It's an unorthodox work by Camus; not a story of his own after all, but one of Fyodor Dostoevsky's which he is adapting to the stage. Camus is strong when writing theater --for proof of that, see his 'Caligula' --but in this case I must question both the source material and his technique. Even to my casual glance, both areas immediately falter as I flip these pages. What is the story about? A rather trite and old-fashioned standard in (usually, bad) literature; the domestic 'comedy-of-errors'. Is this really Dostoevsky? Where are the grand, dramatic themes? Where is the sweeping, searing conflict between 'man' and 'state'?
What we have here instead: an aging college professor resides as a private tutor to a rebellious young boy in the house of a well-to-do widow. He has nursed a secret love for the widow for twenty years, "but has never breathed a word of it to anyone". Right, sure, okay. But in Act I of this play, he suddenly blurts out this secret. The blithely unsuspecting widow, meanwhile, intends him as a suitor for the daughter of her oldest-and-dearest-friend. Tiresome, hammy horseplay; the same color which gallops through countless other second-rate comedies. All due to two characters inexplicably failing to speak their feelings openly.
There are two (or three) fair young maids (or maidens) in the play, interchangeable so far. I can't yet determine if the oldest-and-dearest friend's daughter might be the same as a 'mysterious crippled girl assisted in the street by a stranger a few years ago' (this is the first characteristic 'Dostoevsky touch' in the play, this exotic clue).
Nevertheless, it all starts out rather like watered-down Moliere' except there's a large jumble of similar-sounding Russkie names to keep track of (headache-inducing) and shockingly bad 'speech-making'. It's the worst blunder yet. Two characters meet for the first time and since one of them is a nihilist he immediately launches into a convoluted 'dissection of God's existence' instead of speaking normally and naturally.
There's also awkwardly-contrived inventions such as 'secret love letters diverted' and the usual 'old family retainer' who 'remembers an incident when the lad was a boy'. Groan!
No, no, no. Of all the most unlikely authors to try their hand at comedy ...what is this doom-and-gloom duo doing? This is starting off very badly. Unless Camus repairs the damage done so far, I'll be compelled to rank this work very low in the bibliography of both men. I expected great things from the melding of these two minds but so far I'm mildly appalled. This is page after page of jabberwocky. Where is 'The Underground Man' or 'The Outside Man' in all this comedy-romantic brouhaha? That's what I'm hankering for.
Update: as the play concludes, I can see how it does, in fact, pay faith to Camus' outline, as hinted at in his preface. 'Possessed' begins as a comedy, yep --I grant this. But it's an incredibly frustrating, 'low' comedy. It's beyond me why it should begin this way. Act II does turn dramatic (all the unwitting lovers eventually turn on each other) and the finale does present sharp-edged social observation. But --if I hadn't assisted myself with some sources of reference/commentary --it all might've been lost on me.
Indeed, there is present-at-hand, a commendable aspect to Dostoevsky's original idea (drawn from New Testament), about how a crowd can fall into confusion when a man indemnified as a scapegoat doesn't automatically behave as a scapegoat. It's a noble theme, and this rescinding of external labels is likely why Camus got involved.
But the whole project is sorely in need of revision. Even allowing for the passage of time, it's hard to adjust to characters who leap to 'duel each other with pistols' after a youth 'mockingly slaps his elder in the face'; or self-abasing characters who confess themselves in 'intellectual servitude' to one other; helplessly struggling and in thrall until a merciful word or gesture is dispensed by the 'rebellious firebrand' they so thoroughly adore.
This last complaint may lie with myself as a contemporary reader, however. Today we inhabit a glib, thin, fast-paced, and thoughtless sphere. There's no self-examination behind our speed-of-light modern chatter and gossip. Even for me (notorious late-adopter) it's increasingly difficult to relate to fiction where characters 'long', 'pine', 'yearn', 'brood', or doubt their own social positions. But such are the characters in 'The Possessed'.
These townspeople of Dostoevsky are bewildered towards the depths of their own natures. We don't see that anymore in our supremely self-assured society, do we? Not now, when everyone has a transparent footprint, an identity, a signature-on-file, a numeric address. And how long has it been since any of us believed in "the individual" ...being able to "make a difference in the world"? Dosteovsky's characters succumb to this naivete, but can we?
Oh well. I'd like to give this play a re-read sometime, now that I know where the pitfalls lie. It's a mixed bag at first go; but might improve upon a re-read.