Master & Margarita

“But permit me to ask you,” the foreign guest resumed after a troubled silence, “what about the proofs of God’s existence? As we know, there are exactly five of them.” “Alas!” Berlioz answered with regret. “None of these proofs is worth a thing, and humanity has long since scrapped them. You must agree that, in the realm of reason, there can be no proof of God’s existence.” “Bravo!” cried the foreigner. “Bravo! These are exactly the words of the restless old Immanuel on this subject. But curiously enough, he demolished all five arguments and then, as if to mock himself, constructed his own sixth one.” “Kant’s argument,” the educated editor countered with a subtle smile, “is equally unconvincing. No wonder Schiller said that only slaves could find Kant’s reasoning on this subject satisfactory. And Strauss simply laughed at his proof.” As Berlioz spoke, he thought to himself, “But still, who is he? And why does he speak Russian so well?” “This Kant ought to be sent to Solovki for three years for such arguments!” Ivan Nikolayevich burst out suddenly. “Ivan!” Berlioz whispered with embarrassment. But the suggestion that Kant be sent to Solovki not only did not shock the foreigner, but pleased him immensely. “Exactly, exactly,” he cried, and his green left eye, turned to Berlioz, glittered. “That’s just the place for him! I told him that day at breakfast, ‘Say what you will, Professor, but you have thought up something that makes no sense. It may be clever, but it’s altogether too abstruse. People will laugh at you.’” Berlioz gaped at him. “At breakfast? . . . Told Kant? . . . What is he babbling about?” he wondered.