Monte Cristo IV - Power of the Dark Side

I have finally finished The Count of Monte Cristo.  It sinks in slowly like metal-tank-tread resting on a wood block.  It eases its way into the very core of a reader and lingers with its simple reminder to "wait and hope."

It also leaves almost no witnesses.

The part that lingers for me tonight is the notion of removed action, but there are so many fascinating elements that I don't know where to start.  Nothing done by the Count of Monte Cristo himself would ever lead to conviction, much as with his rivals.  And, yet, he remains guilty and  purposeful in his deeds.  He may not pull triggers or open veins, but he orchestrates the opportunistic actions as purposefully as if he had done it all personally.

When I watched the 2002 movie of the same title, I left the theater impressed by the coldness and intensity of the vengeance portrayed.  My memory recorded an intense experience.  I watched that movie again tonight and came away with a different feeling: The movie is tame.



"Thorough" does not adequately describe the vengeance.  Even the unfortunate end of a young child merely inspires brief contemplation in the Count.  The Count nearly reconsiders his path on two occasions only to find his nerve again through divine signal and then personal inspiration.

Previous posts about this book indicate my desire to see a particular end.  Specifically, I felt the only possible outcome must involve repentance or consequences.  That did not happen, but nothing was ruined for me.  The actual end left me somehow both conflicted and satisfied.

The Count loses nothing of worldly measure.  He never serves additional time in prison for his vengeance or pays for toying with lives.  He never loses anyone close to him even though he harmed innocents in his path.  He clearly disregarded the Abbe Faria's advice not to earn the sentence he served, but he skips off into the sunset with a new love as an avenged man.

So, why am I satisfied when I previously wrote that an ending of glory for vengeance would cause me to blow my paradigm transmission?  A couple of reasons, I suppose.

First, the Count self-corrected on his last vengeance with mercy and forgiveness.  I squint when I type that because his mercy and forgiveness comes on the heels of kidnapping and torture, but it's an improvement.  His "theft" of Danglars' money, however, goes to the hospital where it belonged, so that felt OK.  I feel like I am complimenting him for the wrong reasons, but it somehow makes sense, which proves a spooky point in my mind (beware the rationalizing mind).

But the second reason brings it together for me.  Edmund Dantes lost himself, and that loss remains.  He does not reclaim the love he lost.  He does not even want her, and, in light of his vindictiveness, she does not want him either.  He has changed.

The Count renounces his fortune and sets off to live life as the poor-yet-free man he sought to be before vengeance and treasure consumed him.  We are left to presume he lived the rest of his life content and avenged, but as a man separated from humanity.

I left the book unsettled in some ways, yet content that evidence of the impropriety of vengeance could be found.  I say "could be found" because anyone who prefers glory will easily miss my preferred message.

But, books aren't always about the "right" ending in any given case.  I love that the ending was not traditional in that sense.  And, even if you strip away the deeper conflicts, the events are brilliant by themselves.

I read the last one-third of this book riveted like a 1920s skyscraper.  The meticulous planning, cold-blooded execution, and detached humanity fascinated me.  Everyone has wondered at some point in life about what would be possible without consequences (even if just dreamed-of vengeance against a schoolyard menace).  This story explores the boundaries and could serve as fantasy in a sense.

I cannot condone it, but I did enjoy it.  And, somehow, among the smoldering mounds of victims in his wake, the Count leaves you with the uplifting advice to "wait and hope."

The Count of Monte Cristo is a complicated man.  He is also fascinating, and great books rarely feature "simple" people.