The Brothers Karamazov by F. M. Dostoevskij Volume 5191 () || The Author of "Brat'ja Karamazovy"

JAN Μ. MEIJER

The Author of "Brafja Karamazovy"

1. A CHAPTER OF EGOLOGY

An author prepares for his work. After a short or long period of preparation he starts writing. He wants to express himself as fully as possible. Therefore he brings to bear on his work everything he has. There is a constant flow, we are apt to think, from all the corners of his ego towards the work he is writing. This ego is in the service of the work. All it contains is raw material for the work. Yet one wonders whether it is the entire ego that is at the service at the work, whether the resting ego is the same as the ego at work. Perhaps a certain rounding-off takes place that is of some conse-quence for the work as it eventually appears.

The answers to this question will depend in part on one's defi-nition of an ego. This in turn will vary between: the organising centre of an individual, and: the circumference within which this organising centre operates. The ego organises for every willed act. Is such a willed act a clearer expression of our ego than the more direct, unreflected or even unconscious acts? There is an entire scala between these two extremes. Even among our willed and conscious acts there are position-takings that we cannot maintain, not because external pressures force us away from them, but be-

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8 JAN Μ. MELIER

cause we cannot stick to them for our own sakes: it would bind or misdirect too many of our forces to an end that, as we realise, is not worth this trouble to us.

Such questions are getting us into very deep psychological waters. We hurry out of them, but from our foray we retain the following points:

a) an author organises his ego in the service of the work he is writing;

b) he will use, in representative cases, all the forces of his ego, but not all its material;

c) in the process of working, certain roundings-off of the ego occur that are provisional.

What interests us in all this is not the psychological side, but its consequences for literary organisation in general, and for the concept of the author figure in particular. In our inquiry we base ourselves on the three points just mentioned. For our purpose the term 'rounding-off', should perhaps be further explained. We mean by it both completing something so that we can walk around it, so that it has obtained its own dimensions and can be left alone, and the discovery that this stage is reached, that, for example, an image or a character lives, so that the addition of further details would only spoil the effect. The rounding-off of the ego will take place under the influence of an ideal or vision. For man as a writer the finished work will (or may) be such a rounding-ofF; for man outside that capacity there may be many, they often will be even con-flicting, but mostly there is a certain coherence in them, vaguely expressed in the image of the man we want to be.

But does it make sense to speak of an author figure as a literary, and not a psychological entity? The clearest indication that it does is the lyrical T , the Τ of the lyrical poem. It is a commonplace by now that the author as a civilian does not share all the wishes etc. of his lyrical T , and also that this Τ plays an organising role in the poem. For prose and for non-I poems the thing is somewhat more difficult. Even the Τ of the I-narration {Ich-Erzählung) will often not be identical with the author figure, but rather be just one of an author's characters. How, then, do we know whether a



THE AUTHOR OF "BRAT'JA KARAMAZOVY" 9

narrating Τ is identical with the author figure, and in general, how can we isolate the author figure of a given work. Last but not least: what do we gain by it?

To begin with the last question: if it would prove to be possible to isolate, in a given work of literature, the author figure, we would have a link between writer and the human being behind him that would present a firmer basis for discussion of writers. For example: Dostoevskij the man is much more to the right politically than Dostoevskij the writer. In discussions concerning both the merits and the structure of his novels Dostoevskij the writer is often simply identified with Dostoevskij the man, and conclusions are drawn from this identification that are not borne out by the work itself. In general the author figure will give a deeper insight into the ele-ment of transposition proper to any work of fiction. Detailed examples will have to authenticate these claims.

Under one aspect the author figure is the writer in his capacity of artistic organiser of the work in progress. His task is to bring the work to a satisfactory close. He orders the material according to a view or vision that receives its final expression in the finished work. He is a more rounded-off figure than the writer himself as a man, who can never organise his life the way he does a work of art. In the author figure parts of the man as he would appear as a character are not operating, are placed in parentheses, so to speak. After the work is finished the author figure dissolves into its ingre-dients: the man, dominant ideas, opinions and feelings, artistic devices. Parts of him that had been put aside temporarily resume operating. For the next work an author figure is called to life again. The work will be a different one, so the author figure will be a different one. It will be clear that the differences cannot be very large: what is susceptible of being rounded off changes only very little and gradually, and the 'technical' possibilities of rounding-off are restricted. Yet the preceding work will often be a constituting factor in the ego that is rounded off for the new work. The restric-tion we spoke of is conditioned not only psychologically, but even more by time horizons. The fundamental approaches to the artistic organisation of a work are restricted in number. With all the possibilities of variation of one and the same author and between



10 JAN Μ. MEIJER

authors, these are variations on a restricted number of patterns

that remain dominant for quite some time. Thus it is possible, in

principle, to speak of the romantic author figure, the realistic

author figure, etc. It will be clear that both logically and historically

the individual author figures precede the more general ones and

that the term romantic author figure designates the traits found to

be common to quite a number of author figures in any given period

of time. This is true from the point of view of the historian of

literature. On the other hand it will be clear that the writer does not

live in a void and that the 'reigning' author figure will influence

him more or less strongly.

The urge to round oneself off is not proper to writers or artists

only. All humanity shares it. The difference is only that the writer

can put this urge to good use. A man may direct a symphony

orchestra in his bathroom, with or without help of a looking glass

for finding the right gestures, — only rarely will this bring him any

nearer to a real orchestra; in fact his self-imposed sequestration

with the orchestra of his imagination may even strengthen his

inhibitions. Instead of that, the author, rounding off himself in

this way, will create a character that performs these acts. Any

playful urge can be transformed by him into the property of a

character. Now if this is so, should we then not go further and

state that each of the characters created is an author figure? Both

Dimitrij and Alesa Karamazov are somehow inherent in Dostoev-

ski], as both Andrej and his wife in the Three Sisters are inherent in

Cechov, as both Settembrini and Castorp are inherent in Thomas

Mann. This is so, but what makes it different from our bathroom

example is the fact that the authors mentioned can bring this off

within the confines of one work. Every character has something in

him of the author. But dividing himself up over his characters,

placing them in relationships of conflict and harmony, this is what

distinguishes the author from the bathroom hero. Therefore, not

the individual character created by the author, but the individual

work of art is the fundamental unit for our inquiry. It is typical of

the author figure that it has been able to organise so different

characters. Each of them is a rounding-off in a certain direction,

with varying proportions of technique and projection of self. But




none of those characters is the author figure. If we succeed in isolating the author figure of a given work this will have the added advantage that we will be spared such quite unproven and un-provable statements as that "here, evidently, the author himself is speaking". The work as a whole is the author's mouthpiece. If we think that he speaks in particular in certain small passages within this book, we will have to argue this point closely. This is the more so as there are artistic dangers in an author speaking for himself. He does this on a plane on which he is not operating in the novel. This damages the texture of the work. If it is done consciously it is mostly for comic affect.

There is truth in the dictum that in the final analysis, all literature is autobiographical; but there are important differences. Some writers base themselves on their own actual experiences, others project possible experiences of their characters and see where that leads them. Tolstoj is an example of the former, Dostoevskij of the latter (one need only mention Anna Karenina and The House of the Dead to see the restricted scope of the distinction). In both cases we have an exteriorising of experiences. The process can perhaps be illustrated by two widely different examples, taken from Tolstoj and from Dostoevskij respectively. In chapter XX of Tolstoj's Kazaki, Olenin is sitting in the woods and thinking: "Okojio MeHH, npojieTa« Meayjy jracTbSMH, KOTopwe KaacyTca hm OrpOMHMMH OCTpOBaMH, CTOflT Β B03flyxe Η 5Ky3K5KaT KOMapbl I OflHH, flBa, τρκ, HeTtipe, CTO, TbICHHa, MHJDIHOH KOMapOB, Η BCe OHH HTo-HHÖyAf» Η 3aieM-HH6yAb acyxcHcaT OKOJIO MeHH, Η KaxAbiH H3 HHX TaKoii »;e ocoöeHHbrii οτ Bcex ^mhtphh OjieHHH, Kax η η caM." EMy HCHO HpeflCTaBHJiocb, HTO AyMaioT η »cyacacaT KOMapbi. "Ciofla, cioâ, peöjrra! Bot Koro mojkho ecTb," — xyxoKaT ohh η o6jieiuwK»T ero. Η eMy »CHO CTano, hto OH HHCKOJibKo He pyccKHH ΛΒ0ρ«ΗΗΗ, HJieH MOCKOBCKOIO OÖmeCTBa, ΛΡ>Τ Η ρΟΛΗΗ ΤΟΓΟ-ΤΟ, a npocTo TaKoö »ce KOMap, hjih TSKOH »ce φa3aH, HJIH oneHb, Kax Te, KOTopwe jKHByT Tenepb BOKpyr Hero.

In 1880 Dostoevskij was asked by a correspondent whether man could bear to live a divided life ('dvoit'sja') all his life, without making every effort to end such a situation. He qualified his answer by stating that as a writer he was not well placed to answer



12 JAN Μ. MELIER

such a question: A 3HaeTe-jm ητο η caM, HanpHMep, MeHbine neM

k t o apyroH cnocoöeH η hmcio npaeo, pemant» Taicae Bonpocw.

