The Count of Monte Cristo

 

I’m on a bit of a mission, of late. I’ve hitherto neglected reading a great any of the classics. This is not to say that I do not own them – I do – this is to say that some of them have been left languishing upon my bookshelves, gathering dust, sometimes for years, if not decades. I decided, upon reflection, that this is unacceptable. I will finally read them – now. I’m approaching 60 and, let’s be frank, time is sorter than it once was.

That sounds rather melodramatic, doesn’t it? It ought to, because it is. Which brings me to this tome, this melodramatic tale of betrayal and revenge by Alexandre Dumas, this lengthy, weighty tome. It’s long, so long that the thought of tackling it is daunting, even for those who read quickly – and I do not.

Did I tackle it? I did. And complete it? I did. In fits and starts.

What do I think of it? Did I like it? I did. Then I didn’t. Then I did, with reservation. Why? Because it was long. Staggeringly long. And unapologizingly melodramatic. But mostly because I found Edmond Dantes implausible. Not at the novel’s onset. Then I found him exceedingly naïve. And melodramatic. Indeed, I found his story riveting then. I found myself frustrated and anxious for him, as circumstance rose up against him and he found himself betrayed by a litany of self-interested ne’er-do-wells and incarcerated in the infamous Chateau d’If, left to rot when he'd committed no crime, to hide others' treason.

What I found frustrating was the middle “bit,” years after Dantes escaped from this inescapable prison, indescribably rich having inherited a long-lost treasure, and having somehow become an expert in EVERYTHING! That is what caused me to set the book aside for a time: his miraculous erudition, gleaned from the then deceased Abbe Faria, Italian priest and sage and the source of Dantes’ bequeathed fortune, who taught him everything under the sun: culture, art, politics, rhetoric, whatever…. I suppose Dantes’ years travelling in the east might also be cited for his vast knowledge, his intricate plans. But that reasoning fell flat to my mind. To elucidate, Dantes can detect a forgery at mere glance at any work of art, etc. It was then that I put the book down in disgust.

I vowed I would finish it, though. I decided to read a chapter a day. Just one. It would take some time to complete at that pace, but I’ve never been one to abandon a book.

I’m glad I did. Once I set aside my reservations and accepted the implausibility of Dantes’ encyclopedic knowledge, and the intricacies of his elaborate revenge plot, Alexandre Dumas’ masterful skill at what was once referred to as “Romance” drew me in. This is an intricately plotted story, with twists and turns, with no page unnecessary. It was still insanely implausible, to my mind. But I forgive it this.

To lavish praise and not merely complain, Dumas’ characters are well realised, his heroes and villains have concrete reasons why they do what they did. I empathize with them, but do not forgive their villainy. That said, I came to realise as I read on and Dantes’ revenge plots began to bear fruit, that he is the true villain of this story and not those who nearly succeeded in destroying his life. One might argue that they deserve what they got, but Dantes cared not a whit who suffered as he exacted his revenge.

Do I recommend this lengthy adventure? I do. But I also recommend patience with its page count. Forgive Dantes his unlikely encyclopedic knowledge, his possibly impossibly vast network of spies, informants, and debtors; gloss over Monsieur Noirtier’s miraculous ability to be understood after his paralysing stroke; and just enjoy this novel’s vast cast of characters whose tales are woven into an intricate web of twists and turns that make the journey worthwhile.

Because it is.