Gareth Wilson

1.

Imaginary Readers in Notes from Underground

Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground reads like a transcript of the underground man’s therapy session. The novel is an outpouring of his darkest emotions and confessions, put to paper as a means of stimulating self-healing. He seeks help from the readers, whom he speaks to in a conversational, sometimes confrontational manner. But it’s made clear early on that we, his actual readers, are not the readers to whom he refers: the readers are, in fact, a nonexistent entity, the underground man’s alternate self. Whoever the readers are, they are an important character in the novel. At times, they argue with the narrator, spurring him on. Other times, they listen submissively as the narrator speaks. Sometimes, they get out of hand and act in an unexpected way, and thus the force he creates becomes an entity of its own. The readers are integral to the novel because their existence shows the narrator’s vulnerability and emptiness, and helps us better understand the narrator’s real-life relationships. Most importantly, the readers are essential because, without their presence, the underground man would be powerless to engage in any kind of self-analysis: they are the catalyst that stimulates his pen.

The underground man longs to justify himself to his readers and, ultimately, the world. The irony is that he knows his readers are just figments of his imagination, but tries to defend himself to them anyway and he is frustrated when he realizes he has failed to keep them interested. Ashamed, the narrator concludes at the end of his notes that what he has written is “not literature, but corrective punishment” (Dostoevsky 129). And he is right: it is not the narrator who has created literature, but Dostoevsky. For example, as Richard Pevear explains, the entire plot of “Apropos of Wet Snow” is a parody of an established genre, which often features a similar plot: that of the liberated prostitute. “But the parody is, of course, Dostoevsky’s, not the underground man’s” (Pevear xi). For all the underground man’s attempts at being witty, he rarely succeeds. When he succeeds, it is unintentional on his part: it is actually Dostoevsky’s doing. We are in fact Dostoevsky’s readers, not the narrator’s, and thus we approach the novel differently than we would if the notes were authentic, in which case we would probably get bored quite quickly.

The difference between the notes and the novel is that, unlike Dostoevsky, the narrator is not skilled at satire or social commentary: he is simply trying to justify himself, though he goes about it entirely erratically. He tells the readers, “I will explain myself! I will carry through to the end! That is why I took a pen in my hands...” (Dostoevsky 8). He spews out thought after thought, like a madman. At times, he speaks so rapidly he could not possibly have time to think each word through. Even when he says something he is not pleased with, he lets it stand. “I purposely won’t cross it out!” (Dostoevsky 4), he proclaims at one point, after saying something that displeases him. Unable to coherently organize his thoughts, he is constantly interrupting himself. At one point, he becomes so deeply involved in his tirade that he must take a break, telling his readers, “Wait! let me catch my breath...!” (Dostoevsky 5). The narrator even knows he’s rambling, but cannot stop. “I’m a babbler, a harmless, irksome babbler” (18), he says. He continues because he holds some hope that by writing in such a rapid and supposedly candid manner, he will reach some sort of conclusion about himself.

Despite the self-serving purpose of his notes, the narrator insists his readers stay put and listen to his ramblings anyway. He tells his audience he will speak, “whether you do or do not wish to hear it” (Dostoevsky 6). Later, he imagines his readers getting offended and bored by his emotional outpourings, and he gets angry. He compares himself to a man with a toothache who moans and complains for sympathy. “It’s nasty listening to my mean little moans?” he imagines himself snapping. “Let it be nasty, then; here’s an even nastier roulade for you...” (Dostoevsky 15). The narrator is mad at his imaginary readers, picturing them getting tired of his self-indulgent whining, but, he is only angry with himself. Since the readers are just a rendering of the underground man, their criticisms are self-criticisms.

The readers’ presence keeps the underground man in check. Self-deception is easy for him, but it is a little harder when he imagines an audience of critical judges present. The readers are often rude and condemnatory. They are constantly objecting to the narrator’s arguments, laughing in his face and criticizing him. At one point, the readers “tell” the underground man, “All you do is vacillate, because, though your mind works, your heart is darkened by depravity...And how impudent you are, how you foist yourself, how you mug! Lies, lies, lies!” (Dostoevsky 38). Though he often argues back he, in fact, agrees: “I swear to you, gentlemen, that I do not believe a word, not one little word, of all I’ve just scribbled!” (Dostoevsky 37).

