‘So, you good-for-nothing, you are working for the salvation of my soul, are you?’
‘One has to do a good deed sometimes. You’re getting angry, I can see you are!’
‘You clown! Have you ever tempted those who eat locusts, who have spent seventy years praying in the desert and are covered in moss?’
‘My dear fellow, I’ve done nothing else. For just such a soul, one would give up the whole world and all the worlds, because it is a jewel without price; one such soul can be worth a whole constellation sometimes—we have our own kind of arithmetic, you know. Such a victory is valuable. Some of those anchorites, I swear, are your intellectual equal, although you don’t believe it; they can contemplate such infinities of belief and doubt at one and the same time that, in truth, it sometimes seems as if they are a hair’s breadth away from falling “head first”, as the actor Gorbunov* says.’
‘And did you go off with your tail between your legs?’
‘My friend,’ remarked the visitor sententiously, ‘it’s better to go off with one’s tail between one’s legs than to be without a tail at all sometimes, as a certain marquis commented, under treatment (must have been specialist treatment), to his Jesuit father confessor. I was there, it was positively delightful. “Give me back my tail!” he says. And he beats his breast. “My son,” says the priest, avoiding the issue, “everything will be accomplished according to the inscrutable laws of providence, and visible misfortune can sometimes bring great, though invisible, good fortune in its wake. If harsh fate has deprived you of your tail, your good fortune is that for the rest of your life no one will ever take the liberty of saying you have your tail between your legs.” “Holy father, that is no consolation!” exclaims the despairing marquis, “I would be only too happy to go through life with an ass’s tail, so long as it was in the proper place!” “My son,” sighs the priest, “one can’t ask providence for all blessings at once, and you are already grumbling at providence, which even in this matter has not forgotten you; for if you claim, as you did just now, that you would be delighted to go through life with an ass’s tail, then your wish has already been fulfilled indirectly, for, having lost your own tail you will always, for that reason alone, be wearing the ass’s tail…”’
‘Lord, how stupid!’ cried Ivan.
‘My friend, I only wanted to make you laugh, but I swear that that was true Jesuit casuistry, and I swear also that it all happened exactly as I described it to you. It was a fairly recent case and caused me no end of trouble. When he arrived home, the unfortunate young man promptly shot himself the same night; I was with him all the time, right up to the last moment… As for those Jesuit confessional boxes, they are truly my most enjoyable distraction at the more boring moments of my existence. Here’s another example, this one happened just a few days ago. A young blonde, only twenty-two, went to an old priest in Normandy. She was a beauty, what a body, an absolute peach—a stunner. She knelt and whispered her confession to the priest through the grill. “What’s this, my daughter, have you fallen again?” exclaimed the priest. “Oh, Sancta Maria, that I should hear this! It was with him again, was it? How long is this going to go on, and aren’t you ashamed?” “Ah, mon pére,”* replies the sinner, weeping tears of repentance, “Ça lui fait tant de plaisir et a moi si peu de peine!”* Well, imagine giving an answer like that! Even I gave up: it was the cry of nature itself, one might even say it surpassed innocence. I gave her absolution on the spot and turned to leave, but I had to go back almost at once. I could hear the priest through the grill making a rendezvous with her for that evening; the old man’s faith was as firm as rock, and yet he succumbed in a flash! Nature, the verity of nature had come into its own. What are you turning up your nose for now? Are you getting angry again? I don’t know what to say to please you…’
‘Leave me alone, you’re assailing my brain like a recurring nightmare,’ Ivan groaned miserably, helpless before his own vision. ‘I’m tired of you, I can’t stand this torment any longer! I’d give anything to be able to shoo you away!’
