According to an old Klingon proverb (“Wrath of Kahn”, 1982)—or it might be French or Sicilian (they all know something about vendetta)—revenge is a dish best served cold. If you like your revenge served ice cold, The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas is the book for you.
This is one of those big (1,200 pages) leisurely books that you can lose yourself in when you have some time and you want to escape from the world for a while. If you are sick of politics and don’t have anything scheduled from June through August, you can disappear into early 19th century France and Italy and enjoy the pleasure of seeing prosperous and self-satisfied villains get just what they deserve. It’s not exactly a happy book, but it is satisfying.
The Count of Monte Cristo was published serially, as were many novels of the time, from 1844 to 1846, and published in book form in 1846. It was immediately translated into English. There are many translations of it available today, some of them abridged to shorten the lengthy story and to skip over drug use and sexual themes. Who wants to skip the sex and drugs?
The offense
The plot of The Count of Monte Cristo has become common knowledge whether you have read it or not. Edmund Dantes, a young merchant sailor with a bright future, returns to Marseilles in 1815 after a prosperous voyage to marry his beautiful fiancé. On the eve of the wedding he is falsely accused of conspiring to help Napoleon return from exile on Elba. He is imprisoned in the notorious Chateau d’If, from which there is no escape. A generation later the mysterious, fabulously wealthy and almost supernaturally powerful Count of Monte Cristo appears and involves himself in the lives of those who knew Dantes.
Those who had crossed the young sailor, and their children, begin to suffer.
A cast of mysterious characters, including Sinbad the Sailor and Abbe Busoni, conspire with the count to move heaven, earth and the bond market to work his will. For those of you who expect romance, there is the beautiful Haydee, daughter of the Turkish Ali Pasha and now the count’s slave.
The Island of Montecristo, from which the count takes his title and name, is a 4‐square‐mile island between Italy’s Tuscan coast and Corsica. It is just south of Elba, where Napoleon was exiled before his brief return to France in February 1815. Montecristo today is a nature preserve, part of the Tuscan Archipelago National Park. Except for the fabulous treasure, Dumas describes the bleak isle, which is home primarily to goats and birds, quite accurately.
The revenge
The pleasure of The Count of Monte Cristo is watching the count’s insinuation into the lives of those he is about to destroy and following the gradual progress of his plots. There is an almost voyeuristic thrill in seeing retribution slowly and inexorably approach those we know are guilty while they go about their lives, unaware of and even facilitating their doom.
In the end, an element of mercy and self-denial interrupts the count’s vendetta. His heart is not exactly softened, but appeals to the old Edmund Dantes cannot be ignored. The story ends rather abruptly, leaving me wanting more. Alexandre Dumas has been dead now for almost 150 years, making it unlikely that we will see any more. But, in the final words of the book, “has the count not told us that all human wisdom was contained in these two words—‘wait’ and ‘hope’?”
There probably are multiple editions of The Count of Monte Cristo to choose from at your local library or bookstore. Whichever you choose, do yourself a favor—avoid abridgements. If it’s worth reading, it’s worth reading the whole thing.