3 t o noTOMy, h t o caMoe nojioaceHHe Moe, KaK iracaTeji», cjihuikom oco6jihbo β BHfly TaKHx BonpocoB. Ά HMeio y ce6a Bcerâ roToeyio

nHcaTejn>CKyio .aeaTejibHOCTb, κοτοροή npeâiocb c yBjieiemieM,

β KOTopyio nojiaraio Bee crapaHHÄ moh, Bee paôcTH η Haae^c^ti

MOH, Η flaio HM 3TOH fleJITeJlbHOCTblO HCXOfl. TaK HTO IipeflCTaHb

MHe AUHHO TaKofi xce Bonpoc Η a Bcerâ Haxoxcy ayxoBHyio

êaTejibHocTL·, leoTopaa p a 3 0 M yâjiaeT MeHa o t Taacejiofi êö-

CTBHTejibHOCTH β flpyroH Map. Hmea TaKoii hcxo,o, πρκ Taacejibix

Bonpocax 3KH3HH, a κοΗβΗΗο KaKÖbi noflKyiuieii, h6o o6e3neneH η

jiaxce Mory cy^HTb npHcrpacTHo, no ce6e. H o KaKOBO TeM, y

KOTopbix Ηβτ TaKoro Hcxofla, TaKOH γοτοβοη fleaTejibHocTn,

KOTopa« Bcerâ hx BupyiaeT η yHocHT .najieico οτ Tex 6e3Bbixoa-

Hbix BOnpOCOB, KOTOpbie HHOTfla Hpe3BbIHaÖHO MyHHTeJIbHO

cTaHOB«Tca nepea co3HaHHeM η cep/meM, η KaK 6bi ,a;pa3Ha η τ ο μ ή hx, HacT0ÄTejn»H0 TpeßyioT paapeiuemia.1 The process,

illustrated here from opposite sides, is, however, essentially the

same for every writer: his self-importance diminishes, but in

becoming a common creature he becomes, by the same token,

representative. N o t many writers are conscious of this, but the

work of most o f them is built on this premise.

The author represents humanity, he represents human life in his work. There is a playful element in this that does not exclude the highest seriousness. This element of play does not mean the absence of targets, they are there, but they are no longer practical, they coincide with the completion of the work. In other words, the author creates his own world. Rules are essential for this play. They exist, accumulated through the ages. The author cannot butt into his own play with his ego. But neither can he move away from it any distance as long as he keeps to the rules. Beyond a certain distance from the ego the work becomes a technical exercise, the author is no longer involved, i.e. he can mobilise only part of himself, the larger part of his personality remains at rest and cannot contribute its energies to the work in progress.

The existence of rules makes it possible to consider the finished 1 F. M. Dostoevskij, Pis'ma, IV, 1878-1881 (Moscow, 1959), p. 194.




work of art as a structure. This does not seem very helpful when we are in quest of the author figure: the finished product no longer needs an author. But as the finished work is an artistic projection of a model world on a real world (although this is by no means the most essential aspect of the work of art), we can follow back the projection lines until they meet in the author figure. In the case of The Brothers Karamazov this gives us the possibility to check whether the presence of more than one author figure in this novel points to ruptures in the structure, or whether there is underlying unity.

This problem has often been presented under the aspect of 'point of view'. This term suggests that a work, in order to be a unity, must be presented throughout from one and the same point of view. But, as Br at'ja Karamazovy will show inter alia, this is not an essential requirement. Not only is an author free as long as he can keep us interested, but one author figure can appear in several guises, and the essential unity of a work need not necessarily express itself in one single point of view.

Is the author figure a psychological or a literary entity? It is both. In the author figure the technical supervisor over the con-struction of the work and the organised ego of the writer are continually present, but in continually changing proportions. Once a character has been put on its feet, it cannot be knocked down at will, such an act must be motivated. Where such a thing happens in a novel, the ego will be more involved, while simply following the character may be more a question of supervising. But even this does not apply to all writers. The place that technical organisation occupies in the total organised ego differs from one writer to another.

It is clear that the concept of the author figure is directly con-nected with that of style. The term has been given many different meanings and should be used with care. Very often it is used to designate the 'handwriting' of a writer, his own way of speaking, more or less independently from what he is saying. It will be clear, however, that his way of speaking has something to do with the work he is writing, that in the process of writing he is influenced by the conception that is being realised. It would seem possible,



14 JAN Μ. MEDER

therefore, to regard style as the interference of the original im-pulse of the sentence and its rebound against the final conception. With each consecutive sentence, what follows is more clearly circumscribed and the number of choices reduced. As regards the author figure this means that it is active everywhere and, in prin-ciple, can be found in every single sentence of the work.

If the author figure can be found anywhere in the book, how do we go about finding it? It is then either directly evident or untraceable. However, as for an inquiry into style we do not have to analyse every single sentence of a work, — we are finished when we have convincingly demonstrated our case so that further analysis will only confirm our findings, — so it is also with an author figure. While no part of the book can a priori be excluded from our enquiry, this enquiry will be completed as soon as we have estab-lished an author figure that explains the structure.

The method for finding the author figure is conditioned by the object of inquiry. There are so many author figures that applying general rules would soon result in unnecessary detours. A book may strike the reader by its style, or by its 'contents', or by an unresolved tension between style and 'contents', or by the build-up of the chapters, etc., etc. There is nothing against, and everything in favour of a method that starts from that feature which is the most striking in a given work. In our case this is the existence of more than one author figure.

A book consists of words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters, parts. They relate a series of events consecutive in time. Often the sequence is not followed linearly. One distinguishes between fabula i sjuiet,2

roughly the realisation of the plot, and the plot itself. A little clearer perhaps than this distinction is that between different modes of narration, the he-story or the I story, or, according to a more recent proposal,3 between the I story, the personal narration and the auctorial narration. Next there is the distinction between chronicler and omniscient author, according to the sources of infor-2 Β. V. TomaSevskij, Teorija literatury (Moscow-Leningrad, 1928), pp. 134 et seq. 3 F. Κ. Stanzel, Die typischen Erzählsituationen int Roman (Wien, 1963) also in his: Typische Formen des Romans (Göttingen, 1967) ( = Kleine Vandenhoeck-reihe 187).




mation. This latter distinction is important for Brat'ja Karamazovy. All these modes could be called systems of expectations that are created in the reader and that may be modulated even while they are being established. In all the above distinctions the author figure is implicitly present, but in none he manifests himself directly. The author figure, the literary face of the structured ego, is itself a struc-ture, in which an attitude towards the reader is incorporated.

2. BRAT J A KARAMAZOVY

We now turn to the novel and for the moment leave aside its fore-word.

The beginning of the novel is related by a chronicler. He is located in the town where the events described occurred. "Our district" appears in the second line, and the first person singular in the seventh (skaiu).4 In between we learn that the "tragic and dark" death of Fedor Pavloviö Karamazov occurred 13 years ago. The story that is to be chronicled is of the fairly recent past, well remembered, and of which some details have in the meantime be-come known. He refers to the fact that the locals called Karamazov "a landowner", and in so doing takes a certain distance from the views current in the district. He is not a gossip. By external characteristics this is an I-narrative {Ich-Erzählung). But the narra-tor does not play a part in the story himself. He does not go on errands for his friends, as the narrator in Besy does. Thus the tension between narrating I and narrated I (erzählendes und erlebendes Ich5) is virtually absent. The narrator's horizon is not restricted to the 4 IX, 11. (All references are to vols. 9 and 10 of the 10-volume "Sobranie soöinenij" (Moscow, 1956-1958). Roman figures indicate the volume, arabic figures denote the page). 6 Stanzel, Typische Formen, p. 32: "... bleibt das Verhältnis zwischen er-zählendem und erlebendem Ich ein entscheidendes Element des Sinngefüges des Ich-Romans,..."; see ibid. p. 26: "In Dostojewskijs Die Brüder Karamasoff spielt das Geschehen in 'unserem' Landkreis, doch beansprucht der Erzähler, trotz dieser Rolleneinkleidung als Zeitgenosse und Zeuge der Handlung alle Privilegien eines auktorialen Erzählers." This latter narrator is characterised as follows: "Das atiszeichnende Merkmal dieser Erzählsituation ist die Anwesen-heit eines persönlichen, sich in Einmengung und Kommentaren zum Erzählten kundgebenden Erzählers", and it is added: "Die der auktorialen Erzählsituation entsprechende Grundform des Erzählens ist die berichtende Erzählweise"



16 JAN Μ. MEIJER

town or district. In several cases he gives his opinions and judge-ments clearly, in some instances somewhat polemically: The old Karamazov belongs to a type that is not so very rare (IX, 11): "the majority of these crazy people is rather clever and shy, ... — and they have a special, a specifically Russian kind of inconse-quentialness"(IX, 12); lively, intelligent women figure very often in the present generation {ibid.). The description of Adelaida Ivanovna Miusova abounds with this kind of opinion. A degree of judgement is even implied in the title, in the diminutive of serrfja, 'family', that is used: not just a family, but one that was not really one, that did not live up to being a family. The attitude this implies is taken up towards the end of the novel by the prokuror (X, 237) when he characterises the family life of the Karamazovs. The attitude implied in the title of book 1 is thus not accidental. If the chronicler's horizon is not restricted to the town, he still depends on it for his information. He may be able to interpret them better, but he does not know more about events than the inhabitants know at the moment of narration. He is not a chronicler like PuSkin's Pi men, dobro i zlo vnimaja ravnodusno, he has his sympathies and antipathies among the characters in the story. The fact that certain details of the events described became known only much later is often referred to, but the moment of narration does not itself enter into the story. As a chronicler, the author relates the events in the order in which they occurred. He could tell more, but he restricts himself to the details that are indispensable in order to begin the novel (IX, 17). The fact that the chronicler selects the event from the mass that occurred is in keeping with his limited degree of sophisti-cation and his standard of selection is not contrary to his function of chronicler. He selects what he, according to his lights, thinks that the reader needs for an understanding of what is being de-scribed. What the reader is led to expect by this beginning, then, is a novel, a story with a plot and a denouement, related in the form of a chronicle, by an inhabitant of the district who has a wider

{ibid., p. 16). As will be clear from our article we do not think that Stanzel's distinction is fundamental for our inquiry. In B.K. there is not one attitude, but more, and each has its own structure and justification.




intellectual horizon than his coinhabitants, but who is dependent on them for his information.

