Madness and Morality

Moral and mental decline are often closely linked in literature, particularly Gothic literature. These functions may not appear dependent upon one another, yet they are far from separate: one reflects the state of an individual’s mind, the other, the state of their soul, yet neither one of these may function at full capacity while the other is on the decline. This paper will examine said link between morality and mental health, as well as the preternatural implications, in both The Queen of Spades by Alexandr Pushkin and The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. Both protagonists exemplify madness as the outcome of allowing a single, shallow idea to dominate their thoughts.

Hermann’s first act of depravity in The Queen of Spades is his pretended courtship with Lizaveta. His line of thought is essentially that she will prove the easiest route into the Countess’s good graces (or, at the very least, will provide him an easy entrance into her home). “Germann's cynical manipulation of Lizaveta is of course plain from the moment he lays eyes on her. But his depravity becomes fully manifest only in the climactic bedroom scene and the double desecration which it enacts” (Gregg 616). Until his armed entry into the Countess’s chambers, the full extent of his obsession is not fully revealed. Through his confrontation with the Countess, he causes her death, whether directly or indirectly. This is one point that remains a matter of uncertainty throughout the story, for both Hermann and the reader: is Hermann responsible for the Countess’s death? He certainly attempts to justify why he does not believe so throughout the story: “Although feeling no remorse, he could not altogether stifle the voice of conscience, which said to him: ‘You are the murderer of the old woman!’” (Pushkin 106). Yet, when the ghost of the Countess confronts him, she says that she will forgive him for her death on the condition that he marry Lizaveta. This could be interpreted in more ways than one, however: if the ghost is truly the spirit of the Countess returned from the dead, then whatever Hermann believes about his own innocence is irrelevant. Yet if the ghost is a manifestation of Hermann’s own imagination, as some critics believe, then it represents a manifestation of his guilt, so strong it appears to him in an apparently physical form. If this is indeed the case, then the Countess’s avowal to him--“I forgive you my death, on condition that you marry my companion, Lizaveta Ivanovna” (Pushkin 107)--may be a way for Hermann to subconsciously acknowledge his own guilt and find a way to relieve himself of it through some other deed that he considers ‘good’ (this will be discussed further later on). 

However, Hermann may feel more guilt over the Countess’s death then his apparent calm betrays: his actions immediately following the scene in the bedroom suggest this, in particular. Upon witnessing the Countess’s death, he has two options that relieve him of any complicity: he can leave the premise by the same route through which he entered, or he can go to Lizaveta’s room and make his advances, pretending that he’s only just arrived. “Astonishingly, Germann does neither. Instead he chooses a plan of action which is not just foolhardy; it is senseless. He goes to Lizaveta's room, blurts out the news of the Countess's death and his own culpability and then goes on to describe the cynical motives for his courtship of Lizaveta herself” (Gregg 617). While other instances in the story allude to Hermann’s guilt over his scheme to manipulate Lizaveta for his own gain, this event reveals his inner turmoil the most. Only after learning the secret of the cards does Hermann forget his guilt, at least temporarily: “‘Three, seven, ace,’ soon drove out of Hermann’s mind the thought of the dead Countess” (Pushkin 108). Hermann’s subconscious need for retribution may, some have argued, manifest itself through his mistake in choosing the queen of spades rather than the ace-- “Herman willing his own fate out of remorse and the need for self-punishment” (Rosen 259). Yet, the Countess’s accidental murder is not his greatest fault in the story, but rather all the indecency stemming from his greed, and it is for this that he is ultimately punished.

Dorian’s depravity in The Picture of Dorian Gray is more general and more long-term than Hermann’s; he gradually gives himself to increasing levels of vice, until his life is nothing more than a string of debaucheries. Dorian’s decline begins with his cruel rejection of Sibyl. His initial reaction upon learning of her death appears much more animated than Hermann’s reaction to the Countess’s death, yet as the initial shock wears off, Dorian begs of Henry, “Why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I don’t think I am heartless. Do you?” (Wilde 518). His guilt fades almost instantly as he turns the fault around onto Sibyl, fate, and almost anything else at the almost sociopathic prompting of Henry. One must consider that Dorian’s downward spiral throughout the story relies somewhat upon the condition of Henry’s apparent sociopathy: seeing how impressionable the youth is, he plays upon Dorian’s naivety and his narcissism to steer him away from traditional ethics, seemingly without much consideration as to the long-term effects it may have on the boy’s life. That being said, Dorian’s willpower proves very weak--Henry has little trouble getting him to set his conscience aside, and with the introduction of the yellow book, he succeeds in bringing Dorian completely under his control. Once he has read the book, Dorian sets aside all standards of decency, giving himself to whatever revelry towards which he feels so inclined. Indeed, Dorian becomes fascinated--delighted, even--with observing the gradual decay of his own soul through the painting, and by degrees grows more deeply enamoured of his own reflection. It’s not until he murders Basil that Dorian begins to consistently feel any real remorse once again. 