The readers’ presence makes the narrator nervous about engaging in deceit, but it also tempts the narrator to lie in order to impress. The narrator is extremely conscious of the impression he makes on others. He tries to impress the readers with bold proclamations like the one which starts the novel: “I am a sick man...I am a wicked man” (Dostoevsky 3). He wants his readers to believe that if he is an outsider, it is by choice: that he is intentionally rebelling against society. The charade is very short-lived, however. Soon he changes his mind: “I was not only not a wicked but was not even an embittered man,” (Dostoevsky 4), he says, leveling with the readers. Immediately afterwards, the narrator feels embarrassed at his confession and he, once more, changes his tone. “But do you not perhaps think, gentlemen, that I am now repenting of something before you, that I am asking your forgiveness for something...I’m sure you think so...However, I assure you that it is all the same to me even if you do...” (Dostoevsky 5). The narrator is motivated by contradictory emotions: he is afraid of lying and afraid of seeming overly vulnerable.

The relationship the narrator has with his readers is quite similar to other relationships in his life, and, in fact, many of his “real” relationships are, in good part, also imaginary. Though no one seems to notice the underground man’s existence, he creates dramas in his head in hopes of turning his life into something romantic and literary. He has a certain script in his head, based on literary ideas, and he is infuriated when the real world doesn’t follow the script, just as he is infuriated when his readers will not do what he wants. He has spent much of his isolated existence reading and, though his notes are wholly nonliterary, his attempts to impress are always based around literary ideals.

For example, the underground man becomes obsessed with an incident in which a large, brutish officer picks him up and moves him out of the way. He is fixated on this occurrence, not because he wishes to have been treated more politely, but because the officer treats him as though he does not exist, “like a fly” (Dostoevsky 49). The underground man would have been perfectly content to be beaten up instead, for that would at least be an acknowledgment of his existence. He says, “Devil knows what I’d have given then for a real, more regular quarrel, more decent, more, so to speak, literary!” (Dostoevsky 49). The officer is not performing according to the script; in fact, he’s utterly unaware of the script’s existence. This ignorance completely infuriates the underground man. Though he does nothing, he assures his readers that he did not “turn cowardly toward the officer out of cowardice.” He continues, “In my soul, I’ve never been a coward, though I constantly turned coward in reality” (Dostoevsky 49).

The underground man builds the incident up in his head, and soon begins stalking the officer and obsessing over his every move. Finally, he composes a letter, challenging the officer to a duel. “The letter was composed in such a way that if the officer had even the slightest idea of ‘the beautiful and the lofty,’ he could not fail to come running to me, to throw himself on my neck and offer me his friendship” (Dostoevsky 51). Here, of course, the narrator has confused matters. If the officer had a sense of “the beautiful and lofty” (as the underground man defines these terms) he would surely accept the duel and kill the underground man in cold blood. But that wouldn’t follow his script either. Though a literary duel is preferable to a nonliterary scuffle, as with his readers, he really just wants respect and companionship. The same dynamic he has with his readers exists here: he feels, no matter how absurd he acts, that if he portrays himself as a hero, even a wicked one, he will get respect.

When he first meets Liza, he almost succeeds in pulling off his heroic, literary character. She apparently falls for his act, but the underground man once again descends into guilt and paranoia and cannot deal with the situation. When Liza comes to his small, pathetic apartment, the narrator imagines what she must be thinking. In his fear, he creates his own persona for Liza. He decides that, like his imagined readers, she wishes to judge and ridicule him. He says, “Terrible spite against her suddenly boiled up in my heart; I think I could simply have killed her...I was fully conscious of my spiteful stupidity, and at the same time I could not restrain myself” (Dostoevsky 120). In the novel’s most pathetic scene, he horribly humiliates her and himself. He tells her his motive for speaking to her in the first place: “Power, power, that’s what I wanted then...to achieve your tears, your humiliation, your hysterics...but I couldn’t stand it myself because I’m trash” (Dostoevsky 121). Instead of hostility, Liza (the real Liza, not his imagined version) responds with confused sympathy. But the narrator will not take sympathy. He desires respect and admiration: “Without power and tyranny over someone, I really cannot live (Dostoevsky 124).

The underground man never gets control over Liza, or any one else he encounters. The only entity he can hope to have any power over is an unreal force, such as his imagined audience. It is for this reason that the underground man sees fit to manufacture them. The creation of the audience shows the narrator’s own conflicted persona, which is also embodied in his relationships with others. Yet, though the narrator, by logic, should have complete command of his imaginary audience’s actions, he often finds them difficult to manage. In the end, the audience truly gets the last laugh. They are, in many ways, more real than he is. The underground man is powerless before them because, in fact, he is powerless before everyone, even himself.