We can follow this chronicler throughout the novel. In book III, ch. II, (IX, 125 et seq.), although the beginning raises doubts, the chapter as a whole is certainly the chronicler's. The same can be said of book IX, ch. II, considered by itself. He speaks here as informed after the events described by discussions about them. He sometimes alludes to his sources: potom u nas govorili (IX, 562), Uznalos'' ie eto toVko sejcas pred tern, sledujuSSim obrazom (563), et al. We will have to assume that Grigorij's thoughts and words that occur in this chapter are either reconstructions or direct hearsay.

This is not the case with our next example of the chronicler, the first chapter of book XII (X, 187 et seq.). Here he relates what he saw, and only what he saw, he has no intermediary for his informa-tion. He does not differ much from a reporter. Pusf ne posetujut na menja, öto ja peredam lis'' to, cto menja liönoporazilo. He is very careful to document the few things he did not see: mnepoloziteVno izvestno (189), kak i opravdalos' potom po mnogim nabljudenijam (188). His memory sometimes fails him (192, 193). There are a few general sententions that he is qualified to make, like naSi skoto-prigorCevskie mescane pocti te ie kresfjane, daie paSut (192). On a few occasions he relates his feelings about what he heard and saw. He was amazed at the amount of interest in the trial; Mitja's looks made a very unpleasant impression on him, and he was strongly impressed by the act of accusation.

The same, essentially, goes for the rest of book XII. It is narrated by a reporter-chronicler who occasionally relates his feelings: ja cholodel i droial slusaja, and: u menja boVno eiilos' serdce (219); sam byl vzvolnovan (227). He has informed us on p. 195 that he has taken down large portions of the speeches of the prosecution and of the defence. They are interspersed either by short resumes of what came in between or by somewhat ironical commentaries or sentences (263, 273). But these are not essentially different from his observations on his own feelings when the witnesses were examined. The chronicler is interested, an avid listener, but relating his feelings occasionally does not interfere with the chronicler's task.



18 JAN Μ. MEIJER

We thus find the chronicler throughout the novel, but we have had to search for it. We restricted our search to chapters entirely written by a chronicler. If we include smaller units: paragraphs or groups of paragraphs, we find more. The first chapter of book 7 describes events for part of which at least the chronicler mentions his source, in a general way: a cto do Rakitina, to tot, kak okazalos* potom (IX, 409). Especially clear in this respect is p. 410: No eSce ne minulo i trech casov popoludni, kak soverSilos' necto, ο cem upomjanul ja esöe ν konce proSloj knigi, necto, do togo nikem u nas ne oiidannoe i do togo vrazrez obSöemu upovaniju. ito, povtorjaju, podrobnaja i sujetnaja povest' (...) vspominaetsja ν naSem gorode i po vsej naSej okrestnosti. Tut pribavlju e$(e raz ot sebja licno: mne poctiprotivno vspominaf ob etom suetnom i soblazniteVnom sobytii. The author goes on to say that he would have omitted this story but for the fact that povlijalo ono siVnejSim i izvestnym obrazom na dusu i serdce glavnogo, chotja i buduSöego geroja rasskaza moego, Alesi, sostaviv ν duse ego kak by perelom i perevorot, potrjasSij, no i ukrepivSij ego razum uze okoncateVno, na vsju Zizri i k izvestnoj celi. This passage raises strong doubts. Or rather, it can hardly be doubt-ed that the speaker here is not the chronicler. How is he to know about changes in Ale§a na vsju iizn' and even k izvestnij celil Some of it will be explained later on in the novel, but not as a chronicler does who is careful to restrict his responsibility for what he relates (on pp. 451-2, at the end of book 7, he relates one of the most intimate experiences of Ale§a without once bothering to indicate his sources). But one page further on (IX, 411) the author refers again to "our monastery", and about the excitement that some of "our monks" felt about the events described. There are clearly two authors within one chapter here.

In chapter VIII of book 2 we learn of things that are beyond a chronicler, but suddenly on p. 116 we read: Opjat'' notabene. Nikogda i nicego takogo osobennogo ne znacil nas monastyr' ν ego zizni, i nikakich gor'kich slez ne prolival on iz-za nego. This is the chronicler speaking {nas monastyr'), but the knowledge of its sig-nificance in Karamazov's life, and also the following sentences, point clearly beyond the chronicler. For another example we take chapter I of book 10. It is written largely by the chronicler. The



A NOTE ON ΉΜΕ IN "BRAT'JA KARAMAZOVY" 19

scene is "our town" and the information imparted does not come from beyond it. But whereas (in X, 10) at first Kolja Krasotkin's mother, to whom he confessed the act later on, can be regarded as the source, on the next pages, information is given on her and others' feelings and thoughts that cannot come from her; so that one does not know who exactly is the author that mentions himself in the final paragraph of the chapter. In two of the examples where the chronicler is not consistently present we find, incidentally, a kind of transition back to the story realized by: itak (IX, 410, 3rd line from bottom; X, 13, beginning of ch. II).

We have found, then, the chronicler at the beginning and at the end of the novel, while in between we meet him repeatedly, but certainly not continually. There are evidently other narrators, or another narrator, in the novel and we shall inquire into their characters. As the chronicler opens and closes the book there is a presumption that he is the essential narrator, at least from the author's point of view. But this can only be decided when we have analysed the other narrators. Before we go on we should clarify the chronicler, because in the literature on forms of narrative the terminology is still wavering. Decisive for the chronicler is the way in which he obtains his information. As a rule he appears in the first person singular, but this is not essential. His presence is also evident in sentences like: 'as later became known', in a paragraph narrated not in the I-form (e.g. IX, 409), while the I who is speaking on p. 424 knows much more than a chronicler and must evidently refer to another narrator, as is also evident from the beginning of the chapter we are referring to, on p. 421.

For a narrator that is entirely different from the chronicler let us turn to book V. Right from the beginning of this book the author has at his disposal a different kind of information, and far more of it, than the chronicler. The narrator does not mention himself, nor is mention made of the sources of information. The first sentence of the chapter runs as follows: "Mrs. Chochlakova was again the first to meet AleSa. She was in a hurry: something impor-tant had happened: ..." The "something important" is shared by narrator and Chochlakova, but what follows comes straight from Chochlakova, and after that the author takes his distance from her



20 JAN Μ. MELIER

by the comment: "as if everything that happened to her before were not serious". There follow dialogues between Chochlakova and AleSa, and between Liza and AleSa. The speakers are interrupted now and then by the narrator's remarks on an interlocutor's reaction or, rarely, by sententious remarks, like kak vsegda pri etorn byvaet, (IX, 268). After AleSa has told Liza that perhaps he does not even believe in God, the author comments: Bylo tut, ν etich sliSkom vnezapnych slovach ego necto sliskom tainstvennoe i sliSkom sub'ektivnoe, mozet byf i emu samomu nejasnoe, no u2e nesomnenno ego mucivsee. What author is this that he needs so many modal adverbs? Part of the answer will be furnished if we leave them out. The foregoing auctorial sentence is bare: no Alesa ne otvetil na eto. If we omit the adverbs from the next one, we have: Bylo ν etich vnezapnych slovach ego necto tainstvennoe i sub'ektivnoe, i emu samomy nejasnoe, no ego mucivsee. In this stripped form the sentence reveals more clearly that we have before us an omniscient author. The dialogue in the chapter is not reported by a chronicler, like the speeches at the end of the book, but an omniscient author lets his characters speak directly. However, the full sentence quoted by us shows that the narrator is not an Olympic figure, but that he is almost personally concerned — almost, for the author is in no way himself a character. The full sentence, moreover, seems to engage not only the author but also the reader. The sliSkom can also imply: 'more than you, reader, could reasonably expect', and this must therefore be mentioned. The information content of the adverbs is not negligible: AleSa's words were more than what could be reasonably called a reaction to his interlocutor, they were too mysterious and subjective for either Liza or the reader to 'place' the statement thus qualified. The qualifications in the sen-tence suggest than AleSa's words come from deeper layers and are more significant that either Ale§a or Liza or the reader realises, only the reader is made aware somehow, in a way not essentially different from, but perhaps more subtle than, references to later when things will be clearer.

The measure of personal involvement with the hero on the part of the omniscient narrator brings him nearer to the chronicler. Neither of them takes a part in the story, and neither position



A NOTE ON TIME IN "BRAT'JA KARAMAZOW" 21

necessitates personal involvement, but the omniscient narrator offers more scope for it than that of a towndweller not on intimate terms with the Karamazovs. The similarity in position is largely superficial, the differences are essential. These extend also to the position in time of the narrators. The omniscient narrator does not have a position in time, he can move freely backward and forward as far as the technical possibilities of the tale allow. The chronicler is perhaps writing in 1879. From this fixed point he moves back to 1866, or beyond that, for the prehistory of the characters, or he refers the reader to some unspecified point in time between 1866 and 1879 when certain things became clear. He cannot read his characters' thoughts, he can only hear them. The omnis-cient narrator need not read them; he knows them. This seems to be contradicted by a statement like: moiet byV i emu samomu nejasnoe. The omniscient narrator, one can say, should decide whether it was clear to AleSa or not. But we have already seen what the function of the adverbs is for the reader, the omniscient narrator is here using his full knowledge by portioning it out. This presentation is certainly a case of interference between the direct information and the rebound from the end.

Another element that chronicler and omniscient narrator have in common should be briefly mentioned. Both are occasionally senten-tious. But that does not place them on an equal footing, it only stresses their differences. The general function of a sententious pro-nouncement, at least in the book under discussion, can perhaps be described as connecting events in the novel with a general series of events or a general experience that is shared by the reader; its result is often a clarification of the narrator's point of view. In delivering a sententious remark the narrator circumscribes his horizon, but does not change it. The horizons of the chronicler and of the omniscient narrator do not coincide even if both would utter the same sen-tentious remark.