Yet, neither is Dorian without his qualms of conscience--indeed, his contrasting natures seem to war within him throughout most of the novel. When Dorian speaks aloud the wish that he may change places with the figure in Basil’s painting, his wish is granted. However, this inversion furthers the apparent bifurcation of his conscience and his desires--the painting comes to reflect not only his physical aging, but the sullied state of his soul, beginning with his cruelty to Sibyl. Indeed, this instance is among the most telling in the novel: Dorian berates Sibyl with his harsh speech, then reacts callously when she implores him forgive her. It is not until later, after a bit of reflection, that he recognises his own bad behaviour and determines to right it. It appears that Dorian possesses strong sensibilities for both indifference and guilt, yet the two only manifest themselves simultaneously during a crisis of conscience. When the first lines of cruelty appear around the mouth of the painted figure, Dorian determines that he will sin no more, and allow the painting to be a conscience to him. However, then Henry arrives, and by the end of his visit, Dorian’s intentions are quite the opposite: “Eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins--he was to have all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that was all” (Wilde 520-521). “Of course, if Dorian had single-mindedly pursued these mental and physical pleasures, he would have become just another cynic, aloof from personal relationships [...] and sublimely indifferent to the consequences of his own ideas and actions. As a divided man, however [...] Dorian cannot entirely repress the other side of his nature” (Liebman 308-309). As much is revealed, following Dorian’s murder of Basil. At first, he appears unperturbed, yet before long, a terror starts to set in, then gradually, a guilt. If nothing else, the painting holds Dorian accountable for his actions throughout the story, serving as a visual culmination of all his many sins. 

In both stories, there is a definite cause marking the beginning of each protagonist’s decline; in Queen of Spades, it is the secret of the cards, and in The Picture of Dorian Gray, it is the fanciful words of Lord Henry. The former of these is introduced to Hermann at a card party by one of the other guests. Now, Hermann is described as “reserved and ambitious… Thus, though a gamester at heart, he never touched a card, for he considered his position did not allow him--as he said-- ‘to risk the necessary in hope of winning the superfluous,’ yet he would sit for nights together at the card table and follow with feverish anxiety the different turns of the game” (Pushkin 100). This image that Pushkin gives of Hermann indicates that he should be little inclined to believe such a tale as the ‘secret of the cards,’ yet he goes almost mad with the idea of such a trick. Hearing the story awakens within him a fanciful side--while he has always been reserved, he likes the idea that there exists a trick that would allow him to gain much while risking little, as his only reason for not gambling is the risk. Thus, it would follow that, once he has discovered the secret of the cards, his demeanor changes to one of total ease. “Armed, as it were, with the infallibility conferred by a revelation-turned-obsession, he nightly approaches the gambling tables with brazen assurance” (Gregg 623). Hermann, always having been austere with his funds, allows his frugality to become greed, then obsession. “Almost every time Germann meets story and art, he attempts to appropriate them as means of satisfying his desire for great wealth… Because of his materialism, Germann's imagination cannot lead him to a higher truth; he can only obsessively transform life into images grotesquely reflecting his desire” (Rosenshield 998). It is not the secret of the cards, but the extent to which he allows it to consume him, that determines Hermann’s fate. 

Dorian’s decline, on the other hand, begins when he meets Lord Henry, who fills his head with poisonous rhetoric about living for himself. Dorian enters the story an innocent young man, but his innocence is quickly revealed to be mere naivety. However, even before Dorian meets Henry, Basil says of him, “Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Henry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day” (Wilde 475). It seems that, even then, Dorian possesses a vicious streak and a predisposition to using others. Henry perceives all this and, playing cleverly upon the lad’s egotism, manipulates him easily into living out his ‘new hedonism,’ a lifestyle that Henry himself does not practice to the same extremes that Dorian reaches. While Henry’s words have a great impact upon Dorian, “[his] fate… is a result of his inability to reconcile these two aspects of his personality:[...] ‘conscience and instinct’” (Liebman 297). Yet Henry’s greatest influence upon Dorian is in giving him the yellow book. The title of the book is not mentioned--it does not matter, for more importantly, it represents the tenets of Henry’s philosophy in its purest form. Dorian becomes obsessed with the book--”For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colours, so that they might suit his various moods…” (Wilde 531). Suffice to say, plainly, that “Dorian Gray [has] been poisoned by a book” (Wilde 540). 

