It's been an uncharacteristically eventful few weeks since my last post. Among other milestones, I turned twenty-three, traveled to Europe for the first time, and ran (and completed) a half-marathon; but most importantly, before all that happened, I finally finished The Brothers Karamazov. That's right, fourth time's the charm. Since this is a discussion of the end of the book, spoiler alert or whatever.For being the conclusion to arguably the greatest novel by arguably one of the greatest writers, Part IV is pretty damn boring. Honestly, there's no getting around it. The bulk of the book is taken up with Dmitri's trial, a hundred-page affair meant to satirize Russian legal proceedings. Much of the humor (?) and relevance has been lost in time, as is the case with many satires (except, of course, Jonathan Swift's groundbreaking work in the field of baby-eating).
Mysteries
Not only does Part IV satirize Russian trials, it is also a sharp critique of the fledging science of psychology. Science can be a dangerous tool in the hands of those whose emotions overrule their reason (which, Dostoevsky would argue, is basically everyone). Take Dmitri's avowal of deterministic neuroscience:
“Imagine: inside, in the nerves, in the head – that is, these nerves are there in the brain… (devil take them!) there are sort of little tails, the little tails of those nerves... that’s why I see and then think, because of those tails, not at all because I’ve got a soul, and that I am some sort of image and likeness. All that is nonsense... It’s magnificent, Alyosha, this science!... It’s chemistry, brother, chemistry!”
Here is a man -- gullible, ardent, of the most pitiful disposition -- learning about a brand-new Theory of Everything, and he is utterly taken in by the promise of answers. Two things stand out. Firstly, Dmitri's description of neurons with their little tails is reminiscent of Fyodor's fear of being dragged into hell by demonic hooks: “Hooks? Where would they get them? What of? Iron hooks? Where do they forge them? Have they a foundry there of some sort?" Fyodor's questions are as misguided as Dmitri's understanding of science.
We should also recognize this as a reversal, a Kafkaesque changing of offices: the acceptance of logic and rejection of faith at a time of desperate need. At the most critical moment when Dmitri needed answers, they were provided. Except they weren't really answers. RB Woodward, a pioneering organic chemist, said, "In chemistry, ideas have to answer to reality," to distinguish his profession for that of mathematics, where ideas have to answer to a reality that often seems alien to our own. Dmitri's conception of reality is different from Woodward's, too. He's not looking for science to understand the world; he's looking for science to answer questions about his soul, something that it does not (or at least should not) claim to do. He's looking for salvation in science, and though he thinks he has found it, he cannot help but be dragged down by the same little tails that saved him.
For after all, science is a double-edged sword; if chemistry must answer to reality, it cannot play favorites. The same discipline that delivers him ultimately condemns him when the prosecutor uses psychology in court to show beyond a reasonable doubt -- emphasis on reason -- that Dmitri killed his father. The arguments are tedious and protracted, but suffice it to say, they are convincing enough that the jury finds Dmitri guilty.
But of course he is not guilty; it is revealed in the course of Part IV that Smerdyakov killed Fyodor. (Honestly, did anyone else see this coming literally from the page Smerdyakov was introduced? It's supposed to be a shocking revelation, but maybe, to paraphrase Lisa Simpson, people were just more easily shocked back then.) And if Smerdyakov is guilty and Dmitri innocent, then the prosecutor's argument is not based in logic or science, but sophistry, which is Dusty's ultimate point, to show that human behavior is too complex, too subtle and unpredictable, to be dictated by science, physical laws, or even logic.
This observation brings us back to Father Zosima's retelling of the story of Job back in Part II. (Some of the observations in the section are indebted to Nathan Rosen's great essay, "Style and Structure in The Brothers Karamazov".) In it, Zosima recounts how Job once had a large family whom he loved and was loved by. After God takes his family away from him and he sufficiently passes God's tests of faith, he is rewarded with a new family, whom, it is said, he loved as much as his former family. This fact, rather than the long and difficult middle section of Job wherein he struggles with being punished when he is sure of his innocence, is what Zosima focuses on, and indeed it seems to stand for the entirety of Dusty's story. Just as it is unbelievable that Dmitri, given prodigious motive and opportunity, managed to refrain from killing his father, it is unbelievable that Job could love a new family in the same way that he loved his first family.
And yet we buy it. In reading Brothers K, I had no problem believing that Dmitri managed to stop himself from killing his father, just as in reading Job I had no problem believing that Job could find happiness with a new family (or rather, it was hard to imagine, but not beyond belief). As Zosima said, "It’s the great mystery of human life that old grief passes gradually into quiet tender joy." Human psychology, then, is not a hard and fast science, but a mystery, the great mystery. Logic is all well and good, but as we have seen, it can coexist with something grander, deeper, and more inscrutable. That is the wisdom contained in the call to love life more than its meaning, above logic.
