Day 9 of ‘A Scare a Day’ – ‘The Queen of Spades’ by Alexander Pushkin

I’m starting to fall a little behind with these blogs! Reading a story a day and writing up thoughts on it takes quite a bit of time, it turns out. Especially when you’re reading the story in Russian. ‘Queen of Spades’ or Пиковая дама (pikovaya dama) was one of the first stories I ever read in Russian and it was a little like going back to school to pick up my trusty ‘Bristol Classical Copy’ with its copious end notes, dictionary and scribblings from long ago classes in all the margins. On one hand, my Russian has thankfully got better (you’d hope after a whole degree and 5 years living in Kazan) and I don’t need to look up anything like as many words. On the other, it has got deplorably rusty! I will admit to slyly peeking at a few of the translations I’d written in faded pencil out of the corner of my eye. You can read the story here in Russian. You can read it here or here in English. The first of the translations is more accessible but incomplete! For some inexplicable reason, a number of the English translations miss out several lines of the conclusion. It’s not only a strange but a somewhat unforgiveable choice as it changes some aspects of the story. Pushkin was a believer in economy in short fiction, not a word wasted, which means, in turn, that every word is weighted. Missing out a few lines of them is… a choice, shall we say. I’ll get back to what they are and what they might change or suggest in a minute.

‘The Queen of Spades’ is, I do not exaggerate, a masterclass in story-telling. The full effect is, inevitably, not available in translation although some translations are better than others. Literary translation is its own art (one moreover at which I do not excel) and there is no such thing as a perfect translation. The Gutenberg version linked above, translated by Margaret Sutherland Edwards is a fairly clunky one which loses much of the economy, precision and force of the original. The second version translated by Alan Myers is a much more lively, readable and enjoyable version which captures much of the tone of the original although some of the peculiar linguistic features of the piece relevant to the ‘fantastic’ are not always maintained. As I know that not all these terms will be familiar (and the arcana of translation may well not be everyone’s cup of tea!) let me explain what I mean and why I think it matters.

‘The Queen of Spades’ is a fantastic tale. ‘Fantastic’, in this sense, is taken from the theory of Tzvetan Todorov. For Todorov, the ‘fantastic’ refers to the period of hesitation or uncertainty between two different interpretations of an event which could be supernatural. It occurs when we are confronted with something outside natural laws (or potentially so) when those very laws are all we have at hand to interpret the world. If the hesitation or uncertainty ends, we get either (in Todorov’s terms) ‘the uncanny’ or the ‘marvellous’. In the first, a rational explanation is provided: hallucination, trick, lie. In the second, we have a supernatural explanation. For a true fantastic tale, this hesitation cannot end. We can never fully arrive at a conclusion. Neither we nor the character can ever really be sure whether there is a natural explanation or only a supernatural one. ‘Queen of Spades’ is an example of the fantastic. In essence, it is a simple story of a young man who wants to know a magical card trick and is stymied in his attempt to obtain the secret. In structure and execution it is considerably more complicated. The idea of conflicting interpretations for events is introduced right at the beginning as a group of officers listen to their friend Tomskii tell them about his grandmother, the Count of St. Germain, and a magical set of cards which always win at Faro. Three alternative interpretations are shouted out by his friends: случай! (chance), сказка! (fairy-tale) and порошковые карты! (marked cards). Was her victory at cards after meeting with St. Germain a case of coincidence? Is the whole thing a superstitious story? Or did he teach her some kind of trick?

The reality of this initial inset story of the card trick is never verified, it dangles like a fantastic lure in front of Hermann who proceeds as though it must be true. Was it though? The Countess never revealed the secret (in life at least) and claimed it was a ‘шутка’ (joke). Is it just a coincidence that he almost wins with the three cards that seemingly came to him in a ghostly vision? The mysteries only expand from there…many of them linked to the specific language choices made by Pushkin (bringing us back to the question of translation). After Hermann has conned Elizaveta with borrowed protestations of love (copied wholesale from German novels) into letting him into the house. After he’s lain in wait in the darkness for an old lady to get home, been a witness of the ‘отвратительных таинств ее туалета’ (grotesque secrets of her toilette), and stepped out of a cupboard demanding secrets she swears she doesn’t have and threatening her with a gun. After he’s frightened her to death. After he’s explained to Lizaveta but not done anything remotely close to apologise. After all that, he goes guilty, superstitious and afraid of her undead wrath to the church for her funeral. Thus begins the first of three major supernatural incidents… or possibly supernatural incidents. First, she seems to wink at him from her coffin. Second, she appears to him as a spirit and gives him the secret of the cards in exchange for a promise not to play again after that and to marry Elizaveta. Third, he loses his third and final hand and sees the card wink at him. Except, it is not at all clear whether these three things happen.