In neither story, however, is the character without some form of conscience, or at any rate, some form of moral compass. The Countess acts, for Hermann, as a sort of judge. When she appears to Hermann as an apparition, she absolves him of her death (albeit conditionally), and tells him the secret of the cards. Yet, later on, Hermann seems to attribute his choosing the wrong card to the deceased Countess. What’s more, immediately preceding Hermann’s exit from the Countess’s estate, when he passes once more through her chambers, “The dead old lady [sits] as if petrified; her face [expresses] profound tranquility” (Pushkin 106). “...the seated position has long been associated with the act of judging. And to judge the hero, sternly and remorselessly, is what the dead Countess does in the remaining chapters of the story” (Gregg 619). The apparition may, indeed, be only a manifestation of Hermann’s troubled subconscious; his mind, unable to directly confront his guilt, produces an image through which he may absolve himself of it in the form of the Countess. This hallucination serves as the purveyor of justice for the remainder of the story--while it grants him the forgiveness he cannot grant himself, it also exacts the punishment he cannot consciously admit he has earned; namely, causing him to choose the wrong card. 

As Hermann’s guilt physically manifests itself as a possible hallucination, Dorian’s guilt manifests itself in a very real physical manner: as his deeds grow increasingly wicked, his portrait grows increasingly hideous. Yet, there are three stages to Dorian that one must examine with account to conscience: first, upon Dorian’s initial appearance in the story, he is terribly naive, and as a consequence, is very easily influenced. At this point, Basil and Henry act almost as external consciences to the boy; opposing moral forces warring for influence over him. Then, once Dorian realises the full extent of his beauty, his own conscience must come into play. Finally, after Dorian murders Basil, his own conscience becomes inadequate for moral discernment, and the portrait’s existence becomes his only restraint. Dorian wars against his ‘conscience’ throughout the entire story--in the first part, Henry’s and Basil’s influences over the boy can be compared to the Freudian model of the id and the superego. However, the situation is a bit more complex, for “...the conflict between Henry and Basil is not simply a matter of good vs. evil…” (Liebman 297). Rather than finding his ‘ego,’ Dorian submits entirely to his ‘id,’ and all that follows is a direct result of that imbalance. As Dorian spends increasingly less time with Basil and increasingly more time with Henry, his conscience (his ‘superego’) grows increasingly impotent, until at long last, he grows to hate the mere idea of a conscience. This hatred manifests itself first when he kills Basil; “Loss of patience issuing into murder is what Hallward ultimately receives. Dorian becomes his nemesis, because Hallward directed what [is] beautiful--both in his life and art--upon a corrupted object” (Alley 6). Dorian grows to hate Basil because Basil insistently sees the good in Dorian and refuses to acknowledge the monster he has become. His hatred is further exemplified at the end of the novel, as he looks upon the portrait and considers how it no longer brings him joy: “It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it” (Wilde 579). Dorian takes the same knife he used to kill Basil; as he killed his first acting form of ‘conscience’ with it, so he intends to eradicate what remaining moral constraint he has. Yet, when he attempts to destroy his remaining humanity, he destroys himself. 

Although both stories have morals and themes applicable to real life, both also contain elements of the preternatural. In The Queen of Spades, the most obvious preternatural element is the ghost of the Countess. However, when interpreting this story through a preternatural lens, the reader must consider the ghost in terms of the story’s climax-- namely, Hermann’s mistake in choosing the queen of spades instead of the ace. There has been much speculation on this subject; some have suggested that the Countess herself causes Hermann to choose the wrong card from beyond the grave as an act of revenge. Yet such an interpretation leaves room for little further meaning; “Herman becomes simply a puppet of fate, manipulated by the power of the other world” (Rosen 259). Another interpretation--one with slightly more weight to it--is that Hermann’s own repressed guilt over the Countess’s death causes him to choose the wrong card. In four instances in the story, Pushkin describes images of the Countess framed in a rectangle; these cause Hermann’s subconscious, still preoccupied with guilt over the Countess, to project her onto the queen of spades, which he then picks up in a moment of thoughtless distraction. This theory finds further affirmation in the image of the queen of spades apparently ‘winking’ at Hermann, just as the Countess appears to ‘wink’ at her funeral earlier. Yet, all this draws into question the nature of the ghost’s appearance; did she truly appear to Hermann, or was she a mere hallucination? One must consider that “The psychological code [...] can never prove that Germann did not see a ghost” (Rosenshield 996). Indeed, many have conducted studies into this very matter, but it seems likely that Pushkin hoped for readers to question that very thing. 