‘I keep telling you, moderate your demands, don’t ask me for “everything great and wonderful”, and you’ll see how well you and I will get on,’ said the gentleman persuasively. ‘Really, you’re angry with me for appearing in such an unassuming guise instead of in a red radiance, “amid thunder and lightning” and with blazing wings. Your feelings are hurt, firstly your aesthetic sense, and secondly your pride; how, you say to yourself, can such a great man be visited by such a shabby devil? Yes, you still have a streak of that romanticism which Belinsky* so ridiculed. What’s to be done, young man? When I was getting ready to come to you earlier, I did think of coming, by way of a joke, as a retired state councillor who had served in the Caucasus and had been decorated with the order of the Lion and Sun, but I desisted because I knew you would tell me off for wearing just the Star of the Lion and Sun on my tailcoat instead of, at the very least, the Pole Star or Sirius.* And you rant about my being stupid. But, my God, I make no claim to be as intelligent as you. When Mephistopheles appeared to Faust* he claimed to desire only evil, but he did only good. Well, that’s up to him, but I’m quite another matter. I may be the only person in the whole of the natural world who loves truth and genuinely desires good. I was there when the crucified word ascended to heaven, bearing in His arms the soul of the robber who was crucified on His right, and I heard the exultant, soaring voices of the cherubim singing and proclaiming “Hosanna”, and the resounding peal of ecstasy from the seraphim, which shook the heavens and all creation. And I swear by all that’s holy that I wanted to join in with the choir and cry out “Hosanna!” with the rest. The cry was already on my lips, already torn from my breast… as you know, I’m very sensitive and impressionable when it comes to artistic effects. But common sense—oh, that is really the most unfortunate of my attributes—restrained me and kept me within the proper bounds, and the temptation passed! “For what would have been the outcome?” I reflected at that same moment. “What would my Hosannas have led to?” Everything on earth would have been extinguished at once, and that would have been the end of things. And so, purely out of a sense of duty and because of my social position, I felt bound to repress my virtuous impulse and to stick to nefarious deeds. All the credit for virtue goes to someone else, and I’m left with just a handful of dirty tricks. But I do not seek to steal anyone’s thunder, I’m not vainglorious. So why am I, alone of all beings in the world, condemned to be cursed by all decent people and even physically kicked by them, since when I take human form I have to accept such consequences too? There’s a mystery there, but nobody will tell me the secret for all the tea in China because then, being in the know, I might perhaps suddenly shout out “Hosanna”, and at once the requisite negativity in the universe would disappear and order would break out all over the world, and that, it goes without saying, would be the end of everything, even of newspapers and magazines, and of subscribers too. I know that I shall come to terms with the situation in the end, travel my quadrillion kilometres and unravel the mystery. But meanwhile I put a brave face on it and get on with my mission: I send millions to perdition to save just one. For instance, how many souls had to be lost and how many good reputations destroyed in order to entrap one just man, Job, with whom they caught me out so nastily in the days of yore? No, as long as the secret has not been revealed, there are two truths for me: one up there, their truth, which is quite beyond me for the time being; and the other, my own. And it remains to be seen which is the better of the two… Have you fallen asleep?’
‘That’s for sure!’ Ivan groaned. ‘You’re dishing up as new to me all that’s most stupid in my own nature, all that I’ve grown out of, pondered over in my mind and spat out as junk!’
‘Oh dear, I’ve put my foot in it again! And I had hoped to please you with a literary allusion: I didn’t make a bad job of that “Hosanna” in the heavens, did I? And now you’re trying out that sarcastic tone à la Heine,* that’s right, isn’t it?�
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‘No, I was never such a lackey! How could my mind have spawned a lackey like you?’
‘My friend, I know a certain most delightful and charming young Russian squireling, a young savant* and a great lover of literature and of objets d’art, author of a promising poem called “The Grand Inquisitor”… That’s the fellow I was thinking of!’
‘Don’t you dare speak of “The Grand Inquisitor”!’ cried Ivan blushing crimson with embarrassment.
‘Well, what about “The Geological Cataclysm”?* Remember? Now that was a poem!’
‘Shut up or I’ll kill you!’
