On the other hand, there are not many children’s books, even in our own time, that involve a female serial poisoner, two cases of infanticide, a stabbing and three suicides; an extended scene of torture and execution; drug-induced sexual fantasies, illegitimacy, transvestism and lesbianism; a display of the author’s classical learning, and his knowledge of modern European history, the customs and diet of the Italians, the effects of hashish, and so on; the length would, in any case, immediately disqualify it from inclusion in any modern series of books for children. Most important of all, perhaps, is the fact that the author himself never thought of this as ‘a children’s novel’. Yet already in the earliest translations into English, with their omission or subtle alteration of material that might be considered indelicate by Victorian readers, and of some passages (for example, references to classical literature) that might be thought to hold up the story, one can see the start of a process of transformation, from ‘novel’ to ‘genre novel’ – which means, ultimately, almost any kind of genre novel: ‘adventure’, ‘romance’, ‘thriller’ and, if you like, ‘children’s novel’. This is the usual fate of books that fail to meet the criteria for serious, ‘literary’ fiction.

That’s from Robin Buss’s introduction to his translation of The Count of Monte Cristo. He’s trying to defend Dumas’s novel from the charge that it’s a children’s book.

All I can say is the unabridged novel definitely does not read like a children’s book.

I was looking forward to reading it again after all these years, but something strange happened when I started it at the beginning of January. I pretty much had to force myself to read it every day, and I was only able to make myself get through one chapter a day.

Hmmmm.

Very odd for a book that I had loved so much as a teenager. Maybe its hold on me had faded after all this time.

But then when I got to Chapter XIV – The Raving Prisoner and the Mad One, it all changed again. Suddenly I was looking forward to reading it and now I was getting through at least four chapters (40 or 50 pages) every day.

What happened?

What happened was that I got past all the betrayal stuff. Maybe it’s my state of mind, maybe I’ve seen too many innocent people imprisoned in the real world, I’m not really sure, but I just had a hard time plowing through all those pages where a basically decent but naïve young lad gets betrayed over and over by those he thinks are trying to help him. I found it really tough going.

But once he was safely in prison, and no longer had any hope of salvation, well, then I could read it with great enjoyment. At least I knew there were better times ahead.

I was a little bit concerned that I might lose interest once Dantès found the treasure and went through his first pass of helping out the folks who had tried to help him, but as I kept on reading, I found that Dumas pretty much kept me hooked. Yes, there were some dull passages here and there, and lengthy expositional sections where I wondered what the hell was going on, but then I realized: I know what this reminds me of.

You know who I think must have read this book and been tremendously influenced by it? Vince Gilligan! Because it’s structured a lot like Breaking Bad.

Breaking Bad even has a character that may very well have come straight from the novel.

In the Dumas novel there is a character who is totally paralyzed and can only communicate by blinking his eyes, and yet he plays a pivotal role in the plot at several key points. If you’ve ever watched Breaking Bad or its prequel Better Call Saul, who does that remind you of? Hector Salamanca, who was paralyzed and could only communicate by ringing a bell.

But more than that. The way that Breaking Bad structured many episodes where you saw characters doing things that made no sense—until it suddenly did at the climax of the episode where it all came together. That’s how Dumas structures many of his sequences as he has the Count going around doing strange things, meeting new people, none of which make any sense until several chapter later it all falls into place.

“Madame,” Villefort replied, “you know me. I am not a hypocrite – or, at least, I never dissemble without some purpose.”

By the way, did you know that France, maybe all of Europe, had a telegraph system in place starting in the late 1700s? It wasn’t the electric telegraph that we all know and love, it was a system of men stationed on hills several miles apart who could send semaphore signals from one to the next. Pretty efficient for its time. It was used to transmit news and of course its weak link was those low paid men who might be convinced to transmit a piece of bogus news—for the right price.

I found myself getting totally wrapped up in the story, and while I only really reacted emotionally when the Count did something generous for good people (I was surprised at how emotional I reacted at times), I did enjoy the extremely convoluted plot twists as they gradually unfolded, and not always in the way the Count planned them.

I did have a problem with all those French names, as French is a language that I’ve never studied. So I used the internet to try to get a handle on the pronunciation.

So for example to pronounce Villefort. I think the best way to explain it is to fill your mouth with marbles and say “Veel-for” and that will approximate the French pronunciation. Others are easier. For example Château d’If is “Shah-toh-deef”. Marbles optional.

“I did notice you looking at my pictures when I entered – I beg your permission to show you my collection. All guaranteed old masters. I do not like the modern school.”

“You are quite right, Monsieur. On the whole, they have one great shortcoming, which is that they have not yet had time to become old masters.”

I’m assuming that Dumas portrayed the aristocracy accurately, so it was very strange to see all the “Monsieurs” peppered throughout the dialogue. Even the children addressed their fathers as “Monsieur”. 

The last few days as I was reading the novel I was managing up to a hundred pages a day. My next to last day it was a hundred and forty, I was that caught up in the story (I was really bleary eyed by the time I stopped reading that day). My final day I had a hundred pages left and I raced through until I got to the final chapter and then I waited and took my time. I didn’t want it to end.

Here’s Robin Buss again:

There is far more to The Count of Monte Cristo than merely a tale of adventure and revenge. None the less, it is a book that many people first encounter and enjoy during their teens. Not long after Dumas’ death, Victor Hugo wrote a letter to his friend’s son, Alexandre Dumas fils, in which he praised Dumas as a writer of universal appeal and added ‘He creates a thirst for reading.’ After more than 150 years, The Count of Monte Cristo remains one of the most popular and widely read novels in world literature; its longevity singles it out as almost unique among ‘popular’ novels. For many of its readers, despite its length, it seems all too short; we want to spend more time with the count and the other characters in the book, more time in its bustling world of drama and passion. Creating that thirst for more is among Dumas’ great contributions to literature.

And now that it has ended, I feel somewhat adrift. It’s been such a big part of my life for the past month, I really didn’t want it to end. But I think I do want to finally read the same author’s The Three Musketeers.

 

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