as channelled through the rogue Masloboyev in
The Insulted and the Injured
( 1861 ), makes even his weakest novel memorable. Perhaps, like Razumikhin, Dostoyevsky thought that âfibbingâ would bring him to the truth, or at least to a more complete picture of the truth than that provided by his tendentious writing in non-fictional genres.
Certainly, in the much-disputed epilogue to
Crime and Punishment
the âtruthâ remains elusive. Some will conclude that Raskolnikov rediscovers himself in his rediscovery of his native land and native people; others will cite his own astonishment at âthe dreadful, unbridgeable gulf that lay between him and all these commonersâ and his own enduring confusion about his âcrimeâ. Some, following one of Dostoyevskyâs sharpest critics and biographers, Konstantin Mochulsky, have read the epilogue as a âpious lieâ â an unconvincing conversion to Christianity; others remain unpersuaded that any conversion takes place at all. What is beyond dispute is that these final pages, filled with a restrained joy, show Dostoyevsky at his most tender and his writing at its most delicate. Here, one would like to think, the autobiographical subtext is far from arbitrary. For as he wrote these pages Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky was himself setting out on a new path, taking with him a new wife â his stenographer, Anna Grigoryevna â and, no doubt, the very best intentions.
NOTES
1 . From Woolfâs essay âThe Russian Point of Viewâ in
The Common Reader
( 1925 ). The quotation describes the experience of reading Dostoyevsky in general, but is especially appropriate to
Crime and Punishment
.
2 . Joseph Frank,
Dostoevsky: A Writer in His Time
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010 ), p. 460 .
3 . My translation from F. M. Dostoyevsky,
Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v tridtsati tomakh
(Leningrad: Nauka, 1972â 90 ), vol. 28 . 2 , p. 136 .
4 . The one exception is the protagonistâs class of origin, which seems closer to impoverished gentry than trade, but which is in any case left strikingly vague â the better to emphasize his status as a âformer studentâ.
5 . As described by the narrator of Dostoyevskyâs
Notes from Underground
( 1864 ).
6 . The reference to Raskolnikovâs âSatanic prideâ comes from Dostoyevskyâs notebooks; Dostoyevsky,
Polnoe sobranie sochinenii
, vol. 7 , p. 149 .
7 . See Derek Offordâs article â
Crime and Punishment
and Contemporary Radical Thoughtâ, reprinted in
Fyodor Dostoevskyâs Crime and Punishment: A Casebook
, ed. Richard Peace (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006 ), pp. 119â 48 .
8 . The Soviet-era film
Twenty-Six Days in the Life of Dostoyevsky
(
Dvadtsatâ shestâ dnei iz zhizni Dostoevskogo
, 1980 ) captures all the drama of that month â October 1866 .
9 . Frank,
Dostoyevsky: A Writer in His Time
, p. 484 .
1 0 . This latter topic sparks some fascinating reflections on Dostoyevsky in Lesley Chamberlainâs
Motherland: A Philosophical History of Russia
(London: Atlantic, 2004 ), pp. 173â 82 .
1 1 . Mikhail Bakhtin,
Problems of Dostoevskyâs Poetics
, translated and edited by Caryl Emerson (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984 ).
1 2 . On Raskolnikov as âmedia manâ and the âsubsumption of the social world by the discursive reality of the pressâ, see Konstantine Klioutchkine, âThe Rise of
Crime and Punishment
from the Air of the Mediaâ,
Slavic Review
, vol. 61 , no. 1 (Spring, 2002 ), pp. 88â 108 . I would argue that in
Crime and Punishment
the social world is subsumed not only by the press, however, but by literature more broadly.
1 3 . The literariness of Russian legal culture in this period has been superbly analysed by Kathleen Parthé in âWho Speaks the Truth? Writers vs Lawyersâ,
Universals and Contrasts
(The Journal of