Our first example of the omniscient author was exceptional for the amount of involvement expressed in the modal adverbs. But in his more common form he occupies a fairly important place in the novel. There is hardly a book in which he does not at some moment appear, with the exception of the twelfth and perhaps the



22 JAN Μ. MELJER

first. Another instance of the omniscient narrator is chapter II of book 2 (IX, 51 et seq.). He is less involved here, but he does seem slightly influenced by his characters, e.g. when he gives paVcy to the ieromonachs and persty to Zosima. He knows his characters' thoughts and feelings and reproduces their conversation. In this chapter he does not take one single point of view, i.e. he can move from Miusov's mind to AleSa's. This is not always the case; in quite a number of chapters the omniscient narrator takes a point of view very close to one of his characters. This is the case e.g. in chapter X of book 3 (IX, 182 et seq.). Many of the chapters in which this occurs begin or end with Alesa coming or going. In this ch. X of book 3 we are given a description of Katerina Ivanovna's looks as AleSa saw them three weeks before and as he sees them this time. The information on Katerina Ivanovna is much more than that on AleSa, but the latter is not negligible: Ale§a is struck by, AleSa felt that ... etc. This chapter also introduces Grusen'ka, but the narrator does not leave everything to AleSa; in describing Grusen'ka's kind of beauty he collaborates with AleSa: he is again struck by, and feels different things, but Alesa, razumeetsja, ne dumal ob etom, no, chof i ocarovannyj, on, s neprijatnym kakim-to o$öu$ceniem i kak by zaleja, sprasival sebja: zacem eto ona tak tjanet slova i ne moiet govoriV naturaVno? GruSen'ka's description is followed by the dialogue between her and Katerina Ivanovna. Just before GruSen'ka's refusal to kiss Katerina Ivanovna the author refers to the latter's fleeting hope: Ona, moSet byt\ sliSkom naivna, — promeVknulo nadeidoj ν serdce Kateriny Ivanovny (IX, 192-3). The fact that in Dostoevskij's novels the author looks at events he describes from the point of view of only one character, the main character of the given book or chapter, has struck several critics.® The above example shows that at least in Brat''ja Karamazovy the author is more mobile. It is not so much a matter of point of view, but rather one of presentation. If events will appear more clearly when presented from more than one point of view Dostoevskij does not hesitate to present them so. Presentation through the eyes

• G. M. Fridlender, Realizm Dostoevskogo (Moscow-Leningrad, 1964), pp. 171 et seq., 346; R. L. Belknap, The Structure of the Brothers Karamazov (The Hague, 1967), p. 82.




of the main character of the scene may have the added function of characterisation of this character; but this is secondary, and cer-tainly not Dostoevskij's main method of characterisation. He is not out to establish a definite point of view, he will vary his presen-tation of events. A 'normal' chapter by the omniscient author will contain more than one angle, even in description, and dialogue. The resulting dramatisation has often been commented upon. Dialogue is essential in Dostoevskij but here again its formal role has been overstressed; his novels have even been characterised as dialogue plus stage directions. This may serve to make a point but taken at face value it is not true. The practical difficulties of staging Dostoevskij's novels, for one thing, are much greater than would appear from this statement. One cannot show very well on the stage the events from an angle quite near one of the characters and the same goes for the thoughts and feelings the dialogues give rise to. Deviations from the 'normal' position of the omniscient author occur in several directions: towards monologue; towards one auctorial point of view, with little dramatisation; lastly in chapters where a character is on the move.

As this happens constantly with AleSa, cases in which the author takes up a position near him are frequent. Book 4 furnishes a good example of this. Here, too, we find instances of other presentation, thus ch. Ill has a number of author's sententiae, while briefly the author enters the mind of other persons (e.g. Katerina Ivanovna, IX, 237 in fine). Such 'AleSa chapters' can be found in book 5, parts of 7 and much of 8, parts again of books 9, 10 and 11.

Those hitherto described are not the only author's attitudes in the novel. But before looking into other cases we shall consider the presentation of dialogue. As an example we take Nadryv ν izbejji na cistom vozduche (IX, 246-266), for an emotional, and bunt (IX, 296-309), for an 'ideological' dialogue. The first paragraph of our first example opens and closes with an auctorial sentence; in between, Ale§a's thoughts are rendered directly. In the second paragraph 'half direct speech' (nesobstvenno-prjamaja rec\ erlebte Rede) is used, the third is predominantly the same, with an admixture of direct rendering. The fourth paragraph has quotes from Dimitrij's landlord, from Alesa's thoughts, and information



24 JAN Μ. MELFER

from the author. The next paragraph again has thoughts of AleSa quoted. It contains the word dejstviteVno, as an author's certifica-tion of what AleSa was made to expect by Katerina Ivanovna's description of the Snegirevs. The next paragraph is the first direct speech really uttered, but the long paragraph that follows is purely descriptive and done entirely from the author's point of view. Even here, though, the use of zemnych blag for drink borrows another viewpoint for a moment. Further we find in the description of one of the daughters: kak skazali potom Alese. This and the other references to AleSa in the paragraph show both the difference and the nearness of the points of view of author and character. They enter the room side by side, so to speak, they have almost the same view of what is where in the room, but the author from time to time connects the view with AleSa and his thoughts: No vsego boleeporazila Alesu ... sverknulipocemu-to spervogo ze vzgljada ν ume AleSi (IX, 248, 249). The ironic other viewpoint that is apparent in the use of zemnych blag moves the author for a split second closer to the reader; he shares it with him, not with AleSa. This descriptive paragraph as a whole, then, is not static or narrated consistently from one point of view in the space it describes. It conveys a high degree of mobility and liveliness and seems to indicate that dramatization is not restricted to direct dialogue, but flows over into the intervening descriptive passages. These then are not stage directions, but fully belong to the story and the drama. Not the establishing of a point of view but dramatic presentation and mobility (often coupled with some reference to later on) are the first important things.

After a short exchange between Snegirev and his daughter there follows another descriptive paragraph, introduced by the sentence: Alesa vnimateVno smotrel na nego, on ν pervyj raz etogo celoveka videl. After such verbs of looking, strengthened by the vidimo a few lines later on, one would expect to be given Aleäa's viewpoint throughout, but this is not so. In describing Snegirev the author corrects himself, there is nothing in the context to suggest that AleSa thought this while he was looking, the less so as the next moment he is himself drawn into the perspective (... tot maSinaVno sdelal sag nazad). The vy, in the second simile concerning Snegirev,




faintly suggests that the author lets in the reader on what is hap-pening. The remainder of the paragraph only strengthens the im-pression that the author, not Alesa, is looking ("trousers of the kind nobody is wearing any more" is a more general judgement than AleSa's situation at that moment warrants). The author has to move away from his viewpoint in order to introduce him speaking. Thus in this paragraph we find again a very mobile point of view. The roles of author and character are now slightly different, mainly because of their different location within the dialogue: now it is AleSa that is going to speak. On the basis of these two paragraphs one is tempted to conclude that point of view is almost a function of dramatization.

This is the point where the dialogue really starts. Ale§a's clauses are given haltingly, they are very short and they are presented virtually without auctorial comment. Snegirev's, on the contrary, are delivered very rapidly. The reader sees him for the first time, and sees him very clearly, through his words and his gestures and in the way he reacts to the interruptions from members of his family. These call for explanations by the author; sometimes also Snegirev's own words are commented upon, but Alesa's are not. In this scene the characters are not presented through their thoughts. This is no deviation from the emerging pattern, but a result of the situation. The author reproduced thoughts only of the main charac-ters. The others are presented clearly enough through their words and acts. There is a kind of wink from author to reader in the error made by madame Snegirev, who speaks of Cernomazov. Snegirev adds to his correction my iz prostych -s, which stresses the effect of the 'Cerno/kara' pun. A similar loosening function is played by Snegirev's irony, his pajasnicanie, his referring to his dwelling as choromy. Such touches illustrate the difference between the early and the mature Dostoevskij.

The dialogue is continued outside, Snegirev takes Alesa along in order to speak more freely. His clauses now become longer and calmer, the accent shifts from direct emotions to their causes; the discussion becomes more 'ideological'. The distinction we made between ideological and emotional dialogue is one of degree. When Snegirev returns to his former emotional plane, this is indicated by



26 JAN Μ. MELIER

the author. In this second part of the dialogue AleSa is more active than in the first. He is bringing money from Katerina Ivanovna, he has to report what happens, so now it is time to relate his feelings (IX, 261). Qualification directly by the author is rare. The word bednjak on p. 263 is an example. On the next page the word is repeated, this time almost as issuing from AleSa. Snegirev's crisis is introduced by an expression (resivSego poleteV s gory) which Dostoevskij often uses in similar occasions, from Raskol'nikov onward. After that, in line with the place of the chapter, AleSa's feelings are described, i.e. his sadness is inexpressible and, perhaps for that reason, what follows is given with pathos: Ο, on ponimal cto tot do samogo poslednego mgnovenija sam ne znal, öto skomkaet i svyrnet kreditki. This line also gives the reader direct information, while engaging his feelings. Erlebte Rede, especially with O's and AlasJ's, is sparingly used in Br at'ja Karamazovy, and when it is, it strikes the reader as unexpected. In this case, the last para-graph of book 4, the O! is preluded by the preceding Nevyrazimoju grusfju, as erlebte Rede frequently is preceeded in Br at"ja Kara-mazovy by adjectives indicating the impossibility of expression by the author himself.

While the sentence illustrates both the mobility of the author and his tendency towards dramatization this is not at the expense of its informative value: we learn that Snegirev did not know beforehand that he would throw down the money, that this insight comes to Alesa as a revelation, and — through the erlebte Rede — that this insight is somehow connected with AleSa's deep sympathy for Snegirev. This sentence by itself shows that the paragraph is much more than a stage direction.

The dialogue of which this paragraph is the conclusion occupies the last two chapters of book 4, nadryvy. From the point of view of composition this is extremely convenient. The grouping together of the different nadryvy is more than formal, it conveys a notion of solidarity and of equality of situation between Snegirev and Katerina Ivanovna. This is in addition to the role this book plays in the dynamics of the novel.