‘Kill me? No, you must excuse me. I must have my say first. I came to give myself this treat. Oh, I do love the dreams of my ardent young friends, all trembling with a thirst for life! “There’s a new consciousness afoot there,” you decided as long ago as last spring when you were about to come here. “They want to destroy everything and go back to anthropophagy. Imbeciles, why didn’t they consult me? In my opinion it’s not necessary to destroy anything except the idea of God in the minds of men, that’s where they should start! With that, yes, one has to start with that—O ye blind ones, who understand nothing! Once humanity has unanimously rejected God (and I believe that age will come to pass in step with the geological ages) then all former conceptions of the world and, most importantly, all former morality, will collapse of its own accord, without any need for anthropophagy, and then everything will begin anew. People will unite in order to derive from life all that it has to give, but they will seek purely earthly happiness and joy. Man will extol himself spiritually in godlike, titanic pride, and the man-god will be born. Triumphing repeatedly and totally over nature by his will and his science, man will in consequence experience a pleasure so exalted that it will replace for him all his former expectation of heavenly bliss. Every man will discover that he is mortal and that there is no resurrection, and he will accept death proudly and calmly like a god. Out of pride he will desist from protest, accept the transience of life and love his fellow man, expecting nothing in return. Love will satisfy only a moment of life, but the mere consciousness of its brevity will fuel its flames as strongly as it was once dissipated in the hope of an eternal love beyond the grave…”, and so on and so forth, and more of the same stuff. Charming!’
Ivan was holding his hands over his ears, and sat staring at the floor, beginning to tremble all over. The voice continued.
‘The question now is,’ thought my young philosopher, ‘is it or is it not possible that such an epoch should ever begin? If yes, then everything has been settled, and humanity will organize itself once and for all. But since, due to the inveterate stupidity of the human race, this would take more than a thousand years, everyone who already knows the truth is entitled to arrange his own life as he pleases and to lay down his own new rules. From this point of view, “everything is permitted”. What’s more, even if such an epoch never came to pass, nevertheless, since God and immortality do not exist, it would be permissible for the new man to become a man-god, even if he were the only one on the earth to do so, and of course it goes without saying that, in this new capacity he could—with gay abandon, if he so wished—transgress all the former moral strictures by which the manslave had lived. For God, there is no such thing as law! Wherever God steps, that’s His patch! Wherever I step, that’s virgin soil upturned… “anything goes”—end of argument! All fine and good; you see, if one has decided to chuck the rule-book aside, why, one may ask, does one need the sanction of truth? But that’s what our modern Russian man is like; he’s so enamoured of the truth, he can’t even cheat without its sanction…’
The visitor talked on, clearly carried along by his own eloquence, speaking more and more loudly and throwing mocking glances at his host, but he did not manage to finish; Ivan suddenly grabbed a glass from the table and flung it at the speaker.
‘Ah, mais c’est bete enfin!’* exclaimed the latter, leaping up from the divan and flicking drops of water from his clothes. ‘You’ve remembered Luther’s ink-well!* You think I’m an apparition, but throwing glasses at apparitions—that’s childish! You know, that’s just what I suspected; you were only pretending not to listen, but you were really all along…’
Suddenly there was a firm and insistent knocking at the window. Ivan Fyodorovich leapt up.
‘You hear that, you’d better open the door,’ said the visitor. ‘It’s your brother Alyosha, and I can tell you he’s bringing you some strange and unexpected news!’
‘Shut up, you imposter, I knew before you did that it was Alyosha. I had a feeling he would come, and of course he’s brought some news; he wouldn’t come for nothing!’ cried Ivan ecstatically.
‘Well go on, let him in! There’s a hell of a snowstorm out there, and after all he is your brother. Monsieur, sait-il le temps qu’il fait? C’est à ne pas mettre un chien dehors…’*
The knocking continued. Ivan wanted to rush to the window, but he seemed suddenly to be transfixed. He tried desperately to move, but to no avail. The knocking at the window was getting louder and more insistent. At last he broke free and leapt to his feet. He looked round frantically. Both the candles had practically burnt themselves out, the glass that he had just thrown at his visitor was standing right there on the table, and there was no one sitting on the divan opposite him. The knocking at the window, although still insistent, was quieter than it had seemed in his dream—in fact, it was quite discreet.
‘That was no dream! No, I swear it wasn’t a dream, it all really happened!’ cried Ivan Fyodorovich, and he rushed to the window and opened the fanlight.
‘Alyosha, I told you not to come!’ exclaimed Ivan angrily.
‘Quickly, what the hell do you want? Quickly, I said! Did you hear me?’
‘Smerdyakov hanged himself an hour ago,’ answered Alyosha from outside.
