VII. Контроверза

The subject had come up by chance: that morning, while Grigory was collecting goods at the shop of the merchant Lukyanov, he had heard from him of a certain Russian soldier who, somewhere far off on the frontier among the Asiatics, had fallen into their captivity and, being compelled by them under threat of an agonizing and immediate death to renounce Christianity and go over to Islam, refused to betray his faith and accepted the torments — let himself be flayed alive and died glorifying and praising Christ — a feat of which an account had appeared in the very newspaper received that same day.

It was about this, then, that Grigory began to speak at the table.

Even before this, Fyodor Pavlovich had always loved, every time after the meal, over dessert, to laugh and chatter — even if only with Grigory.

And on this occasion he was in a light and pleasantly expansive mood.

Sipping his brandy and hearing out the news that had been reported, he remarked that such a soldier ought to be canonized this very minute and his flayed skin sent off to some monastery or other: "That would pull in the crowds, and the money too."

Grigory frowned, seeing that Fyodor Pavlovich was not in the least moved but, after his usual habit, was beginning to blaspheme.

When suddenly Smerdyakov, who was standing by the door, smirked.

Even before this, Smerdyakov had quite often been permitted to stand by the table — that is, toward the end of dinner.

And ever since Ivan Fyodorovich's arrival in our town, he had taken to appearing at dinner almost every time.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Fyodor Pavlovich, catching the smirk in an instant and understanding, of course, that it was aimed at Grigory.

"It's just on the matter of that, sir," Smerdyakov began suddenly, loud and unexpected, "that even if this praiseworthy soldier's feat was a very great one, sir, still, to my mind, there would again be no sin whatever in it if, in such a circumstance, one were to renounce, say, Christ's name and one's own baptism, in order by that very means to save one's life for good works, and over the course of years to redeem one's faintheartedness by them."

"How is it there'll be no sin? You're lying — for that they'll send you straight to hell and roast you there like mutton," Fyodor Pavlovich chimed in.

And it was just then that Alyosha came in.

Fyodor Pavlovich, as we have seen, was terribly delighted at Alyosha.

"To your subject, to your subject!" he tittered joyfully, sitting Alyosha down to listen.

"As for the mutton, that's not how it is, sir; and there'll be nothing for it there at all, sir, and there shouldn't be either, if everything were done by full justice," Smerdyakov observed weightily.

"How do you mean, by full justice?" cried Fyodor Pavlovich, more cheerful still, nudging Alyosha with his knee.

"He's a scoundrel, that's what he is!" burst suddenly from Grigory.

He looked Smerdyakov straight in the eye, furious.

"As for the scoundrel, hold off a moment, sir, Grigory Vasilyevich," Smerdyakov retorted, calm and self-possessed, "and you'd do better to reason it out for yourself: that once I've fallen captive to the tormentors of the Christian race and they demand of me that I curse God's name and renounce my own holy baptism, then I am fully entitled to do so by my own reason, for there will be no sin in it at all."

"You've said that already — don't embroider, prove it!" Fyodor Pavlovich shouted.

"Broth-maker!" Grigory whispered contemptuously.

"As for the broth-maker, hold off on that too, sir, and instead of cursing, reason it out for yourself, Grigory Vasilyevich.

For the moment I say to the tormentors, 'No, I am no Christian and I curse my true God,' that very instant, by God's own supreme judgment, I immediately and expressly become anathema accursed and am utterly cut off from the holy Church, as though I were a heathen — so much so that in that very instant, sir — not even when I've actually pronounced it, but the very moment I think of pronouncing it, so that not so much as a quarter of a second goes by, sir — I'm already cut off. Is that so or is it not, Grigory Vasilyevich?"

It was with visible relish that he addressed Grigory, while in substance answering only Fyodor Pavlovich's questions, and understanding this perfectly well, yet deliberately pretending that it was Grigory who was putting these questions to him.

"Ivan!" Fyodor Pavlovich suddenly cried. "Lean over, right up to my very ear.

He's gotten this whole thing up for your sake — he wants you to praise him.