 

2.

Motivation for Murder in Crime and Punishment

            In Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, Raskolnikov commits a senseless double murder while, all the while, the reader ponders his motivation. We get Raskolnikov’s own highly unsatisfactory explanation: that he wants to be free. But since Raskolnikov achieves the exact opposite of freedom through committing this crime, we cannot accept this claim. We are also well aware of the highly obvious, though certainly incomplete, explanation: that Raskolnikov is just utterly insane. This explanation does not satisfy us either, however, because Raskolnikov is like no murderer we have seen before: madness alone does not seem to explain his unique state of mind. We tend to see murderers as either those who kill in a blind fit of passion, or hardened criminals who have lost all sense of right and wrong. Raskolnikov falls somewhere in between these two types: his crime, though clumsy, is certainly premeditated, and yet he is more sympathetic than a morally devoid criminal. Raskolnikov does not lack morals; he just wishes to transgress them. Raskolnikov is human and we truly want to believe him when he repents and vows to change at the end of the novel. He is simply a confused man who is utterly unsatisfied with his standing in society. Perhaps even more importantly, he is the highly suggestible type. These two characteristics, combined with a bit of pure insanity, are what lead Raskolnikov to kill.

               Raskolnikov alienates himself from society, much like the underground man. Raskolnikov shares the underground man’s unhappiness with his social standing and the desire to be recognized and respected. The two characters are both social outcasts, though Raskolnikov has more people, such his family and, later, Sonia, who care about him. We get the sense that Raskolnikov, even more than the underground man, has brought isolation upon himself. In the opening of the novel, the narrator describes Raskolnikov’s wish to avoid his landlady. The narrator says of Raskolnikov: “He was so immersed in himself and had isolated himself so much from everyone that he was afraid not only of meeting the landlady, but of meeting anyone at all” (Doestoevsky 3). Raskolnikov has rejected society, and begun living inside his head.

               This tendency proves dangerous. Raskolnikov has the inclination to become fixated on a particular idea, finding himself unable to stop thinking about that idea until he acts on it. Most of us can relate to the inability to rid oneself of certain thoughts, albeit on a much smaller scale. A.D. Nutall, trying to get us to understand Raskolnikov’s problem, cites an exercise created by Sartre, asking us to picture a spinning wheel and then picture it motionless. “This, it turns out, is very difficult, and the experience of trying produces a special sort of nausea, like the nausea experienced by a man trying to break free of a compulsive suggestion” (Nutall 161). When Raskolnikov overhears two men espousing theories similar to his own, talking about killing an evil pawnbroker as a sort experiment in gaining power, he can’t stop thinking about their suggestion. The idea of murdering as an experiment has been lingering in his mind for quite some time, but now he has a victim in mind. The idea becomes like a taunting challenge to himself that will not cease. It eventually becomes etched indelibly into his mind, much like the image of that spinning wheel.

               Raskolnikov developed and published the idea that he uses to justify his murder while in college. It states that, “certain extraordinary men…have the right to step over certain obstacles" (Dostoevsky 259) and "transgress the law" (Dostoevsky 260). Raskolnikov probably never truly believed this theory; he develops it merely as a way to justify his meager existence. He yearns for the kind of power commanded by men like Napoleon, and decides it is the ability to kill without fear that makes men like Napoleon so great. But Raskolnikov doesn’t truly believe he is an extraordinary man, he just likes to fantasize. Richard Curle explains his theory as to why Raskolnikov’s dreams take such a lofty path: “Raskolnikov is a dreamer, and being vain, with compensatory vanity of a man whose inner knowledge of himself is unsatisfying, his dreams assume a grandiose outline” (Curle 19). Curle is right to call Raskolnikov vain, because there is no doubt that Raskolnikov is utterly self-absorbed. His isolation from society is due to the walls of pride he has built around himself, and his whole experiment is nothing more than a front to make himself feel important. But more significant than his vanity is the deep self-hatred that lies behind his self-important justifications.

