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One thing only grieved him: the irreparable loss of the secret from which he had expected to obtain great wealth" (18). Hermann's obsession with the cards and the money that they would bring has so eaten away at his soul that he is no longer moved by beauty or guilt, thus making the romantic axiom of 'love conquers all' inapplicable. Indeed, the first mention of Hermann, who "has never had a card in his hand in his life.yet he sits [with the gambles] till five o'clock in the morning watching [their] play" (1) shows his obsessive nature. His very pursuit of Lizaveta is notable and indeed successfully only because of its persistence, a direct result of his obsession. Thus the fairy tale romance that the Cinderella figure of Lizaveta experiences is irrevocably tainted by the obsession of the monstrous Hermann, an offense that is perhaps even more awful than the accidental death of the Countess. The dream in which Hermann learns the identity of the three cards is itself possibly a result of his obsession, thus blurring the lines of romantic ghosts and 'realistic' ghosts as in "The Coffin-maker". After Hermann receives this dream his obsession takes on truly fanatical proportions, the names of the three cards popping up everywhere he goes until, after the fatal accidentally play of the queen of spades, Hermann descends so deeply into obsession that he is admitted to a mental hospital where he still babbles about the cards. It also notable that Hermann's obsessions also seem fraught with miscalculations - he underestimates the fright that the countess can take, and accidentally kills her, and the accidental playing of thequeen of spades is the most fatal miscalculation of all. The fact that Hermann's destruction comes from something as mundane as a miscalculation lends credence to a theory that "Queen of Spades" is more realistic than it is romantic.
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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.) |