First, it is worth noting that in the first and third incidents we are told that ‘показалось ему’ (‘it seemed to him’ – this translation is found in the Myers. The principal verb can also frequently be rendered as ‘appeared’ and retains that sense of both overlapping English terms in the original.) We have only Hermann’s word for it, or his perception for it (to be more accurate). The lengthy scene of the ‘ghost’ offers significantly more complexity. First, let’s have a look at the linguistic aspect and think about the impact translation can have on our interpretation of the scene using a brief example. The incident finishes with Hermann unable to sleep and writing down ‘свое видение’. Literally translated this is ‘his vision’. Myers swaps the noun for a noun phrase and goes with ‘what he had seen’. Any translator is between a rock and a hard place here as the Russian term allows more flexibility between the two choices than any English translation does but it also illustrates the impact a translation choice can have on our understanding of the story. Hermann’s story instantly becomes slightly more reliable, slightly more believable when we’re told ‘he had seen it’ than if the act of seeing is referred to more ‘equivocally’.

Ok, stepping away from the question of translation now… there are plenty of other things to leave us unsure about what actually happened here. First of all, Pushkin makes sure to tell us that he’s been drinking. Next, information is given as elusively and vaguely as possible. We are told that ‘кто-то с улицы взглянул к нему в окошко’ (someone looked in at him from the street through the window). кто-то. Someone. No-one in particular. No description is offered. It could be anyone. The ‘Дверь отворилась’ (‘the door opened’ – Myers does a great job of keeping the uncertainty of the reflexive verb here). We’re not told who opened the door or even if it opened itself. When we are confronted with a seemingly solid (and possibly ghostly) form, other alternatives are offered for identification. ‘вошла женщина в белом платье. Германн принял ее за свою старую кормилицу’ (A woman entered in a white dress. Hermann took her for his old nurse). His identification might not be accurate or even possible but it does suggest the uncertain identity of the figure. We’re later told ‘Германн узнал графиню’ (Hermann recognised the countess – in Myers. узнал is another tricky one to translate though, it has the sense of ‘come to know’ or realise. It is less certain than the English translation suggests.) This ‘recognising’ or ‘realising’ is confined to Hermann. It is not presented to us by the narrator who takes care to not refer to the woman as the ‘countess’. it is tentative and uncertain for the reader, another part of what is ‘appearing’ to Hermann. Perhaps the most suggestive part of the scene, which leaves us with as many questions as it answers, is the old lady’s message. She certainly seems to give him a card secret but she’s also acting in ways which are strangely out of character. ‘Я пришла к тебе против своей воли’ she tells us: ‘I came to you against my will’. Who then sent her? And why is she suddenly so interested in Elizaveta, who, by all accounts she has spent her latter years tormenting.

What do all these equivocalities and uncertainties give us in the end. How are we to address this scene? How are we to understand it? Well, there isn’t a simple answer to that. Each line is rigorously thought out, setting snares and laying traps for the reader as well as offering clues, conundrums and mysteries and alongside just telling a damn good story. The options that seem to be suggested at different points in the scene are as follows: Hermann is drunk and seeing things; he may have mistaken an old woman wondering into the room for the countess; the door was locked so it’s possible no-one entered at all; is he going mad and hallucinating (he ends up in an asylum but it is unclear when we should date his ‘madness’ back to. He сошел с ума [literally ‘he went out of his mind’] but when? Did it start here?); it’s possible he did see the countess who had a taste for vengeance; he perhaps dreamt the countess, a result of a guilty conscience towards his role in her death and his treatment of Elizaveta (explaining her importance to the Countess’ offer) and his yet undying hopes of advancement. If it’s all real, perhaps the Countess is playing a trick on him and Elizaveta; her inclusion of the girl in the offer seems wantonly cruel if she plans to ruin Hermann. Or are we meant to suppose that she tricks him because he hasn’t got himself engaged to Elizaveta straight away? There are so many options and interpretations presented to the reader that it is easy to become lost in them and irresistible to start pulling at the threads that don’t quite fit…