Raskolnikov justifies his murderous plot, not only intellectually, but morally too. He deludes himself into believing he is committing the act for the betterment of mankind. He holds that the old lady is dishonest and a threat to society, saying, "what he plotted—was 'not a crime'" (Dostoevsky 71). He tries to believe this, and moments before he commits the act, he reassures himself, trying to believe "he was not very afraid now, even not afraid at all" (Dostoevsky 72). However, repeated references to his "pounding heart" (Dostoevsky 73) and shortness of breath convince us otherwise.

               After the crime, his already severely damaged brain begins to further deteriorate. In a hysterical frenzy, he thrusts himself into a world of guilt and fear. Plagued by paranoia, he becomes completely incapable of functioning in society. He continues to cling to his theory, as making himself feel justified is his only way of assuaging his guilty conscience. Yet his body will not allow him to go without suffering. Though he says he is above the moral code that governs ordinary men, he is actually the slave of his inner-sense of morals. After the murder, he irrationally thinks that, "perhaps all his clothes were covered with blood, perhaps there were stains all over them and he simply did not see," (Dostoevsky 91). As this thought demonstrates, Raskolnikov's guilt has destroyed every aspect of his being; he cannot even trust his own eyes.

               Feeling completely tormented by his body and mind’s response to his crime, Raskolnikov contemplates turning himself in. When the police summon him because he has not paid his rent, Raskolnikov decides he will admit to the murder and assuage his guilt. "I'll walk in, fall on my knees, and tell them everything," (Dostoevsky 94), he decides. Though the idea gives him some relief, these feelings do not last long. Once again, he convinces himself that the murder was justified and that he must not conform to the rules that govern ordinary men. If he turned himself in, he feels it would be admitting he was wrong and, worse, weak and unimportant.

               His only true relief comes from aiding humanity. When an acquaintance, Marmeladov, dies in a road accident, Raskolnikov decides to help. He aids in moving Marmeladov's mangled corpse, and consoles and gives money to family members of the deceased man. While moving the body, he becomes spattered with Marmeladov's blood, reminding us of his violent slaying of the pawnbroker. However, this time the blood does not represent sin, it represents charity, and Raskolnikov feels pleased with this change. Upon committing this act of kindness, he was "filled, though he was no aware of it, with the new, boundless sensation of a sudden influx of full and powerful life" (Dostoevsky 186). Before, he had contemplated suicide, but after this act, he banishes such thoughts. For the first time since the murder of the pawnbroker, he actually feels his life has purpose. Still, though acts of charity clearly ease his conscience, the narrator tells us so, not Raskolnikov, who he is unwilling to verbally or even mentally articulate these thoughts himself.

              In fact, he doesn’t articulate himself at all until his stirring speech of self-realization to Sonia. In this scene, he finally admits that his reasons for murder were merely egotistical attempts to distance himself from society. Unlike the underground man’s experience with Liza, Raskolnikov is able to find salvation in the form of a former prostitute. Laying to rest all his justifications, Raskolnikov says, "I did not kill so that, having obtained means and power, I could become a benefactor of mankind. Nonsense! I simply killed…for myself, for myself alone" (Dostoevsky 419). Raskolnikov sees that he has alienated himself from society and those who love him. He eventually realizes that he cares for Sonia, and thus symbolically breaks free from the entrapments of his egotism.

               Harold Bloom argues that we should ignore the epilogue in which Raskolnikov begins to repent and change, telling us, “Despair causes his surrender…but even his despair never matches the fierce ecstasy he has achieved in violating all limits” (Bloom 2). I feel Harold Bloom has deeply misinterpreted Raskolnikov’s character. Raskolnikov dreams up the idea of murdering a stranger as a way of testing his limits and achieving power, but this is the crazed idea of a man frustrated by his seemingly futile existence; it is by no means a rational thought. Raskolnikov eventually realizes the absurdity of his motivation. Though we never actually see Raskolnikov begin a new life, there is the definite suggestion that he will.

               If Raskolnikov did not have a streak of violence and more than a touch of insanity in him, he probably would have ended up like the underground man: a tormented misfit, rather than a guilt-ridden murderer. Raskolnikov is obsessed with himself, living in a world of his own creation. While the underground man’s goal was mainly to impress others, Raskolnikov’s goal is to impress himself, to prove that he’s better than the dregs he encounters in the street. He dreams up murder as a means of showing he is a great man, and the idea sticks. In a sense, Raskolnikov makes a dare with himself that he refuses not to take. He becomes fixated and entranced by the idea of the crime. But though he is strong enough to commit the act, he is too weak to deal with it. His body and mind physically tell him he has done something wrong, and he cannot argue anymore. In the end, he realizes he is just a human after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3.

