Queen of Spades: Ashley's Thoughts:

A man romances an old woman's companion in order to learn the secret three winning cards, but winds up killing the woman instead and the cards don't even work. In "The Queen of Spades" Pushkin once again breaks down the romantic ideal. Lizaveta is a classic Cinderella figure; she is poor but beautiful and quietly endures all manner of thankless tasks and social slights. Pushkin might as well include birds that help her get dressed in the morning. The courtship between Lizaveta and Hermann is first showed to the reader from Lizaveta's point of view thus emphasizing the romantic nature of it. By all normal conventions Lizaveta deserves a happily ever after. Of course, since this is Pushkin, normal conventions do not apply and Lizaveta winds up an unwitting accomplice in murder, and she is forced to admit that "all this was not love! Money - that was all his soul yearned for!"(18). At this moment one could still expect a dramatic turnaround in a traditional romantic narrative. Lizaveta's beauty and inherent goodness could redeem Hermann, as is hinted by the Countess's qualification in the dream the Hermann can have the secret of the three cards if he agrees to marry Lizaveta. But the key difference between this story and the expected romantic redemption story lies in the revelation that, "neither the tears of the poor girl, nor the wonderful charm of her beauty, enhanced by her grief, could produce any impression upon his hardened soul. He felt no pricking of conscience at the thought of the dead old woman.

Remembrance

by Aleksandr Pushkin

When the loud day for men who sow and reap
Grows still, and on the silence of the town
The unsubstantial veils of night and sleep,
The meed of the day's labour, settle down,
Then for me in the stillness of the night
The wasting, watchful hours drag on their course,
And in the idle darkness comes the bite
Of all the burning serpents of remorse;
Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicities
Are swarming in my over-burdened soul,
And Memory before my wakeful eyes
With noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy scroll.
Then, as with loathing I peruse the years,
I tremble, and I curse my natal day,
Wail bitterly, and bitterly shed tears,
But cannot wash the woeful script away.


--Translated by Maurice Baring

From "World Poetry," edited by Katharine Washburn, John S. Major and Clifton Fadiman (W.W. Norton: 1,338 pp.)