However, the story contains a more important (though less obvious) preternatural element: the trick of the cards. For one thing, the order in which the cards are to be played-- 3, 7, A--holds some significance, for “...the sequence 3-7-A embodies numbers of increasing power in divination” (Rosen 257). Moreover, the numbers of each card--1, 3, and 7--have strong magical and superstitious implications: “1 is the number of God, identified with power, dominance, creativity, and independence. Three is the number of creation, generation, perfection (the Trinity), and completion (beginning-middle-end). Seven is ‘the most mysterious and uncanny of numbers and one of the most important in magic’” (Rosen 256). Pushkin must have chosen these numbers exactly for these implications, as in faro, cards are not ranked in any particular way. Moreover, each number crops up subtly at various times throughout the story, and while many have speculated that perhaps the origin of the numbers exists in Hermann’s own mind, many have likewise wondered whether such repetition points towards supernatural signification. 

The main preternatural element in The Picture of Dorian Gray is, of course, more obvious: the painting that becomes the mirror to Dorian’s soul. At the novel’s beginning, when Dorian says, “If only it were the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that--for that--I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!” (Wilde 482), he evidently triggers that very change. When he views the painting for the first time, he sees within it the full extent of his own beauty, and all at once develops an almost Narcissan obsession with his own appearance. Yet, Dorian’s fixation on both his external beauty and internal ugliness is not caused by the painting, but rather reflected in the painting--this is an important distinction. “As Dorian’s career of obscure sinning unfolds, so does this difference advance. The portrait grows uglier by degrees, the mirror more beautiful by contrast, and Dorian more obsessional in his petition of both” (Craft 115). Indeed, this inversion of images, wherein none can distinguish between reality and art any longer, affects the character quite as much as the reader; when Henry questions whether the painting is the ‘real’ Dorian, he brings an uncertainty into the story which becomes more notably present as it progresses. By the end of the novel, when Dorian stabs his painting and, conversely, himself, the reader no longer has any certainty that the painting was not the ‘real’ Dorian all along. Dorian himself seems to believe the portrait to be a reflection of his soul, or a manifestation of his conscience. In either case, “Upon penetration (of the portrait by the knife; of the knifer by the portrait) the magical transposition of Dorians is terminally reversed, but never adequately explained” (Craft 123). Yet, Wilde need offer no explanation; his employment of the Gothic provides adequate enough justification for his unresolved use of the preternatural. 

Yet, in both The Queen of Spades and The Picture of Dorian Gray, the preternatural cannot be separated--at least not entirely--from the psychological. As previously mentioned, much evidence exists linking the Countess’s apparition directly to Hermann’s subliminal guilt over her death. This explanation makes even more sense in light of his fate at the story’s end; “Hermann went out of his mind, and is now confined in room Number 17 of the Obukhov Hospital. He never answers any questions, but he constantly mutters with unusual rapidity: ‘Three, seven, ace!’ ‘Three, seven, queen!’” (Pushkin 110). To fully examine Hermann’s madness, one must consider his thoughts and actions throughout the story. When Hermann first hears the tale of the cards, he cannot believe it, however it soon becomes all he can think of. He begins lurking outside the Countess’s house, and soon implicates Lizaveta in his plot to wrangle the secret from her aged benefactor. While his behaviour takes on an obsessive nature long before, his first encounter with the Countess solidifies what the reader likely already suspects, for his venture into the Countess’s quarters is “both a criminal trespass and a shocking breach of decorum” (Gregg 616). Stepping completely and unquestionably outside the bounds of socially acceptable behaviour, Hermann enters what could be interpreted as a period of psychosis. His speech to the Countess imploring her to give up her secret supports this: “Aside from triteness, this speech is characterized by ridiculous nonsequiturs regarding the satanic, the sacred, sin, and happiness” (Rosenshield 1000). Similarly, Hermann’s actions immediately following the Countess’s death make very little sense from a rational perspective; while the moral implications of these actions have already been discussed, it is necessary to also consider their psychological implications. Hermann, already not quite in his right mind, becomes overly excited, even hysterical, over the Countess dying before his very eyes, hence his immediate confession to Lizaveta. 