Passion and Redemption in The Brothers Karamzov

            Sinful passion, love of life and over-indulgence are inherent in the Karamazov gene. This fervor manifests itself differently in each member of the family, and some are more willing and able to suppress their wicked ways. While Fyodor Pavlovich and Smerdyakov live sinfully and unrepentantly, both Ivan and Mitya are torn between passion and redemption. Alyosha is the one member of the family who has been successful at suppressing the sin that lurks within him, devoting his life to his religion and aiding mankind, though he must struggle to remain on this path. In Dostoevsky’s eyes, the truly heroic characters are those who successfully battle their passion and ultimately redeem themselves, particularly Mitya, whose successful taming of his evil tendencies is the focus of the novel’s close. To Dostoevsky, the struggle of conflicting natures is by no means limited to one family: it is the ultimate human struggle. He aims to show us that, without the tendency to sin, our virtues would no longer be noteworthy.

From the beginning of the novel, there is little question that Fyodor Pavlovich is an outright evil man. Almost immediately, the narrator calls him “worthless and depraved” (Dosteovsky 8). However, he makes sure to note that he is also of the type “rather frequently met with” (Dosteovsky 8), reminding us that evil lurks everywhere. The narrator describes Karamazov’s two marriages, implying that both his wives would rather die than live with him. Both his wives do in fact die and, in both cases, he abandons his children. This act is so despicable because he literally just forgets about his children’s existence, showing his self-absorbed and cruel-hearted tendencies.

            Fyodor Pavlovich takes pride in his evil ways. He intentionally acts like a fool when he meets Father Zosima, though we are well aware that he is not truly a fool, but acts that way because he knows it will annoy everyone around him. As Harold Bloom says, “This buffoon and insane sensualist is a fool in a complex way, almost a Shakespearian fool, seeing through all impostures, his own included” (Bloom 5). He is by no means a stupid man, he is well aware of how he is behaving. He tells the elder, “You see before you a buffoon! Verily, a buffoon! Thus I introduce myself! It’s an old habit, alas! And if I sometimes tell lies inappropriately, I do it even on purpose, on purpose to be pleasant and make people laugh” (Dostoevsky 40). We might question his explanation of why he tells lies, but the fact remains that he is well aware of the games he plays and even likes to boast about them. Later, he tells Alyosha, “Let it be known to you that I want to live in my wickedness to the very end. Wickedness is sweet: everyone denounces it, but everyone lives in it, only they all do it on the sly and I do it openly” (Dosteovsky 173). Bloom, who calls Fyodor Pavlovich both a “monster” and a “heroic vitalist” (Bloom 5), argues we should respect the senior Karamazov if merely because of his vigor for life. He tells us we feel bad when he dies because he is “so rammed with life…that his murder is a sin against life, life depraved and corrupt, yet fierce life, life refusing death” (Bloom 6).

            Bloom tells us that, to Dostoevsky, the father is “the image of the Czar and of God” (Bloom 6). He explains Dostoevsky’s reasoning for creating a father so utterly and unquestionably bad: “If your faith can survive the torment of seeing the image of paternal authority in Karamazov, you are as justified as Job” (Bloom 6). Victor Terras even goes so far as to compare Fyodor Pavlovich to the other major father figure in the novel, Father Zosima, Alyosha’s spiritual leader. “In his own perverse and clownish way, Fyodor Pavlovich time and again affirms the words of the holy elder…within less than an hour’s time they both order Alyosha to leave the monastery” (Terras 61). Though we are surely not intended to view old Karamazov and Zosima on the same level, there may be some validity to this comparison. Dosteovsky may be trying to show us that Fyodor Pavlovich can at times be wise, and, at the same time, Father Zosima may at times be a fool. It is certainly true that Fyodor Pavlovich has a complex understanding of life. Though he makes all the wrong decisions, we never get the impression he acts out of ignorance.

