voice. From Chermashnya too, you could be sent for, Smerjakov muttered, almost in a whisper, looking disconcerted but gazing intently into Yvon's eyes. Only Moscow is farther, and Chermashnya is nearer. Is it to save my spending money on the fare or to save my going so far out of my way that you insist on Chermashnya? Precisely so, muttered Smerjakov with a breaking voice. He looked at Yvon with a revolting smile and a gain made ready to draw back. But to his astonishment Yvon broke into a laugh and went through the gate still laughing. Anyone who had seen his face at that moment would have known that he was not laughing from lightness of heart, and he could not have explained himself what he was feeling at that instant. He moved and walked as though in a nervous frenzy. End of Section 37 Section 38 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. Book 5, Chapter 7. It's always worthwhile speaking to a clever man. And in the same nervous frenzy, too, he spoke. Meeting Fyodor Pavlovich in the drawing-room directly he went in, he shouted to him, waving his hands, I am going upstairs to my room, not into you. Goodbye. And passed by, trying not even to look at his father. Very possibly the old man was too hateful to him at that moment. But such an unceremonious display of hostility was a surprise even to Fyodor Pavlovich. And the old man evidently wanted to tell him something at once and had come to meet him in the drawing-room on purpose. Receiving this amiable greeting he stood still in silence and with an ironical air watched his son going upstairs till he passed out of sight. What's the matter with him? he promptly asked Smarjakov, who had followed Ivan. Angry about something? Who can tell? The valet muttered evasively. Confound him? Let him be angry then. Bring in the Samovar and get along with you. Look sharp. No news? Then followed a series of questions such as Smarjakov had just complained of to Ivan, all relating to his expected visitor, and these questions we will omit. Half an hour later the house was locked and the crazy old man was wandering along through the rooms in excited expectation of hearing every minute the five knocks agreed upon. Now and then he peered out into the darkness, seeing nothing. It was very late but Ivan was still awake and reflecting. He sat up late that night till two o'clock. But we will not give an account of his thoughts and this is not the place to look into that soul. Its turn will come. And even if one tried it would be very hard to give an account of them for there were no thoughts in his brain but something very vague and above all intense excitement. He felt himself that he had lost his bearings. He was fretted too by all sorts of strange and almost surprising desires. For instance, after midnight he suddenly had an intense irresistible inclination to go down, open the door, go to the lodge, and beat Smarjakov. But if he had been asked why, he could not have given any exact reason except perhaps that he loathed the valet as one who had insulted him more gravely than anyone in the world. On the other hand he was more than once that night overcome by a sort of inexplicable humiliating terror which he felt positively paralyzed his physical powers. His head ached and he was giddy. A feeling of hatred was rankling in his heart as though he meant to avenge himself on someone. He even hated Alyosha recalling the conversation he had just had with him. At moments he hated himself intensely. Of Katarina Ivanovna he almost forgot to think and wondered greatly at this afterwards, especially as he remembered perfectly that when he had protested so valiantly to Katarina Ivanovna that he would go away next day to Moscow, something had whispered in his heart, that's nonsense, you are not going and it won't be so easy to tear yourself away as you are boasting now. Remembering that night, long afterwards, Ivanovna recalled with peculiar repulsion how he had suddenly got up from the sofa and had stealthily, as though he were afraid of being watched, opened the door, gone out on the staircase and listened to Fyodor Pavlovich stirring down below, had listened a long while, some five minutes, with a sort of strange curiosity holding his breath while his heart throbbed, and why he had done all this, why he was listening he could not have said. That action all his life afterwards he called infamous, and at the bottom of his heart he thought of it as the basest action of his life. For Fyodor Pavlovich himself he felt no hatred at that moment but was simply intensely curious to know how he was walking down there below and what he must be doing now. He wondered and imagined how he must be peeping out of the dark windows and stopping in the middle of the room listening, listening for someone to knock. Ivan went out onto