The third chapter of book 5, Brat ja znakomjatsja, is also part of a dialogue that extends over more than one chapter. Like our




first example, the subsequent chapter modifies to some extent the set-up of the dialogue. Let us first look at ch. I l l alone. The auctorial comment is minimal, and restricted to a few indications of how the brothers Ivan and AleSa look when they are talking. The author does not enter into the minds of the speakers. An ideological dialogue, apparently, speaks for itself more than an emotional dialogue does, and requires less comment from the author. Probably this kind of dialogue is responsible for the opinion that Dosto-evski's novels can be characterised as dialogue plus stage direc-tions. It should be noted, however, that not so much ideology itself, but rather the tension caused by it makes the author remain invisible.

In this dialogue Ivan does most of the talking, his clauses are much longer than Alesa's. The latter's answers do more, however, than keeping Ivan going, they carry their own weight. Throughout the novel Alesa moves on the boundary between reason and feeling, the two never loose touch entirely. Here, too, there is no lack of intelligence on Ale§a's part, but when he scores a hit he does so intuitively. Ivan's longest clause occupies two pages in our edition and the author himself characterises it as long. Yet it is not a masked monologue. It is definitely directed at AleSa and is taken up by him.

In the following chapter, Bunt, Ivan's part is even more con-siderable. Again this is not an interrupted monologue. Ivan is definitely addressing AleSa, he is unburdening himself and 'trying out' Alesa. He presents his stories in a very lively manner, using direct speech, both in the story on Richard and in his stories on children. This, and occasional interruptions like ob etom u menja podrobno zapisano (IX, 302), and also the direct questions to AleSa, show that his entire tirade is organised around its directedness towards AleSa. As a storyteller Ivan dramatises no less than the author himself.

These are, perhaps, the main types of dialogue, but not the only ones. There is AleSa's dialogue with Liza, Chochlakova holding forth on the goldfields to Dimitrij, and Ivan's talks with Smerdjakov. The scala of dialogue goes from the utterly comic to the deeply serious, from the purely emotional to the almost purely ideological.



28 JAN Μ. MELIER

What all dialogues, except perhaps the purely comic ones, have in common is that they are never simply a device to inform the reader, that they are never simply a presentation of material that could, in principle, be presented as well in another fashion. The speakers are deeply involved. They are speaking to a definite person, not pro-pounding ideas. The more important a character is, the more fully he expresses himself in his dialogues, but he remains directed at his interlocutor. When a character wants to propound an idea he becomes an author himself, like Ivan in the Great Inquisitor.

At the end of the chapter discussed above Ivan announces his "poema" which, as such, is taken out of the dialogue. Ale§a inter-rupts him a few times, but this does not make the presentation into a dialogue. We have a different approach here. The situation is comparable to the zitie of Zosima and to Dimitrij's Ispoved* gorjacego serdca, though to a lesser extent. We find each of the brothers in turn appearing as authors themselves, and what they state in this capacity is extremely important for the ideological aspect of the novel. This is relevant for Dostoevskij the writer. He was certainly one of the writers most occupied with ideas, but not in the abstract. He embodies them, thereby testing them and testing people. He was not a writer of ideas in the sense that he had a message for which he chooses the medium of the novel. One would be hard put to formulate the message of the Brafja Karama-zo\y in a way that every sensible reader would agree to and that could be demonstrated by an analysis of the work. The world in which Dostoevskij and the literature of his time moved was satu-rated with ideas and it certainly required much effort not to become their servant and not to let them dictate the work of art. From about 1848 the arsenal of Russian literature includes much armour to keep ideas in their proper place. Ideas as such are dangerous to literature because their 'natural' context is not a literary one. Ideas are articulated more naturally in the form of publicistics or of a philosophical treatise. The danger is enhanced when the ideas con-cern an author's strong convictions. In that case the work tends to become a form of harangue. If human beings live with ideas they are prone to enounce them monologically and tend to forget artistic considerations. One wonders whether the Great Inquisitor




presents an instance of this. The intermediary author would then in part serve as a safeguard against direct involvement of the real author and against ideas influencing too directly the style and com-position of the chapter. The ideas propounded by Ivan would then be more directly 'Dostoevskian' than those treated in normal dialogues. The point is arguable. But it is clear that the innermost, the most 'moving' ideas present the most serious artistic problems. Dostoevskij was very conscious of artistic requirements and a very keen craftsman. In an article in Vremja in 1861 he enters into polemics on the subject with the utilitarians: "the utilitarians do not openly attack artistic requirements (Chudozestvennost'), but at the same time they do not admit they are essential. "If only the idea is visible, and the end to which the work was written, — that is enough; artistic requirements are unimportant, third rate, virtually unnecessary" — that is how the utilitarians think. But inasmuch as non-artistic work never and under no condition attains its purpose; rather even does more harm than good, the utilitarians, by not accepting artistic requirements themselves, do most harm to their own cause, because they do not want to harm, but to do good. We will be told that we made all this up, that the utilitarians never turned against artistic requirements. On the contrary: they not only did just that, but we have noted that it even gives them special pleasure to direct their anger at certain literary works whose main feature is their artistic character. They hate PuSkin, for example."7

7 In the article: "G.-bov i vopros ob iskusstve" (Vremja, February 1861), as quoted by: V. E. Vetlovskaja, "Nekotorye osobennosti povestvovatel'noj manery ν «Brat'jach Karamazovych»", in: Russkaja literatura (1967), 4.68. We give here the Russian text of the quotation: Β cTaTbe "Γ.-6ΟΒ η eonpoc 06 HCKyccrae" ("BpeMa", φββρ&ιπ. 1861 rofla) flocroeBCKHft immer: "... ynajm-TapacTU, He nocsras HBHO Ha xyAOxecTBeHHOcrb, β TO xe epeMs cOBepmeHHO He npH3HaioT ee hcoGxoahmocth. «Buna 6u BHÄHa hack, 6wjia 6bi TOJH>ko BHßHa aejn>, ajui κοτοροή nporoeeAeHHe HaimcaHO, — η aobojibho; a xyqo-xecTBeHHOCTb flejio nycrroe, TpenecreneHHoe, ΠΟΗΤΗ HeHyxHoe». BOT KaK AyMaioT yTHJiHTapHCTbi. A Tax KaK npoH3BeaeHHe HexyAOxecrBeHHoe ηηκογ,γ» Η hh πόα KaKHM ΒΗΑΟΜ He flocraraeT ceoefi uejiH; MaJio ΤΟΓΟ: 6onee epeAHT AeJiy, HeM hphhocht nojn>3H, το, crraJio 6kitb, ynumTapHCTH, He npH3HaBae xyAoxecTBeHHOCTH, caMH ace 6ojiee ecex epeAJrr AeJiy, a cneACTBeHHo hajht πρπΜο προτΗΒ caMHx ceöa, noTOMy hto ohh fflnyT He BpeAa, a nojn>3w. HaM CKaxcyr, hto mi>i 3 to Bee BbmyMajui, i r o yTHJiHTapHCTM HHKorAa He num προτΗΒ xyAoxecTBeHHOCTH. HanpoTHB, He tojibko num, ho mm 3aMeTHjra, h to hm Aaxe οοοδβΗΗο dphhtho no3JiHTbca Ha HHoe JiHTepaTypHoe npoHaeeACHHe,



30 J A N Μ . M E U E R

Similar considerations appear in his letter to Pobedonoscev of September, 1879, when the latter had complemented him on what had appeared so far and wondered what he would reply to Ivan: "That precisely is my main care and trouble right now. Because as the answer to all this negative side I had in mind this sixth book, the Russian monk, which will appear August 31. And therefore I am anxious for it in this sense: will it be a sufficient answer. The more so as the answer, precisely, is not a direct one, point by point going into the positions taken before (in the Great Inquisitor and before that), but is only indirect. Here is presented something directly opposed to the abovementioned view of the world, but, again, not point by point, and so to speak in an artistic picture. That is what troubles me, i.e. will I be understood and will I attain my purpose to even a small extent. Added to this are artistic require-ments : I had to present a modest and majestic figure, and life is full of comedy and is majestic only in an interior, hidden sense, so that willy-nilly I had, out of artistic considerations, to touch upon the banausic aspects of my monk's biography, in order not harm artistic realism."8 We are witnessing, as it were, a debate between the man and the writer. What the man wanted to do interests us less here than what the artist did; but his artistic anxieties were entirely real. In Zosima's case there was more cause for it, perhaps, than with Ivan. AleSa's zapiski are more even and flat and have less tension than Ivan's poema because they are much nearer to gospel truth. In order to make them more effective he used both the title and style elements of the Zitie and had Ale§a condense his notes from Zosima's actual sayings. The indirectness of AleSa's notes stands out when compared to the directness of the auctorial notes on the trial in book 12. This illustrates the difference in approach to factual and ideological material.

Both the zapiski and the poema are external to the plot as such and interrupt the flow of events. To a large extent both have the character of a confession, and so has Ispoved' gorjacego serdca.

ecjm Β ΗβΜ rjiaBHoe AOCTOHHCTBO — xyaoxecTBeHHOCTb. OHH, HanpHMep, HeHaBHfljrr riymKHHa." 8 Letter to K. P. Pobedonoscev of 24.VHI/13(sic).IX.1879, in: Dostoevskij, Pis'ma, IV (Moscow, 1959), p. 109.



THE AUTHOR OF "BRAT'JA KARAMAZOW" 31

The latter is not set apart as the other two are, but they have enough points in common to justify lumping them together as indicative of extra indirectness in, ideologically speaking, key situations. In the cases of Ivan and Alesa and to some extent in the Ispoved' we find a situation in which the author entirely disappears from the relationship between reader and character and confronts the two directly. His role as presentator of material is taken over by a character. While the narrated events are once removed (an author presents a character that turns author) the effect is never-theless one of directness because it is a living character — much more so than the author — that narrates. Both factors, viz. the separate tale and the 'live' authorship, seem important for the presentation of highly ideological material that sums up a human life. This is also indicative of a disinclination for monologue. If we distinguish between chronicler and omniscient author it is clear that we have here the latter, and at his most omniscient. If we distinguish between Ich- und Er-Erzählung we should perhaps speak of an Er-Er-Erzählung; for although the author is present and identifiable, and although before the story begins he speaks in the first person singular, he does not figure in the story or in the notes and in relation to the events he narrates he is a third person.