‘Come round to the porch, I’ll open the door,’ said Ivan, and he went to let Alyosha in.
10
‘HE SAID THAT!’
ALYOSHA entered and informed Ivan Fyodorovich that just over an hour before Marya Kondratyevna had come running to him at home to tell him that Smerdyakov had committed suicide. ‘I just went in to fetch the samovar, and there he was hanging from a nail.’ When Alyosha asked her if she had reported it, she replied that she had done nothing, that she had dashed straight to him first of all and had run ‘all the way non-stop’. She seemed distraught, said Alyosha, and was shaking like a leaf. When Alyosha ran with her into the house, he found Smerdyakov hanging there. On the table lay a note: ‘I am taking my own life of my own free will, so no one should be accused.’ Alyosha had left the note where it was on the table, and had gone straight to the chief of police and reported everything, and ‘from there I came straight to you,’ concluded Alyosha, watching Ivan attentively. All the time he was speaking he did not take his eyes off him, as if struck by something about his expression.
‘Ivan,’ he exclaimed suddenly, ‘I’m sure you’re not well! You’re looking at me as if you don’t understand what I’m saying.’
‘It’s a good thing you’ve come,’ Ivan said thoughtfully, seeming not to have heard Alyosha’s comment. ‘But you know I knew he’d hanged himself.’
‘Who told you?’
‘I don’t know who told me. But I knew. Did I really know? Yes, he told me. He was telling me just now…’
Ivan was standing in the middle of the room, talking in the same preoccupied manner and looking at the floor.
‘Who’s he?’ asked Alyosha, glancing around involuntarily.
‘He’s cleared off.’
Ivan raised his head and smiled gently.
‘He was afraid of you—of a dove like you. You’re “a cherub pure”.* Dmitry calls you a cherub. A cherub… The resounding outburst of joy from the seraphim! What is a seraph? Perhaps it’s a whole constellation. And maybe the whole constellation is nothing but some sort of molecule… Did you know there’s a constellation called the Lion and the Sun?’
‘Ivan, sit down!’ said Alyosha, frightened, ‘sit down on the divan for heaven’s sake. You’re delirious, rest your head on this cushion, that’s right. Do you want a wet towel for your head? It might help.’
‘Yes, give me a towel, there’s one on that chair, I left it there a short while ago.’
‘It’s not there. Don’t worry, I know where to find one; here we are,’ said Alyosha, who had found a clean, folded and still unused towel on Ivan’s washstand. Ivan looked at the towel strangely; his memory seemed to return suddenly.
‘Wait,’ he half rose from the divan, ‘just now, only an hour ago, I took that very towel from there and wetted it. I held it to my head and then threw it down here… how can it be dry? There wasn’t another one.’
‘You held this towel to your head?’ asked Alyosha.
‘Yes, and I was walking up and down, an hour ago… Why have the candles burnt down so far? What’s the time?’
‘Nearly twelve.’
‘No, no, no!’ Ivan shouted suddenly. ‘It wasn’t a dream! He was here, he was sitting there on that divan. When you knocked on the window, I threw a glass at him… that one… But, just a minute, I was asleep the time before too, but that dream wasn’t a dream. I’ve had them before. Sometimes, Alyosha, I have dreams… but they’re not dreams, they actually happen; I walk, I talk and I see… but I’m asleep. But he was here, he was sitting here on that divan… He’s terribly stupid, Alyosha, terribly stupid,’ Ivan laughed suddenly and began to walk about the room.
‘Who’s stupid? Who are you talking about, Ivan?’ asked Alyosha anxiously.
‘The devil! He’s started to visit me. He’s been here twice, if not three times. He taunted me, claiming that I resented his being just a devil, instead of Satan coming in thunder and lightning with blazing wings. But he isn’t Satan, he’s lying. He’s an impostor. He’s just any old devil, a trumpery, petty devil. He goes to the public baths. If you undressed him, you’d be sure to find a tail, a long, smooth one like a Great Dane’s, an arshin long, brown… Alyosha, you must be frozen, you’ve been out in the snow, would you like some tea? What? It’s cold? Shall I get them to make some more? C’est à ne pas mettre un chien dehors..’
The Karamazov Brothers Page 98