the stairs twice to listen like this. About two o'clock when everything was quiet and even Fyodor Pavlovich had gone to bed, Ivan had gotten to bed firmly resolved to fall asleep at once as he felt fearfully exhausted, and he did fall asleep at once and slept soundly without dreams, but waked early at seven o'clock when it was broad daylight. Opening his eyes he was surprised to feel himself extraordinarily vigorous. He jumped up at once and dressed quickly, then dragged out his trunk and began packing immediately. His linen had come back from the laundress the previous morning. Ivan positively smiled at the thought that everything was helping his sudden departure, and his departure certainly was sudden. Though Ivan had said the day before to Katerina Ivanovna Alyosha and Smarjakov that he was leaving next day, yet he remembered that he had no thought of departure when he went to bed, or at least had not dreamed that his first act in the morning would be to pack his trunk. At last his trunk and bag were ready. It was about nine o'clock when Marfa Ignachevna came in with her usual inquiry. Where will your honour take your tea in your own room or downstairs? He looked almost cheerful, but there was about him, about his words and gestures, something hurried and scattered, greeting his father affably, and even inquiring specially after his health, though he did not wait to hear his answer to the end, he announced that he was starting off in an hour to return to Moscow for good, and begged him to send for the horses. His father heard this announcement with no sign of surprise, and forgot in an unmanorly way to show regret at losing him. Instead of doing so, he flew into a great flutter at the recollection of some important business of his own. What a fellow you are, not to tell me yesterday. Never mind, we'll manage it all the same. Do me a great service, my dear boy. Go to Chermashnaya on the way. It's only to turn to the left from the station at Velovya. Only another twelve bursts, and you come to Chermashnaya. I'm sorry, I can't. It's eighty bursts to the railway, and the train starts for Moscow at seven o'clock tonight. I can only just catch it. You'll catch it tomorrow, or the day after, but today turn off to Chermashnaya. It won't put you out much to humor your father. If I hadn't had something to keep me here, I would have run over myself long ago, for I've some business there in a hurry. But here I—it's not the time for me to go now. You see, I've two pieces of cop's land there. The Maslovs, an old merchant and his son, will give eight thousand for the timber. But last year I just missed a purchaser who would have given twelve. There's no getting anyone about here to buy it. The Maslovs have it all their own way. One has to take what they'll give, for no one here dare bid against them. The priest at Yolinsko wrote to me last Thursday that a merchant called Gorskyn, a man I know, had turned up. What makes him valuable is that he is not from these parts, so he is not afraid of the Maslovs. He says he will give me eleven thousand for the cop's. Do you hear? But he'll only be here, the priest writes, for a week altogether, so you must go at once and make a bargain with him. Well, you write to the priest. He'll make the bargain. He can't do it. He has no eye for business. He is a perfect treasurer. I'd give him twenty thousand to take care of for me without a receipt. But he has no eye for business. He is a perfect child. A crow could deceive him. And yet he is a learned man, would you believe it? This Gorskyn looks like a peasant. He wears a blue kaftan, but he is a regular rogue. That's the common complaint. He is a liar. Sometimes he tells such lies that you wonder why he is doing it. He told me, the year before last, that his wife was dead and that he had married another, and would you believe it? There was not a word of truth in it. His wife has never died at all. She is alive to this day and gives him a beating twice a week. So what you have to find out is whether he is lying or speaking the truth when he says he wants to buy it and would give eleven thousand. I shall be no use in such a business. I have no eye either. Stay, wait a bit. You will be of use, for I will tell you the signs by which you can judge about Gorskyn. I've done business with him a long time. You see, you must watch his beard. He has a nasty thin red beard. If his beard shakes when he talks and he gets cross, it's all right. He is saying what he means he wants to do business. But if he strokes his beard with his left hand grins, he is trying to cheat you. Don't watch his eyes. You won't find out anything from his eyes. He is a deep one, a rogue, but watch his beard. I'll give you a note and you show it to him. He's called Gorskyn, though his real name is Lyagavi, but