Go on, praise him."

Ivan Fyodorovich heard out his papa's rapturous communication with perfect seriousness.

"Stop, Smerdyakov, hold your tongue a while," Fyodor Pavlovich cried again. "Ivan, lean over to my very ear once more."

Ivan Fyodorovich, with the most serious air, leaned over again.

"I love you just as much as Alyoshka.

Don't go thinking I don't love you.

A little brandy?"

"Give me some."

"You've fairly loaded up yourself, though," Ivan Fyodorovich glanced intently at his father.

Smerdyakov, however, he watched with extraordinary curiosity.

"You are anathema accursed even now," Grigory suddenly broke out, "and how is it that after that, you scoundrel, you dare to argue, if —"

"Don't scold, Grigory, don't scold!" Fyodor Pavlovich interrupted.

"You wait, Grigory Vasilyevich, even just the briefest moment, sir, and hear me out further, because I haven't finished it all.

For at the very moment I am instantly cursed by God, sir, at that very, that supreme instant, sir, I have already become exactly as though a heathen, and my baptism is stripped from me and counts for nothing — is that at least so, sir?

"Get to the point, brother, quick, get to the point," Fyodor Pavlovich hurried him, taking a sip from his glass with relish.

"And if I am no longer a Christian, then it follows that I did not lie to the tormentors when they asked, 'Are you a Christian or not?' — for I had already been stripped of my Christianity by God Himself, on account of the mere intention, and even before I had managed to utter a word to the tormentors.

And if I have already been broken from the ranks, then in what manner and by what justice will I be called to account in the next world as a Christian for having renounced Christ, when for the mere thought alone, even before the renunciation, I had already been stripped of my baptism?

If I am no longer a Christian, then it follows I cannot even renounce Christ, for there will then be nothing for me to renounce.

Who is going to call a filthy Tatar to account, Grigory Vasilyevich, even in heaven, for not having been born a Christian, and who is going to punish him for that, reasoning that you can't strip two hides from a single ox?

And even God Almighty Himself, if He does call the Tatar to account when he dies, will, I suppose, do so with some very small punishment (since it's impossible not to punish him at all), reasoning that, after all, the man is not to blame for it if he came into the world a heathen, born of heathen parents.

Surely the Lord God cannot seize the Tatar by force and declare of him that he too was a Christian?

For that would mean the Lord Almighty was telling an outright untruth.

And can the Lord Almighty of heaven and earth pronounce a falsehood, even in but a single word of any kind, sir?"

Grigory was struck dumb and stared at the orator, his eyes bulging.

Though he did not really understand what was being said, he had suddenly grasped something out of all this drivel and stopped short with the look of a man who has suddenly cracked his forehead against a wall.

Fyodor Pavlovich drained his glass and dissolved into shrill laughter.

"Alyoshka, Alyoshka, how about that! Oh, you casuist!

He's been with the Jesuits somewhere, Ivan.

Oh, you stinking Jesuit, now who taught you all this?

Only you're lying, casuist, lying and lying and lying.

Don't cry, Grigory, we'll grind him to smoke and dust this very minute.

Tell me this, you ass: granted you're in the right before the tormentors, but you yourself, deep down, still renounced your own faith, and you say yourself that in that same hour you were anathema accursed — and once you're anathema, then they won't be patting you on the head in hell for that anathema.

What's your view on that, my splendid Jesuit?"

"There's no doubt, sir, that deep down I renounced it; but still there was no special sin in it whatever, sir, and if there was a little sin, it was the most ordinary kind, sir."

"How do you mean, the most ordinary kind, sir!"

"You're lying, you c-c-cursed thing," Grigory hissed.

"Reason it out for yourself, Grigory Vasilyevich," Smerdyakov went on, smooth and sedate, conscious of his victory yet acting as though he were being magnanimous with a beaten opponent, "reason it out for yourself, Grigory Vasilyevich: after all, it is written in Scripture that if you have faith even but the size of the smallest grain, and you then say to this mountain that it should move into the sea, it will move, without the slightest delay, at your very first command.