Alyosha and his Disciples
When we read Crime and Punishment in high school, our teacher (Hi, Mrs. McEvoy!) asked us what we thought of Dusty's inclusion of an epilogue describing Raskonikov being sentenced to hard labor. I remember people saying that it was a poor choice, that ending with the powerful climax rather than a soft denouement would have been more effective. Having a litte background in Dusty's life would have probably helped us understand why he wrote it -- he was sentenced to labor in Siberia, as well -- but I always thought it was a good artistic choice. Clearly, the titular punishment was a psychological one, but crime is more than just mental torture; there is an earthly, physical punishment as well.
Brothers K closes much the same way. Part IV ends with Dmitri being pronounced guilty, only for the Epilogue to pick up a few months later with plans to break Dmitri out of prison so that he and Grushenka can travel to America together (the proposed plot of the second book in the Life of a Great Sinner series). We are then told that Ivan has gone mad after a breakdown during the trial, and we see Katerina and Dmitri reconcile their love for one another. In other words, denouement, denouement, denouement.
Then something different: Ilyusha's funeral. We have heard surprisingly little from the boys throughout the novel, even though it was implied that they would play a large role. We met Ilyusha first, briefly, and then were introduced to the impetuous Kolya and others in Book X when Ilyusha becomes sick and lies on his deathbed, but their part is minimal to say the least. In the Epilogue, we learn that Ilyusha has died (notably, there was no smell from his corpse) and Alyosha attends his funeral. He then leads the boys, twelve in all in a nod to Jesus' twelve apostles, to a large stone that Ilyusha wished to be buried under, and there he gives a speech. He urges the boys to be happy, something that is foreign to them -- "Such grief and then suddenly pancakes," quips Kolya -- but also, he urges them to remember, to remember Ilyusha when he was happy and when they were happy with him, because "if a man carries many such memories with him into life, then he is saved for his whole life.
"And if we have only one good memory left in our heart, even that may serve someday as our salvation. Perhaps we may even grow wicked later on, we may even be unable to refrain from a bad action, may laugh at people's tears... But however bad we may become -- which God forbid -- yet, when we recall how we buried Ilyusha, how we loved him in his last days, and how we have been talking like friends all together, at this stone, he cruelest and most mocking of us -- if we do become so -- will not dare to laugh inwardly at having been kind and good at this moment!"
Throughout the novel, Alyosha -- who had been pronounced the hero of the story -- has played a small role compared to those of Dmitri, Grushenka, Ivan, Fyodor, and Smerdyakov. His primary duty has been that of a messenger, rushing from one place to another in order to deliver messages, money, oaths of payment, threats, etc. Lise, the girl he proposes marriage to, even tells him that if they were to marry, she would end up cheating on him and he would still be delivering messages from her to the man in question and be glad to carry them.
We remember a short parable by Kafka:
"They were given the choice of being kings or the kings' messengers. As is the way with children, they all wanted to be messengers. That is why there are only messengers, racing throughout the world and, since there are no kings, calling out to each other messages that have now become meaningless. They would gladly put an end to their miserable life, but they do not dare to do so because of their oath of loyalty."
We're not quite to Kakfa's time yet (hell, Kafka wasn't quite to Kafka's time), so the messages Alyosha is delivering have not yet become meaningless, but we can see that, given the choice between being king or envoy, Alyosha always picked the latter. He chose to cloister himself in a monastery, and when he was told to leave and go into the world, he spent his time delivering messages. (It could be argued that the office of messenger was thrust upon him, but he doesn't seem to do much to break the mold.) In the epilogue, however, he is not the messenger, but the proclaimer; in Kafka's parable, he is in the role of king. He is giving a message to be delivered by the children, his disciples. So the ending is not big and dramatic, but it is triumphant. The children praise the Karamazov name -- despite the murder, despite the conviction -- and Alyosha has progressed from messenger to king, with a Message to be delivered that is overflowing with meaning and significance.
Stray Observations
- In contrast to the prosecutor's use of damning, pseudoscientific psychology, the defense attorney entreats the jury to grant Dmitri almost Christlike grace: he asks them to "overwhelm" Dmitri with their mercy to the point that he trembles, "horror-struck," and exclaims, "I am guilty in the sight of all men and am more unworthy than all... How can I endure this mercy? How can I endure so much love? Am I worthy of it?" This is the same feeling Christians are supposed to have in light of the gift of Christ dying for our sins.
- I didn't say much of Ivan other than mentioning that he went schizo. I was a little disappointed that such a powerful character who comes up with what is essentially an irrefutable argument against God is written out after having a nervous breakdown and seeing the devil. It's not that it's unreasonable; it just feels like a letdown.
- An interesting point about messengers that didn't really fit in above. This guy makes the point that messengers are play-acting the role of king: that is, though children certainly pretend to be king all the time, they would never want actual power, but only the trappings of power. On the other hand, when I was a kid and my mom asked me if I would want to be president when I grew up, I said I couldn't handle that much power. That probably says a lot about me, so it's a good thing that Dusty said psychology is bullshit.
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