don't call him so. He will be offended. If you come to an understanding with him and see it's all right, right here at once, you need only right he's not lying. Stand out for eleven thousand. One thousand you can knock off, but not more. Just think, there's a difference between eight thousand and eleven thousand. It's as good as picking up three thousand. It's not so easy to find a purchaser and I'm in desperate need of money. Only let me know it's serious and I'll run over and fix it up. I'll snatch the time somehow. But what's the good of my galloping over if it's all a notion of the priests? Come, will you go? Oh, I can't spare the time. You must excuse me. Come, you might oblige your father. I shan't forget it. You've no heart, any of you. That's what it is. What's a day or two to you? Where are you going now? To Venice? Your Venice will keep another two days. I would have sent Al-Yasha, but what use is Al-Yasha in a thing like that? I send you just because you are a clever fellow. Do you suppose I don't see that? You know nothing about Timber, but you've got an eye. All that is wanted is to see whether the man is in earnest. I tell you, watch his beard. If his beard shakes, you know he is in earnest. You force me to go to that damned chair-machnia yourself, then, cried Yvonne with a malignant smile. Fyodor Pavlovich did not catch or would not catch the malignancy, but he caught the smile. Then you'll go. You'll go. I'll scribble the note for you at once. I don't know whether I shall go. I don't know. I'll decide on the way. Nonsense. Decide at once. My dear fellow, decide. If you settle the matter, write me a line. Give it to the priest, and he'll send it on to me at once, and I won't delay you more than that. You can go to Venice. The priest will give you horses back to Velavia Station. The old man was quite delighted. He wrote the note and sent for the horses. A light lunch was brought in with Brandy. When Fyodor Pavlovich was pleased, he usually became expansive, but today he seemed to restrain himself. Of Dimitri, for instance, he did not say a word. He was quite unmoved by the parting, and seemed, in fact, at a loss for something to say. Yvonne noticed this particularly. He must be bored with me, he thought. Only when accompanying his son out onto the steps the old man began to fuss about. He would have kissed him, but Yvonne made haste to hold out his hand, obviously avoiding the kiss. His father saw it at once and instantly pulled himself up. Well, good luck to you. Good luck to you, he repeated from the steps. You'll come again some time or other? Mind you do come. I shall always be glad to see you. Well, Christ be with you. Yvonne got into the carriage. Good-bye, Yvonne. Don't be too hard on me, the father called for the last time. The whole household came out to take leave, Smerjakov, Marfa, and Grigori. Yvonne gave them ten rubles each. When he had seated himself in the carriage, Smerjakov jumped up to arrange the rug. You see, I am going to Cermashnia, broke suddenly from Yvonne. Again, as the day before, the words seemed to drop of themselves, and he laughed, too, a peculiar nervous laugh. He remembered it long after. It's a true saying, then, that it's always worthwhile speaking to a clever man, answered Smerjakov firmly, looking significantly at Yvonne. The carriage rolled away. Nothing was clear in Yvonne's soul, but he looked eagerly around him at the fields, at the hills, at the trees, at a flock of geese flying high overhead in the bright sky. And all of a sudden he felt very happy. He tried to talk to the driver, and he felt intensely interested in an answer the peasant made him, but a minute later he realized that he was not catching anything, and that he had not really even taken in the peasant's answer. He was silent, and it was pleasant even so. The air was fresh, pure, and cool, the sky bright. The images of Alyosha and Katarina Ivanovna floated into his mind, but he softly smiled, blew softly on the friendly phantoms, and they flew away. There's plenty of time for them, he thought. They reached the station quickly, changed horses, and galloped to Volavia. Why is it worthwhile speaking to a clever man? What did he mean by that? The thought seemed suddenly too clutch at his breathing. And why did I tell him I was going to Chermashnya? They reached Volavia Station. Yvonne got out of the carriage, and the drivers stood round him, bargaining over the journey of twelve bursts to Chermashnya. He told them to harness the horses. He went into the station house, looked round, glanced at the overseer's wife, and suddenly went back to the entrance. I won't go to Chermashnya. Am I too late to reach the railway by seven, brothers? We shall just do it. Shall we get the carriage out? At once, will any one of you be going to the town tomorrow? To be sure, Mitri here will. Can you do me a service, Mitri? Go to my fathers to Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, and tell him I haven't gone to Chermashnya, can you? Of course I can. I've known Fyodor Pavlovich a long time. And here's something for you, for I dare say he won't give you anything, said Yvonne, laughing gaily. You may depend on it, he won't. Mitri laughed too. Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to do it. At seven o'clock Yvonne got into the train and set off to Moscow. Away with the past I've done with the old world forever, and may I have no news, no echo from it, to a new life, new places, and no looking back. But instead of delight, his soul was filled with such gloom, and his heart ached with such anguish, as he had never known in his life before. He was thinking all the night. The train flew on, and only at daybreak when he was approaching Moscow, he suddenly roused himself from his meditation. I am a scoundrel, he whispered to himself. Fyodor Pavlovich remained well satisfied at having seen his son off. For two hours afterwards he felt almost happy, and sat drinking brandy. But suddenly something happened, which was very annoying and unpleasant for everyone in the house, and completely upset Fyodor Pavlovich's equanimity at once. Smerchukov went to the cellar for something, and fell down from the top of the steps. Fortunately Marthe Ignachivna was in the yard, and heard him in time. She did not see the fall, but heard his scream. The strange peculiar scream, long familiar to her, the scream of the epileptic falling in a fit. They could not tell whether the fit had come on him at the moment he was descending the steps so that he must have fallen unconscious, or whether it was the fall and the shock that had caused the fit in Smerchukov, who was known to be liable to them. They found him at the bottom of the cellar steps, writhing in convulsions and foaming at the mouth. It was thought at first that he must have broken something, an arm or a leg, and hurt himself, but God had preserved him, as Marthe Ignachivna expressed it, nothing of the kind had happened. But it was difficult to get him out of the cellar. They asked the neighbors to help, and managed it somehow. Fyodor Pavlovich himself was present at the whole ceremony. He helped, evidently alarmed and upset. The sick man did not regain consciousness, the convulsions ceased for a time, but then began again, and everyone concluded that the same thing would happen as had happened a year before, when he accidentally fell from the garret. They remembered that ice had been put on his head then. There was still ice in the cellar, and Marthe Ignachivna had some brought up. In the evening Fyodor Pavlovich sent for Dr. Herzenshtuba, who arrived at once. He was a most estimable old man, and the most careful and conscientious doctor in the province. After careful examination he concluded that the fit was a very violent one, and might have serious consequences, that meanwhile he, Herzenshtuba, did not fully understand it, but that by tomorrow morning, if the present remedies were unavailing, he would venture to try something else. The invalid was taken to the lodge, to a room next to Grigoris and Marthe Ignachivna's. Then Fyodor Pavlovich had one misfortune after another to put up with that day. Marthe Ignachivna cooked the dinner, and the soup, compared with Smerjikov's, was no better than dish-water, and the fowl was so dried up that it was impossible to masticate it. To her master's bitter, though deserved, reproaches Marthe Ignachivna replied that the fowl was a very old one to begin with, that she had never been trained as a cook. In the evening there was another trouble in store for Fyodor Pavlovich. He was informed that Grigori, who had not been well for the last three days, was completely laid up by his lumbago. Fyodor Pavlovich finished his tea as early as possible and locked himself up alone in the house. He was in terrible excitement and suspense. That evening he reckoned on Grushenko's coming almost as a certainty. He had received from Smerjikov that morning an assurance that she had promised to come without fail. The incorrigible old man's heart throbbed with excitement. He paced up and down his empty rooms, listening. He had to be on the alert. Dmitri might be on the watch for her somewhere, and when she knocked on the window, Smerjikov had informed him two days before that he had told her where and how to knock. The door must be opened at once. She must not be a second in the passage for fear which God forbid that she should be frightened and run away. Fyodor Pavlovich had much to think of, but never had his heart been steeped in such voluptuous hopes. This time he could say almost certainly that she would come.