There are other instances in the novel where the above distinc-tions do not help much. If the author mentions himself one expects to find the chronicler. But we find several cases of an omniscient author mentioning himself which yet cannot be considered a Tersonalerzählung'. The seventh chapter of book 5 is a point in case. It begins with an ot avtora description of Ivan coming into his father's house after his discussion with Smerdjakov. In the second paragraph, which has the same point of view, the author mentions himself. The following long paragraph changes the point of view and enters into Ivan's mind. In its beginning the author emphati-cally mentions himself: no my ne stanem peredaxaC vse tecenie ego myslej, da i ne vremja nam vchodW ν etu dusu: etoj duse svoj cered. There are references to later, one even to vsju zizn' svoju potom (IX, 347). In the rest of the chapter, largely dialogue, the omniscient author does not mention himself.

Let us take another look at book 7. Its first chapter begins as



32 JAN Μ. MELJER

straight storytelling from which it is not clear right away whether the chronicler or the omniscient author is speaking. In the descrip-tion of the first preparations for Zosima's funeral we come across father Paisij, sam pozelavsij citat' (IX, 408), and also across a pas-sage like: a cto do Rakitina, to tot, kak okazalos' potom, ocutilsja tak rano ν skite po osoblivomu poruceniju gospozi Chochlakovoj. Sija dobraja, no bescharakternaja zensöina vdrug proniklas' stoV stremiteVnym ljubopytstvom, cto ... (IX, 409). The author knows Paisij's intentions, gives a character judgement about Chochlakova, but needs specific information after the fact in order to know how Rakitin happened to be in Zosima's cell. Further down on the same page Paisij remembers AleSa, which only an omniscient author can know. What we have up to now is an Er-Erzählung by an omniscient author. But on the next page we find: no esöe ne minulo i trech casov populudni, kak soversilas' neöto, ο cem upomjanul ja eSce ν konce prosloj knigi. So we have an omniscient I-author. But the passage continues: ..., necto do togo nikem u nas ne ozidannoe (...), öto, povtorjaju, podrobnaja i suetnaja povest' ο sem proizsestvii daSe do sich por s crezvycajnoj iivosVju vspominaetsja ν nasem gorode ipo vsej na$ej okrestnosti. Tut pribavlju eSöe raz ot sebja liöno: mne pocti protivno vspominat'' ob etom suetnom i soblazniteVnom sobytii, ν suScnosti ze samom pustom i estestvennom, i ja, koneöno, vypustil by ego ν rasskaze moem vovse bez upominovenija, esli by ne povlijalo ono siVnejsim i izvestnym obrazom na dusu i serdce glavnogo, chotja i buduSöego geroja rasskaza moego, Alesi, sostaviv ν duSe ego kak by perelom iperevorot, potrjasSij, no i ukrepivsij ego razum uze okoncateVno, na vsju zizn' i k izvestnoj celi.

This passage began to be written by the chronicler, in an almost gossipy style. It is the chronicler who justifies before the reader the inclusion of this story into the narrative. But towards the end of the passage the author figure takes off from the town level on which he had been located, and when he speaks of his main, even if future hero, we are back with the omniscient author who, without mentioning himself, was also in the beginning of the paragraph. In one paragraph, then, we have the omniscient author not men-tioning himself, the chronicler, and the omniscient author men-tioning himself. The mixing of the different narrative levels goes



THE AUTHOR OF "BRAT'jA KARAMAZOVY" 33

on even in the adjectives: of neozidannoe i (...) vrazrez (the latter has an adjective function here), while connected by i, one is an adjective referring to the finished event, the other an adverbial expression refering to the process; podrobnaja i suetnaja: the first characterises the story, the other the reaction to it; a few lines further on the event is suetnyj and soblazniteVnyj: the first refers to the people's reaction to the event, the second implies a measure of characterisation of these reactions by the author. Similar observations can be made about pustom i estestvennom, about siVnejsim i izvestnym, and about glavnogo chot' i budusöego. The coupling of two adjectives or nouns by i is so persistent in the second part of the paragraph that it cannot be considered accidental. It illustrates the extreme mobility and, notwithstanding his mentioning himself, elusiveness of the author. And these effects are only strengthened by the beginning of the next para-graph Itak, k rasskazu, because as has been noticed, these or similar words are often used in the novel after what could be termed excursions by the chronicler into the city. On the next pages, describing the public reaction to the smell from Zosima's body, the author mentions himself repeatedly and there is no doubt that the chronicler is speaking. With the exchange between Paisij and Ferapont the I-author disappears from sight and the end of the chapter is definitely written by an omniscient author, looking at Ale§a from a point very close to Paisij.

The second chapter of book 7 also shows a very mobile author. He acknowledges his difficulty in transmitting the real significance of etoj strannoj i neopredelennoj minuty ν iizni stoV izljublermogo mnoju i stoV eSce junogo geroja moego rasskaza (IX, 421). He places himself squarely between AleSa and the reader: ja, konecno, mog by s tverdosfju otvetif za Alesu, and, a little further on: poprosil by toVko citatelja ne spesit' eiie sliskom smejafsja nad cistym cerdcem moego junoSi. Sam ze ja ne toVko ne nameren prosit' za nego proScenija, ... on the contrary: tverdo zajavlju, ito cuvstvuju iskrennee uvazenie k prirode serdca ego, and he goes on a little in the same vein, indulging in polemics with the reader. This reader has not been led into the position in which the author supposes him to be. So we might think that at this place the artistic texture



34 JAN Μ. MEIJER

is becoming threadbare and that we witness a relapse to Dostoevskij the man. But a close look at the position that the author defends makes it clear that this is not a position Dostoevskij the man could take. This is definitely the author, creating dialogue where there is none, bringing the reader in the mood for the personal character of Alesa's feeling for the starec, rather than his belief in miracles, and for the events that follow. In quite a number of chapters Ale§a himself is on the move; now he is found, sitting still and very much moved, by Rakitin of all people. In this scene the author dramatizes Alesa's inner movements. When this has been effected the I-author disappears again. The omniscient author at the end of this chapter knows Rakitin's thoughts.

In the next chapter, Lukovka (IX, 428 et seq.), we are back in town with the chronicler (u nas ν gor ode). His sources are what the town knew and has since learned. We look at events from the moment of narrating: boVsoj delec (teper' davno pokojnyj) IX, 429. But with the arrival of Alesa and Rakitin at Grusen'ka's place the omniscient author takes over and informs the reader of both AleSa's and Grusen'ka's thoughts. When he comments on Rakitin (IX, 439) he indirectly addresses the reader. In the short fourth chapter of this book the omniscient author who does not mention himself remains. Strong inner movements in the characters are described in this chapter too. Why does the author remain under cover here? A renewal of polemics with the reader, so soon, would probably spoil the effect. As so often, this scene is still a kind of dialogue, first between Ale§a and the Bible texts being read and then between him and Zosima's spirit. Intervention by the author would spoil this scene. Instead there is an element of erlebte Rede in the last para-graph but one, with a single O!, which brings out the pathos of this cathartic scene. Towards the end this confluence of author's narrative and direct quotation separates again into its elements: I nikogda, nikogda ne mog zabyt'' AleSa vo vsju zizrC svoju potorn etoj minuty, and: "Kto-to posetil moju duSu ν tot das". And after that the chapter concluded with a short factual paragraph, once more on AleSa's movements. The quotation of Alesa's thought not only is an effect of dialogisation, but also stresses the intimate character of these thoughts. As a rule intimate thoughts of some




importance are quoted and not given in indirect speech. In this case, moreover, the quote will be vaguely remembered when in book 8 a very similar expression by Dimitrij occurs. This is probably not entirely accidental. Situation rhyme is not uncommon in Brat'ja Karamazovy, serving as a kind of counterweight to the many forward references, apart from its usual role of suggesting similari-ties that are not fully expressed.

In sum, book 7 shows an extremely mobile author without, for all that, giving the impression that the contours are blurred. On the contrary, one has a feeling that this mobility helps in getting the narrative across to the reader. There is a kind of orchestration of authorship to this end. From the examples given above it will be clear that this conclusion is independent from the criteria of auctorial position that are used; it makes no difference whether one takes the Ich and the Er-Erzählung as the main division, or dis-tinguishes between scenic and dramatic description. It is also clear that this mobility is an essential feature. The essentialist tradition in Dostoevskij criticism has obscured the view of the author's mobility and stimulated the equation between Dostoevskij and some of the ideas in the novel.

If one distinguishes between scenic and dramatic novelists, Dostoevskij belongs to both categories. According to Bayley9

Dostoevskij's method "is a dramatic and not a scenic method, and his references to the past (...) are not intended to fill out a character but to contribute to the general dramatic atmosphere". We have already seen how strong the tendency towards dialogisation is in Dostoevskij's works, at least in this novel. But this does not make the scenic parts less autonomous. Thinking so is a renewal of the view that what Dostoevskij gives is really a dialogue plus stage directions. It is not true, for example, that the beginning of chapter III of book 7, Lukovka, is just an introduction to the talk that follows, or that the story of the decay of Zosima's body, with which the book begins, is an introduction to the small dramatized scene with Ferapont. Perhaps the opinion rests on a double use of the term dramatic, once for method and once for effect. As to method, both the scenic and the dramatic approaches are essential for him, • J. Bayley, Tolstoy and the Novel (London, 1966), pp. 208-209.



36 JAN Μ. ΜEIJER

both contributing to the highly 'dramatic' effect on the reader of the novel as a whole. The scenic passages we have mentioned so far happen to be I-author passages. By any standard the author figure is a highly mobile one.