            Ivan is a mysterious character who largely keeps his true feelings and thoughts hidden and lives inside his head. Richard Curle sees him as a dual character, noting that he exhibits aspects of a man both utterly confused and deeply profound. Curle argues that Ivan is “not a great creation, for the outline is blurred and one cannot see him clearly. He is a voice rather than a personality” (Curle 198). Curle attributes Ivan’s duality to a lapse on Dostoevsky’s part, but I feel that the supposedly contradictory aspects of Ivan’s personality are actually entirely complimentary. It is precisely Ivan’s intelligence that leads to his desire to decipher the meaning behind his existence, which turns out to be a daunting task and throws him into confusion. Like his brothers, he finds reconciling with his heritage complicated, and becomes scared when he realizes what he is capable of as a Karamazov. When Smerdyakov tells Ivan he killed their father at his command, Ivan wishes to deny responsibility, though he can’t absolve himself completely. As a consequence, like Raskolnikov, he descends into a world of insane guilt.

            In a crazed fantasy, Ivan dreams he is confronted by the devil. The devil is really just a mouthpiece for Ivan’s dark side, spouting some of Ivan’s deepest fears about his own sinful nature and the nature of the world. Ivan denies these claims and even accurately interprets the meaning of his hallucination, telling the devil, “You are the embodiment of myself, but of just one side of me…of my thoughts and feelings, but only the most stupid of them” (Dostoevsky 637). Horribly angry that the presence will not relent, he tells the devil and himself, “I’m not afraid of you. I will overcome you” (Dostoevsky 637). Ivan is expressing his desire to overcome his evil thoughts and live a normal life. However, eventually, he descends into complete insanity. The devil, or rather Ivan’s dark side, triumphs—not simply by bringing Ivan to the side of evil, but by destroying his own promising life.

Smerdyakov, the illegitimate son and servant of Fyodor Pavlovich, is a weak and frightened character with an inclination towards evil. But his wicked tendencies only come to fruition under the guidance of a stronger personality. Ivan serves that role and Smerdyakov begins to idolize his half-brother to the point of worship: “All my hope is in you alone, as if you the Lord God, sir!” (Dostoevsky 606). He commits patricide in the name of Ivan, but really commits the act for himself, as a means of finally expressing his buried desires. He has always been deeply violent, but deeply afraid of people. He often takes out his aggression on animals: as a child, he had a fondness for hanging cats and, even as an adult, he teaches Illusha how to put a pin in a piece of bread and feed it to a dog. But though he is mostly too timid to exert himself when it comes to humans, he is a deeply suspicious man and instinctively hates everyone he encounters. When the narrator first introduces the character, we are told, “He was terribly unsociable and taciturn. Not that he was shy or ashamed of anything—no, on the contrary, he had an arrogant nature and seemed to despise everyone” (Dostoevsky 124). He is the one character we have almost no respect for because, though he is consistently evil like his father, he is completely devoid of vivacity. Ironically, he commits the most powerful act in the book, but he must channel Ivan’s energy to achieve the courage. When he loses faith in Ivan, he commits suicide: the final act of a weak man.

Alyosha is the honorable member of the family, seemingly the exact opposite of Smerdyakov and his father. Yet he is still a Karamazov: there is the definite suggestion that Alyosha is aware of his wicked tendencies, but simply has enough self-control to keep them repressed. When the narrator introduces Alyosha he says, “He was simply an early lover of mankind, and if he threw himself into the monastery path, it was only because it alone struck him at the time and presented him, so to speak, with an ideal way out for his struggle from the darkness of worldly wickedness towards the light of love” (Dostoevsky 18). This quote suggests that Alyosha may not even particularly enjoy religious life, but seeks it out, at least initially, to escape the base desires he inherited from his father.

Though he basically never strays from his religious way of life, he has at least one temptation. After the elder Zosima dies, Alyosha’s faith is shaken. Zosima’s dead body leaves a putrid stench and there is the widespread belief that this means he was not as holy as he claimed. Confused by this scandal, Alyosha leaves the monastery and goes with Rakitin to Grushenka’s house, a woman he thinks to be sinful. He admits, “I came here looking for a wicked soul—I was drawn to that, because I was low and wicked myself, but I found a true sister, I found a treasure—a loving soul” (Dostoevsky 351). Ironically, Grushenka redeems Alyosha’s faith through her kindness, causing him to return to the monastery. But, despite this brief departure from his pious lifestyle, Alyosha does not seem to find suppression of his Karamazov urges entirely difficult. When he does stray, “it amounted to no more than the spasm of empty despair which comes to all at the loss of someone very close and precious” (Curle 207). Curle goes so far as to suggest that suppressing his evil tendencies is so easy to Alyosha that it makes his character less likeable. He says, “It might be argued…that cheerful goodness and tolerance—no, tolerance is scarcely the right word, uncondemning silence is more like it—are innate in him and he is so free from the temptations which assail both Mitya and Ivan, not to mention old Karamazov, that his attributes are negative rather than positive” (Curle 206).

