The Brothers Karamazov полностью

“That is rebellion,” Alyosha said softly, dropping his eyes.

“Rebellion? I don’t like hearing such a word from you,” Ivan said with feeling. “One cannot live by rebellion, and I want to live. Tell me straight out, I call on you—answer me: imagine that you yourself are building the edifice of human destiny with the object of making people happy in the finale, of giving them peace and rest at last, but for that you must inevitably and unavoidably torture just one tiny creature, that same child who was beating her chest with her little fist, and raise your edifice on the foundation of her unrequited tears—would you agree to be the architect on such conditions? Tell me the truth.”

“No, I would not agree,” Alyosha said softly. “And can you admit the idea that the people for whom you are building would agree to accept their happiness on the unjustified blood of a tortured child, and having accepted it, to remain forever happy?”

“No, I cannot admit it. Brother,” Alyosha said suddenly, his eyes beginning to flash, “you asked just now if there is in the whole world a being who could and would have the right to forgive. But there is such a being, and he can forgive everything, forgive all and for all,^[145] because he himself gave his innocent blood for all and for everything. You’ve forgotten about him, but it is on him that the structure is being built, and it is to him that they will cry out: ‘Just art thou, O Lord, for thy ways have been revealed!’”

“Ah, yes, the ‘only sinless One’^[146] and his blood! No, I have not forgotten about him; on the contrary, I’ve been wondering all the while why you hadn’t brought him up for so long, because in discussions your people usually trot him out first thing. You know, Alyosha—don’t laugh!—I composed a poem once, about a year ago. If you can waste ten more minutes on me, I’ll tell it to you.”

“You wrote a poem?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t write it,” Ivan laughed, “I’ve never composed two lines of verse in my whole life. But I made up this poem and memorized it. I made it up in great fervor. You’ll be my first reader—I mean, listener. Why, indeed, should an author lose even one listener?” Ivan grinned. “Shall I tell it or not?”

“I’m listening carefully,” said Alyosha.

“My poem is called ‘The Grand Inquisitor’—an absurd thing, but I want you to hear it.”

Chapter 5: The Grand Inquisitor