One more example of this mobility is furnished by the first chapter of book 8. We find both the chronicler and the omniscient author. The first lines of the chapter presuppose the latter, as they describe Mitja's inner situation, but towards the end of the para-graph we learn that: Vse eto vposledstvii vyjasnilos'1 ν samom podrobnom ρ dokumentärnom vide, no teper' my nametim fakticeski lis' samoe neobchodimoe iz istorii etich uzasnych dvuch dnej ... (IX, 453). This seems to indicate that we are in the domain of the chronicler. The word dokumentaVno seems to suggest that this chronicler has his knowledge from the trial. But the information that follows in the next paragraphs on the inner situation of Mitja strains our belief that all this later came to the chronicler's know-ledge. On p. 455 we have: Zamiraja dusoj, on ezeminutno zdal resenija GruSen'ki..., and further down on the same page: Mitja, vprocem, ne znalt cto budet togda, do samogo poslednego casu ne znal, ν etom nado ego opravdat\ The author here intervenes be-tween reader and character with more than a chronicler's know-ledge. On the next page this omniscient author mentions himself, when speaking of Mitja's loathing the idea of taking money from GruSen'ka: Ne rasprostranjajus, ides' ob etom fakte, ne analiziruju ego, a lis' otmecaju: takov by I sklad ego dusi ν etu minutu. The author mentions himself not only here, but also towards the end of the chapter (IX, 461), when he says: No my ne budemprivodit' doslovno vsju ego rec'; he does not wish to quote Mitja liberally but evidently he could if he wanted to. Some parts of Samsonov's talk are quoted. At the end of the chapter the author remembers, as it were, that he is the chronicler and refers to Samsonov as his source (bottom of p. 464). On the next page he "does not know" (ne znaju) what exactly drove the old man, but the very last paragraph of the chapter again presupposes more than 'documentary' knowledge.

We see once more that the I is not identical to the chronicler, nor the omniscient to the he-author, nor does either of them square with the opposition scenic-dramatic. The chronicler speaks




in the first person, but the use of the first person does not neces-sarily refer to the chronicler; the omniscient author as a rule narrates without mentioning himself; but the chapter that perhaps is the apotheosis of the omniscient author begins with the author appearing in the first person. We are referring to the ninth chapter of book 9, entitled: Cert. Kosmar Ivana Fedorovica (X, 159 et. seq.), the first words of which are: ja ne doktor. The author mentions himself four more times before the devil appears — from then on he is absent. It makes his presence before the devil's appearance all the more striking. He speaks about Ivan's health, about doctors and hallucinations. He wants us to know that what follows is in fact hallucination. But the detailed description of the "Russian gentleman" will make us forget this and that effect is certainly intended. Finally, as regards the opposition scenic-dramatic, from the fact that dialogue belongs to the omniscient author (again with the exception of those overheard by the chronicler, e.g. those at the trial) it does not follow that the scenic parts are all by the chronicler. The description of the "Russian gentleman" is one of many proofs to the contrary: most dialogues are preceded or inter-rupted by descriptive parts written by an omniscient author.

The author of Brat'ja Karamazovy, then, is an extremely mobile one. It is clear that the author figure, the writer as he is organised for his work, cannot be identical to any of the forms in which he appears in the novel. If he were, the others would stand out as deviations and would have to be motivated accordingly; this they are not. For choosing more than one author figure the writer must have had his reasons. The novel could not be encompassed by one only. If one had been sufficient it would have been the omniscient author: what the characters think, feel and speak is his province. He needs less explaining than the chronicler.

The first justification for the appearance of a chronicler is that he, like any chronicler, is concerned with time. From a fixed point in time Dostoevskij's chronicler relates events that have happened before the story begins. He begins the story and brings it to a close. The omniscient author does not have a fixed place in time. But, his realm being in principle unlimited, could he, perhaps, take up such



38 JAN Μ. MEIJER

a position? The effect would probably be very artificial but, if he did, the story would become much more quiet. "Our town" would be replaced by: "the town of Skotoprigon'evsk", all the declarations of wonder and lack of knowledge on the part of the chronicler would have to go. Not factual information would be lost, but a way of presenting it, a liveliness and sense of movement. The references to later would lose much of their sense, to the extent that they are documentary, the presentation would be levelled out, the characters would have a much more definite past and a much more definite future: the author would know everything about the thirteen years that elapsed between the story and its telling. The omniscient author would, in fact, know too much to realise the open-ended time perspective that the novel has. If we cannot do without this time perspective, we cannot do without the chronicler: he is an essential manipulator of time and distance.10

That this is so is demonstrated by the transitions between different author figures in the novel. Chapters in which more than one author figure appears can, for that reason, be expected to encompass more 10 In a subchapter entitled "'chronicle time* with Dostoevskij", in his book Poetika drevnerusskoj literatury (Moscow, 1967), pp. 319-334, D. S. Licha£ev also distinguishes between chronicler and author but, if we understand him rightly, the author is considered identical to Dostoevskij the man. LichaCev holds the opinion "that both author and narrator are hardly ever in Dostoev-skij's works represented in their 'pure' form. Dostoevski's narrator figure is conditioned (usloveri), it is impossible in reality, just as a second Dostoevskij would be" (p. 327). The final part of this statement applies to every writer. Failure to distinguish between the man and the writer is the direct cause for the above statement and of its consequence that "there are no 'pure' heroes in Dostoevskij's works any more than there is a 'pure' author" (p. 331). This closes a paragraph which posits the inadmissibility of identifying Dostoevskij with his heroes, but Lichaöev goes on to state that no writer spoke through his heroes so often as Dostoevskij did. He adduces no proof of this and would probably be hard put to it if he had to adduce paragraphs in the novel in which it is not clear whether the author is speaking or a character.

Belknap (op. cit., chapter: "The Narrative Structure") distinguishes between primary and secondary etc. narrators. The primary narrator is evidently the chronicler ("The essential fact about the primary narrator is his remembered knowledge", p. 78). He finds that "obviously, all secondary narrators exist in the awareness of the primary narrator, while none of them is aware of him" (p. 95). But the chronicler no more implies the omniscient and other author figures than any of these imply the chronicler. While Belknap does make a distinction between Dostoevskij the man and the narrator, the statement on his p. 95 comes close to a denial of this position.



THE AUTHOR OF "BRAT'JA KARAMAZOW" 39

than auctorially homogeneous chapters do. Those we have dis-cussed as 'mixed' chapters, viz. the first chapter of book 7 and also of book 8, do this. In both cases the circumstances and consequen-ces of a crisis in one of the Karamazov brothers are depicted by bringing together at one point in time a number of events and experiences. These chapters show a curious combination of inner movements and physical movement, and also of the given time-focus with a widening of the time perspective by realisation of past events by the character, enlightenment from his later memories of this moment, and events occurring now but carrying the suggestion that their significance will be revealed later. Not the characters' awareness is made more complete by this, but the reader's. To present crisis situations one point of view is clearly not enough. The same can essentially be said of Ivan's nightmare although here it is not the chronicler and the omniscient author, but the omniscient I-author and the omniscient author not mentioning himself.

If the division between more than one author figure is essential for essential chapters in the novel it may be considered as essential for the realisation of the authors intentions, i.e. for the novel as a whole. The further conclusion from this is that not any one view-point is final. We find added support for this conclusion in the curious fact that, while it is the chronicler that relates the story and begins and closes it, this story is suspended, so to speak, between a foreword and an epilogue that stem from an omniscient author. Both refer to the future. We shall briefly consider them.

The foreword presents the author in something of a hide-and-seek manner. It breathes so much reserve, and in such an ironical way, that it can hardly be taken seriously and would seem super-fluous. But the future-ness of Alesa and his unclarified (nevyjas-nivsijsja) character, on which it insists, are central for the structure of the novel. As we know he is often represented as saying more than he has thought out and his mind is most active on the border-line between feeling and intellect. The irony of the foreword is not directed at AleSa, but at possible critics, while establishing a certain rapport with the reader. He is addressed; he, the reader, is the most important figure of the foreword. "The reader is warned" is both



40 JAN Μ. MEIJER

true and not true, as irony always is, and it could be rendered in the sense of: reader beware, you do not know enough for a final interpretation. It almost amounts to a statement of principle on the part of the author and might, therefore, be supposed to stem directly from Dostoevskij the man and not to belong to the novel. However, this foreword is not a statement on the external history of the novel, but it contains an auctorial statement. The first sentence of the novel proper can be considered as a transition from the foreword to the story. Some statements in the foreword are repeated in the text of the novel, e.g. when AleSa's realism is discussed. We must therefore consider it part and parcel of the novel, and essentially different in character from the author's note to the Zapiski iz podpoVja, which does not belong to the book as such.

The epilogue is no less future-oriented than the foreword and, like it, does not fulfill the expectations a reader has of a normal epilogue. He does not learn what happened to the characters afterwards. It is simply the continuation of the story for one day and belongs entirely to the novel. It closes with a speech on the future occasioned by Il'juSa's death. We are not, by this epilogue, returned to the flow of time, this is not a piece of storytelling coming to an end. The author does not have the last word. In this connection we might refer once more to some of the references to the future in the body of the novel; they serve to stress the impor-tance of the event or thought that occasions the reference. Here, too, importance and future are linked.