I’ve perhaps gone into too much detail here but I’ve always found the fantastic (and the techniques used to create it) fascinating. This isn’t, however, the only aspect of the narrative which presents us with interpretational options, that asks us to actively engage in our reading, that expects or demands that we do more than just believe the things put in front of us. I can’t go into all of them but I sincerely recommend re-reads as they definitely reward the attention. However, I want to finish quickly by circling back to what I mentioned at the beginning… the truncated ending.

So, what’s missing? Well, this is the conclusion (as translated by Myers). Only the first paragraph is found in any other translation.

Hermann went out of his mind. He is in Room 17 at the Obukhov Hospital, unresponsive to any questioning, merely muttering with extraordinary rapidity: “The three, the seven and the ace! The three, the seven and the queen!’

Lizaveta Invanovna married a very pleasant young man; her is in the service somewhere and is possessed of a decent fortune; he is the son of the old Countess’s former steward. Lizaveta Ivanovna is brining up a poor relation.

Tomsky has been promoted to captain and is going to marry Princess Polina.

The scene of Hermann’s madness as he sits muttering ‘three, seven, ace, three, seven, queen’ over and over again is certainly a striking place to end. I certainly see the temptation to snip off the last two sections. However, doing so does the short story and its complexity a disservice. What do these two short sections add to the story? Are they really relevant? Well, I’d argue they tell us a great deal and do just enough to push us out of any sense of having comfortably understood the story in its entirety. It’s worth remembering that while this is a supernatural (possibly!) tale, it’s also a fairly incisive and satirical work. Lizaveta’s ending is unsettling. If we have seen her as the poor and down-trodden victim till the end, the ending upsets a simple narrative of a suffering angel. After all, she marries the Countess’ old steward (and hadn’t all her servants been exploiting the old lady on the point of death?). She also takes in a ward. The cycle continues. She places someone else in the position she has just left. There is no word of kindness or love here, just the bare fact. It’s hard to avoid the implication that Elizaveta’s untenable position is about to be inherited by a new disenfranchised young woman/child. What about the Tomskii reference? He’s seemed to be a minor character and I could literally not give the smallest hair on my littlest finger for news about his matrimonial prospects. They’ve been a side line of little interest and almost no attention in the story. So why end with him? Why end with that final line of bare society news with little to no human interest. It’s something of a piece, you might argue, with the indifference shown by the gamblers over Hermann’s loss at cards. The game continues on. The night continues merry. No-one has more than a passing glance for a man who has just lost everything. Lost everything that he paid so high a price for. There is a cruel indifference haunting the world of the story, beyond Hermann’s avarice and greed, beyond the Countess’ selfish treatment of Elizaveta. This world has a hollow heart. The end of the story reminds us of it and implicates us in its values.

So let’s wrap up. A little deep dive today that I hope you don’t mind! I could wax lyrical for hours about the different fantastic techniques, linguistic choices and translation issues but I’m sure you’d all rather I didn’t! I will leave you with one little titbit though. I’m imagining that reading this story some people found ‘Hermann the German’ a bit of the nose as names go. I can’t comment but it is probably worth noting that in the Russian is name is ‘Германн’ (G-e-r-m-a-n-n) because there is no ‘h’ sound. The ‘h’ in English names can be transliterated as a ‘kh’ or a hard ‘g’ and the standard is the ‘g’. This gives us names like Gercules, Prince Garry and, as I know all too well, Golly. It’s also worth noting that the Russian word for German isn’t… German. It’s немец (for a German man). So really it’s ‘Германн немец’ (or German Nemetz). Just so you know!