I mean, why they recognised 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, and power shine from His eyes, and their radiance, shed on the people, stirs their hearts with responsive love.He holds out His hands to them, blesses them, and a healing virtue comes from contact with Him, even with His garments.An old man in the crowd, blind from childhood, cries out, 'OLord, heal me and I shall see Thee!' and, as it were, scales fall from his eyes and the blind man sees Him.The crowd weeps and kisses the earth under His feet.Children throw flowers before Him, sing, and cry hosannah.'It is He- it is He!' repeat.'It must be He, it can be no one but Him!' He stops at the steps of the Seville cathedral at the moment when the weeping mourners are bringing in a little open white coffin.In it lies a child of seven, the only daughter of a prominent citizen.The dead child lies hidden in flowers.'He will raise your child,' the crowd shouts to the weeping mother.The priest, coming to meet the coffin, looks perplexed, and frowns, but the mother of the dead child throws herself at His feet with a wail.'If it is Thou, raise my child!' she cries, holding out her hands to Him.The procession halts, the coffin is laid on the steps at His feet.He looks with compassion, and His lips once more softly pronounce, 'Maiden, arise!' and the maiden arises.The little girl sits up in the coffin and looks round, smiling with wide-open wondering eyes, holding a bunch of white roses they had put in her hand.
"There are cries, sobs, confusion among the people, and at that moment the cardinal himself, the Grand Inquisitor, passes by the cathedral.He is an old man, almost ninety, tall and erect, with a withered face and sunken eyes, in which there is still a gleam of light.He is not dressed in his gorgeous cardinal's robes, as he was the day before, when he was burning the enemies of the Roman Church-at this moment he is wearing his coarse, old, monk's cassock.At a distance behind him come his gloomy assistants and slaves and the 'holy guard.' He stops at the sight of the crowd and watches it from a distance.He sees everything; he sees them set the coffin down at His feet, sees the child rise up, and his face darkens.He knits his thick grey brows and his eyes gleam with a sinister fire.He holds out his finger and bids the guards take Him.And such is his power, so completely are the people cowed into submission and trembling obedience to him, that the crowd immediately makes way for the guards, and in the midst of deathlike silence they lay hands on Him and lead him away.The crowd instantly bows down to the earth, like one man, before the old Inquisitor.He blesses the people in silence and passes on' The guards lead their prisoner to the close, gloomy vaulted prison- in the ancient palace of the Holy, inquisition and shut him in it.The day passes and is followed by the dark, burning, 'breathless' night of Seville.The air is 'fragrant with laurel and lemon.' In the pitch darkness the iron door of the prison is suddenly opened and the Grand Inquisitor himself comes in with a light in his hand.He is alone; the door is closed at once behind him.He stands in the doorway and for a minute or two gazes into His face.
At last he goes up slowly, sets the light on the table and speaks.
"'Is it Thou? Thou?' but receiving no answer, he adds at once.
'Don't answer, be silent.What canst Thou say, indeed? I know too well what Thou wouldst say.And Thou hast no right to add anything to what Thou hadst said of old.Why, then, art Thou come to hinder us?
For Thou hast come to hinder us, and Thou knowest that.But dost thou know what will be to-morrow? I know not who Thou art and care not to know whether it is Thou or only a semblance of Him, but to-morrow Ishall condemn Thee and burn Thee at the stake as the worst of heretics.And the very people who have to-day kissed Thy feet, to-morrow at the faintest sign from me will rush to heap up the embers of Thy fire.Knowest Thou that? Yes, maybe Thou knowest it,' he added with thoughtful penetration, never for a moment taking his eyes off the Prisoner.""I don't quite understand, Ivan.What does it mean?" Alyosha, who had been listening in silence, said with a smile."Is it simply a wild fantasy, or a mistake on the part of the old man- some impossible quid pro quo?""Take it as the last," said Ivan, laughing, "if you are so corrupted by modern realism and can't stand anything fantastic.If you like it to be a case of mistaken identity, let it be so.It is true," he went on, laughing, "the old man was ninety, and he might well be crazy over his set idea.He might have been struck by the appearance of the Prisoner.It might, in fact, be simply his ravings, the delusion of an old man of ninety, over-excited by the auto da fe of a hundred heretics the day before.But does it matter to us after all whether it was a mistake of identity or a wild fantasy?