The fact that the author does not have the last word would seem to be an essential trait of the multiple author. It is also connected with what Bachtin11 has called the polyphonous or dialogical character of Dostoevskij's novels. Dialogue is perhaps even more prominent in Br at''ja Karamazovy than it is in the other novels. But the connection we want is not there at first sight: dialogue is clearly the realm of the omniscient author. It is, further, born 11 M. Bachtin, Problemy poetiki Dostoevskogo, izd. 2-e (Moscow, 1963). It is clear from the above that we do not agree with all the positions taken in this fundamental book. It is beyond the scope of this article to go into this here. The book would require a separate study, which could include an analysis of the discussion to which it gave rise in Russia.




with the character, so to speak, and not a presentation of matter that could, in principle, be presented in other ways also. What has been published of the notes for the Karamazovs12 shows a large proportion of dialogue. The large majority of these notes is situa-tional, that is, they show a direct connection between the dialogue and the situation the speaker is in and it is not possible to establish a priority. They are presented mostly from the point of view of an omniscient author and without point of view problems like those that appear in the notes to Podrostok. Only towards the end of the notes is the author figure sometimes mentioned. The author of the notes saw separate scenes before him. These must somehow have been linked in his mind, but there is very little on such links in the notes. This is where the chronicler comes in. He furnishes the time and the succession of events and as such is a necessary prerequisite for the dialogue even if his own realm is, essentially, indirect speech. It may be noted in passing that although these notes point to a genetical priority of the omniscient author, this does not make the chronicler less essential for the novel in its final form.

None of Dostoevskij's great novels is without dialogue, yet some are without a chronicler. The latter cannot, therefore, be considered as a necessary prerequisite of dialogue. Still, the chronicler-cwm-omniscient-author is only the last and most complete expression of a tendency towards polarisation which is present in all the later novels. Separately all the author figures appear in Dostoevskij's earlier works, but the polarity we are speaking of appears only with Zapiski iz podpoVja. What we mean by polarity is not dialogue as such, even if that, too, appears here in full force: the first part of the Zapiski is, as Bachtin has said, a dialogue without a partner. What we mean is a tension between two complementary elements of which dialogue as such is one. The other is the 'factual', or the chronicle part. This is represented in the Zapiski iz podpoVja by the piece po povodu mokrogo snega.

There is a tendency to bring this polarity also under the category of dialogue. We do not follow it. Facts, however 'eloquent', after i a F. M. Dostoevskij, Materialy i issledovanija, pod red. A. S. Dolinina (Leningrad, 1935) (Literaturnyj archiv), pp. 81-346.



42 JAN Μ. MEUER

all do not talk back. Facts are not partners in, but objects of dia-logue. One can 'collect little facts', as Ivan Karamazov did, but not effect an exchange with them, they are hard-core.

The simple division into two parts that we observed in the Zapiski iz podpoVja could not be easily used in the larger form of the novel. Crime and Punishment shows a different solution, or handling, of the polarity of fact and dialogue. In this case the two were originally separated. The novel is a fusion of a predominantly dialogue part — Raskol'nikov's confession — and a social novel about drunks, which was predominantly factual. The novel could nevertheless be presented by an omniscient author because it was made into a crime story of which the reader shares the author's knowledge concerning the culprit and also because a number of the 'social' characters contribute to dialogues more by relating events than by exchanging ideas.

In the Idiot the fact that the main hero is returning to Russia after a long absence furnishes the framework in which both fact and dialogue can find a place. The unaccustomed eyes of the main hero cause him to register events, while on the other hand his com-plete openness and vulnerability make people talk and make things happen. This makes it possible to combine the presentation of fact and of dialogue in the hands of the omniscient author. In line with this there is no reference to a future that will reveal the essential: the idiot has done that by being what he was. The final chapter (con-clusion), although not formally an epilogue, in actual fact is much more of a conventional epilogue than the formal one of Brat'ja Karamazovy.

In Besy we find two author figures, the chronicler and the omniscient author. But this division does not simply coincide with that between fact and dialogue. In this case the chronicler resembles an Ich-Erzähler because he participates himself to some small extent in the events that he describes. This allows for more dialogue on the part of the chronicler than would normally be the case, while the amount of action in this novel makes the omniscient author relate more action than would normally be expected. Still, the most important dialogues are of the province of the omniscient author and most of the facts are related by the chronicler. The




matter is complicated in this case by the problem of distance, more important here than in the other novels, because the risk of involve-ment of the man Dostoevskij was greater here. The problem is solved in several ways. Firstly, while the action of the preceding novels unrolled largely or entirely in the capital(s), this novel is located in a provincial town. Yet the theme is essentially one of the capitals and the events that served as a basis for the plot occurred in Moscow. Secondly the events are related by a chronicler who is an inhabitant of the town where they occur. He thus provides the mobility that in the two preceding novels was assured by the main hero and that in Besy had to be solved in another way, in view of the absence of a central character. But besides that the participation of the chronicler may point to an objectivisation of involvement on the part of the final author. A single omniscient author, not having any features of a character, could not furnish this. Yet one wonders whether this semi-involvement of the chroni-cler does in fact serve this possible purpose. It may have been more of a defence mechanism on the part of the author than a require-ment of the plot. The necessary mobility can also be provided by a 'pure' chronicler. A comparison with Brat'ja Karamazovy shows how much more scope is offered by a neutral chronicler in combi-nation with one or more characters on the move.

Podrostok offered definite difficulties of presentation and the writer's groping for an approach is best documented for this novel. What on the face of it is a reversal to the zapiski form is in actual fact more than that. The I-form of relating events that happened about a year ago to the narrator, a youth, allowed for both the dialogue and the description of events to remain in one hand. A larger time-distance would have made the book into straight memoirs, with corresponding loss to the dialogue — it would have become a simple device —, while a considerable shorter intervening period would have reduced or taken away the perspective and would have blurred the lines of the plot. The somewhat inarticulate plot now becomes both a virtue and a necessity. ^

After this short survey it will at once be clear how much more scope the multiple author of Brat'ja Karamazovy offers for the presentation, and also that this is not a new departure for Dostoev-



44 JAN Μ. MEIJER

skij but a refinement of an approach and of a technique already used by him. The chronicler has more scope because he is not personally bound to the story. He can be both understanding and not understanding, according to what he is told and at what time. The scope of the omniscient author is widened by characters be-coming in their turn omniscient author or chronicler (AleSa and Ivan) or taking off from dialogue into confession or profession defoi (Dimitrij). The location in a provincial town is much more natural here than in Besy. We have seen the uses to which the multiple, or rather mobile author figure has been put and the justification that they furnish for it. Fact and dialogue have been fully integrated into one single field of tension. Each of the novels from Zapiski iz podpoVja onwards can be considered as a stage on the road to this end, — end also in the sense that one does not see how a writer could go further on this road.

From the time that dialogue began to occupy a central place in Dostoevskij's artistic work it always had a 'factual' counterpart. The integration of the two was brought in different ways, dependent on theme and plot and on the writer's growing craftsmanship. We have also seen that the division of tasks between an omniscient author and a non-involved chronicler presented the widest possible field for this integration. Both dialogue and fact were essential. Dialogue was Dostoevskij's carrier wave, it furnished the essential difference between the man and the writer. Once the writer had launched his characters on dialogue, when every idea called forth its opposite, it drove them far beyond the limits to which Dostoev-skij the man and publicist was ready to go, far beyond the opinions Dostoevskij the man held. The difference was not one of conscience, but of scope. None of his characters is Dostoevskij, all of them are might-have-been Dostoevskijs. He drove them on until sometimes even they disintegrated under the strain.

The dialogue in principle never stopped, but it did not operate in the void. It was concerned with facts, first with reducing them to their core and then with placing them in the context of life. The suffering of small children, the death of Fedor Karamazov were facts that could not be dialogised, they were the point of departure of dialogues, never their conclusion. The dialogue had to find the




real context of the fact that itself had to be real. In this sense we have to support Dostoevskij's claims to realism. The man noted contemporary facts; the writer tried to determine their place in life through dialogue. It never arrives at a fixed position, but nearly always shows a position to be untenable. What are discussed are never abstract problems with a logical solution, but problems of life for which only a life can answer. The natural conclusion of such a discussion is a moral judgement, but this stage is a limit: it is constantly approached and never reached, but without it life would lose its sense. Dostoevskij the writer does not suspend judgement, but he shows what it takes to judge a life. The future is never closed out, the judgement is never entirely final. One never knew where the Karamazovscina, the hateful vitality would lead human beings in facing and living up to their conscience. The only final judgement, the limit is, one is tempted to say, the Last Judgement, only then will life be completely revealed. The reference to a future that will show the way and the solution is an essential ingredient of all the great novels: either that or death and darkening of the mind. In Brat''ja Karamazovy both of these are suggested. Here too the final point of view is not established, this would lead to a premature har-mony which, to borrow an expression from Ivan, would be bought too dearly. The context is not complete, the future is as essential for a complete view of life as past and present are. Seen in this light the Brat'ja Karamazovy is the full realisation in artistic terms, on all levels of the novel, of a deeply held conviction concerning human life.

But if this is so, do we not have, in Brat''ja Karamazovy, a direct expression of a metaphysical conviction held by F. M. Dostoevskij? Do we not have to give up as a fiction, finally, the distinction be-tween the writer and the man? On the contrary: this notion can arise only because this is the novel in which Dostoevskij has realised himself most completely, i.e. the artist succeeded in mobilising the man to a larger extent than ever before. It is, by the same token, farthest from his ideological positions as a publicist. The work is not a well-worked message that could and should be distilled in order to grasp the meaning of the book (as is shown by the many different messages that have been distilled from it).



46 JAN Μ. ΜEIJER

Thus, contrary to some expectations, the author of the Brat''ja Karamazovy stands before us as the artist par excellence who succeeded in expressing in artistic terms more than any of his contemporaries who dealt in ideology. And his main and for this purpose necessary instrument was the mobile author.

One wonders, finally, whether Dostoevskij does not present us with a clear and specific illustration of a general tendency. The choice of the means of expression is always more than a matter of technique alone. The majority of writers make do with the ex-pressive possibilities they find in use in their time. But perhaps every writer of stature instinctively selects that form of expression and that author figure which enable him to express himself and his view of the world most adequately. But it is given only to the great to fuse completely their technique and what they do with it, what they say and how they say it, in short, to create their own author figure. On that count, too, Dostoevskij is one of the great writers.



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The Brothers Karamazov by F. M. Dostoevskij Volume 5191 () || The Author of "Brat'ja Karamazovy"

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