            If there is a hero in this story, it’s probably not Alyosha, as the narrator suggests, but Mitya. It is Mitya whom we can better understand. He is unquestionably a Karamzov. He shares his father’s fanaticism and, like his father, “His lust for life is terrific” (Curle 182). But there is something more excusable about Mitya’s base tendencies: he has a sort of “impish curiosity” as opposed to his father’s “spiteful buffoonery” (Curle 183). Unlike his father, who embraces his sinful tendencies, Mitya allows sin to influence his actions but not his thoughts. He knows when he has done something wrong and, as a result, he becomes overwrought with powerful guilt. In his own words, he is “struggling with his fate and trying to save himself” (Dostoevsky 364). At times, his self-inflicted suffering reaches the point of “painful revulsion” (Dostoevsky 366). He is brutally harsh with himself, saying, “I am the lowest vermin!” (Dostoevsky 667). In a way, his self-reproach is a form of masochism: he seems almost to take pleasure in chastising himself. This suffering is comparable to the self-inflicted torture of Lise, an adolescent with whom Alyosha has a bizarre relationship. Lise says she “doesn’t want to be happy” (Dostoevsky 581) and masochistically revels in slamming her finger in a door. But, though both characters struggle with the inner-conflict between good and evil, Mitya yearns for redemption while Lise seems only motivated by her sick hunger for suffering.

A deeply religious man, Dostoevsky himself holds the somewhat masochistic Christian belief that suffering brings salvation. Dostoevsky views Mitya’s desire to punish himself as detrimental to his eventual spiritual recovery. There are certainly strong religious implications when Mitya shouts, “I want to suffer and be purified for suffering!” (Dostoevsky 509). Yet the great irony of the book is that the murder of his father—a sin Mitya is not guilty of but the sin he most yearns to commit—is the one sin for which he is condemned to suffer eternally. Of course, Mitya objects to being wrongly accused, but he realizes suffering for another’s crime is the best way to completely redeem himself for his sinful life. Mitya decides to escape prison, but vows to live a life of condemnation. This vow is unique because, while his earlier plans were always for the indeterminate future, he has now made a firm commitment. Not only that, but his decision has implications far beyond his own personal redemption. Suffering for the sake of others is analogous to the suffering of Christ and, to a Christian man like Dostoevsky, is a divine responsibility that transcends the duties of mortal men.

The Karamazov passion is a potent force. Fyodor Pavlovich exhibits the force in its purest form, while a somewhat diluted, though equally fascinating, form of the passion exhibits itself in each of his sons. Alyosha lives a religious lifestyle and successfully ignores the dark cravings of his family, though knowing what he is capable of keeps him honest with himself and accepting of all people. Ivan is an intelligent man who finds it hard to comprehend the meaning of his existence and his background. He has a certain energy, a strange combination of virtue and sin, which is, in fact, so powerful that it inspires the feeble Smerdyakov to commit parricide. Ivan’s questioning nature eventually destroys him and he descends into madness. Though not credited as such, Mitya is the hero of the novel. Blamed for the murder of his father, he uses this false accusation to make a powerful recovery from the depths of debauchery, eventually making a sacrifice for mankind that vastly exceeds his earthly duties. Dostoevsky may not be comparing Mitya to his God, but he is certainly suggesting Mitya’s vow to spend a life of suffering will redeem not only himself but also mankind as a whole.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Works Cited

Bloom, Harold, ed. Fyodor Dostoevsky. New York: Chelsea, 1989.

---. Introduction. Bloom, Fyodor Dostoevsky.

Curle, Richard. Characters of Dostoevsky. London: William Heinemann, 1950.

Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Brothers Karamazov. Trans. Richard Pevear and Larissa

Volokhonsky. New York: Knopf, 1992.

---. Crime and Punishment. Trans. Constance Garnett. New York: Modern Library, 1950.

---. Notes from Underground. Trans. Pevear and Volokhonsky. New York: Vintage,

1994.

Nutall, “Crime and Punishment: The Psychological Problem.” Bloom, Fyodor

Dostoevsky.

Pevear, Richard. Forward. Dostoevsky, Notes from Underground.

Terras, Victor. A Karamazov Companion. Madison: Univ. Wisconsin Press, 1981.