Smerdyakov

The Brothers Karamazov and Fathers and Children are the two crowning books of Fyodor Dostoevsky and Ivan Turgenev. Both authors understood that their opening and closing chapters would carry disproportionate weight, a trait exemplary of great Russian novels. If it can be said that Turgenev did not fail at respecting this stylistic boundary, however, this essay argues that Dostoevsky brought the technique to its absolute apex. From its foreword to the final pages, The Brothers Karamazov is a masterfully engineered, encyclopaedic work that knows more than it tells, and trusts the reader with the rest.

Dostoevsky makes it clear from the outset: “And, in truth, in times such as ours it would be strange to require clarity of people.” He is choosing vagueness as a tool. Where Turgenev’s structure frames, clearly setting up the characters as in a play, Dostoevsky’s initial chapters reveal just as much detail as is necessary to fit the jigsaw into place. This is made evident through the words of The Brothers Karamazov’s narrator: “I do not know the details, […] I have only heard […]”, and again: “I did not read the will myself, but I heard […]”, we read in Book I.

These deliberate, almost provocative omissions are contrasted by Turgenev’s ‘mounting narration’: “ ‘He’s a nihilist,’ repeated Arkady […] ‘[A person] who approaches everything from a critical point of view.’ ” Bazarov is presented by his identity-defining philosophical outlook. There is no room for interpretation, no remainder left to decipher. Bazarov arrives labelled, and the label holds.

By comparison, Smerdyakov, of similar disposition, is first introduced without declaration, almost by accident: “Smerdyakov, the servant sent me by my father, […] told me twice over in the most assured tone that the appointment was for one,” declares Dmitry upon joining the gathering at the monastery. He is hours late, and directs all blame on the lackey. Little does he know, the accusation, by the novel’s end, will find its way back to him.

The cryptic and sinister servant is characterised as ‘taciturn’ and ‘unsociable’: “[he] seemed to despise everybody,” we learn in the third book, “in his childhood he was very fond of hanging cats, and burying them with great ceremony.” The American psychiatrist J. M. Macdonald identified animal cruelty as one of three early indicators predictive of future violent and homicidal behaviour (alongside enuresis and arson).

In this way, Dostoevsky lays on the canvas sparse brushstrokes of detail, with just enough colour to raise the reader’s suspicion for the finished painting. Smerdyakov’s nihilistic beliefs are never brought to light directly by the narrator. We instead learn of them through the ears of Alyosha, listening in on Smerdyakov’s cynical deliberations: “Dmitry Fyodorovich is lower than any lackey in his behaviour, in his mind, and in his poverty […] Though in what way is he better than I am? For he is ever so much stupider than I am.” Outwardly timid, introverted, and terrified by authority, the servant inwardly thinks himself above his masters. And it is only in the final chapters that this is revealed, through his ultimate and culminating action, the parricide.

Bazarov, on the other hand, stays true to his initial portrayal until the end, to his deathbed.

“ ‘You’ll forget me,’ he began again. ‘The dead make no companions for the living.’ ” He is talking to Anna Sergeevna, the object of his infatuation and sole momentary departure from the boundaries of his philosophy. But not even a kiss on the forehead is enough to break his stance: “ ‘That’s enough!’ he said, sinking back into his pillow. ‘Now … darkness …’ ”

The critic Dmitry I. Pisarev, a contemporary of Turgenev’s, remarks: “the whole interest, the whole meaning of the novel is contained in the death of Bazarov.” And though a truly most remarkable moment in Fathers and Children, a chapter that speaks louder than the several preceding it, the passage of the death of Bazarov is almost entirely expected from the beginning. Bazarov’s whole trajectory is traced out to its most minute detail. This is precisely what, in the author of this essay’s opinion, separates Turgenev’s greatness from Dostoevsky’s unmatched genius…

It is likewise in the final chapters that the unforgettable climax of The Brothers Karamazov is contained. Fetyukovich, Dmitry Karamazov’s defence attorney, directly addresses the judges of the tribunal: “Gentlemen of the jury, what is a father – a real father?”. The thematic connection to Turgenev’s novel could not be more explicit. Fetyukovich continues. He explains how the defendant, son of the murdered Fyodor Pavlovich, was forgotten, neglected, and later financially exploited. How can his relationship to Fyodor be likened to that of a real father-child connection? When sons are brought to ask the most despicable of questions: “Father, tell me, why must I love you?” is it of family we are speaking? It is perhaps in this single chapter, at the end of Dostoevsky’s masterpiece, that more is said regarding fathers and children, than in Turgenev’s entire novel.