Pushkin asserts that Hermann is highly superstitious--“...believing that the dead Countess might exercise an evil influence on his life, he resolved to be present at her obsequies in order to implore her pardon” (Pushkin 106). The extent of his superstition is not itself terribly out of the ordinary, but in consolidation with his other thoughts and behaviour, it may suggest a sort of paranoia. Furthermore, he feels neither (conscious) guilt nor sorrow over the old woman’s demise--indeed, Hermann’s emotional response throughout the ordeal, from the Countess’s death to her funeral, is entirely inappropriate. Now, it is possible that seeing the Countess’s corpse once more unsettles Hermann more than he realises; hence the perceived wink and the overdrinking. The apparition appears to him that night: “...each act of the ghostly Countess--even as she seems to retain a degree of autonomy--can also, and perhaps best, be understood as a manifestation of Germann's troubled mental state” (Gregg 621). The ghost would not be a byproduct of too much hard drink, for liquor does not cause hallucinations on that level. Ergo, either the Countess’s ghost truly visits Hermann, or it is a hallucination. Yet, once he learns the secret of the cards, Hermann approaches the gambling tables with supreme confidence. As Freud taught, subconscious material manifests itself through dreams, and just prior to this point in the story Pushkin mentions Hermann’s dream about three, seven, ace. “Herman's dream is concerned with transformations: human beings remind him of playing cards and playing cards turn into other objects” (Rosen 260). This could possibly explain (at least in part) his mistake in choosing the queen instead of the ace. Yet Hermann cannot reckon with that explanation, and “Believing that the countess (in the form of the queen) has wreaked revenge on him, Germann goes insane” (Rosenshield 996). 

Dorian’s insanity is of a different sort than Hermann’s; “He is unduly self-involved and beyond reach; he pictures a world with him acting as the center of it” (Jeihouni & Taghizadeh 1447). Before Dorian enters the story, Basil describes him as simple, pure, and innocent, but simultaneously vain and thoughtless. Even before the character appears, Wilde hints that Dorian is at odds with himself, being pulled in opposing directions by opposing forces. “An individual’s mind is influenced by the orthodoxies of his society, for to the health of the person’s mentality, these orthodoxies are either helpful prescriptions or fatal resolutions” (Jeihouni & Taghizadeh 1447); “Dorian’s failure to integrate his opposing ‘selves’ is not a consequence of his own psychological inadequacy, but a condition of modern life” (Liebman 297). Yet, just as the struggle between Basil and Henry is more complex than a mere matter of ‘good versus evil,’ so, too, is the matter of society pulling Dorian in all directions more complex. For if Dorian remains constantly swaying back and forth between two extremes of character before the story, clearly Henry’s lavish words are all it takes to topple him to one side. Yet, Henry’s words seem but the catalyst in a chain reaction; spared of the sweet nothings Henry whispers into Dorian’s ear, would the boy still react as he does upon discovering his own beauty? Dorian’s reaction upon viewing the portrait suggests a preexisting narcissism: “When he [sees] it he [draws] back, and his cheeks [flush] for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy [comes] into his eyes, as if he [recognizes] himself for the first time. He [stands] there motionless and in wonder… The sense of his own beauty [comes] on him like a revelation” (Wilde 481). Dorian falls for an eroticised image of himself, as is marked by his repeated return to his attic to gaze upon picture and mirror, so excited is he by the ever-increasing difference between the two. 

Yet, one must ask, firstly, why Dorian throws himself so suddenly and so completely into a life of hedonism. If one makes the conscious decision to treat Dorian’s mental state as abnormal, answering this question becomes much simpler: Dorian is isolated enough to turn to two distorted images of himself as his greatest source of pleasure, yet commits himself entirely to a life of hedonism and debauchery at the mere suggestion of someone after their first meeting--such inconsistencies are the markings of a narcissist. Mayo Clinic describes narcissism as “a mental condition in which people have an inflated sense of their own importance, a deep need for excessive attention and admiration, troubled relationships, and a lack of empathy for others. But behind this mask of extreme confidence lies a fragile self-esteem that's vulnerable to the slightest criticism” (MayoClinic). In this light, it follows that “...he seeks to define his hollow identity in relation to the outside world, which does not supply him with what he lacks” (Jeihouni & Taghizadeh 1448). Dorian only views the world in extremes, so instead of integrating Henry’s hedonistic approach to the lifestyle he already knows, he conforms to it entirely. Furthermore, one must consider that Henry, as observant as he is manipulative, plays specifically upon Dorian’s egotism and unstable sense of self to point the boy in the direction he so chooses. Even after Henry has ‘enlightened’ him, Dorian remains terribly naive in that his view of the world is still incredibly two-dimensional. In fact, his view of the world grows increasingly narrow throughout the story, for as he becomes more focused on fulfillment of personal pleasure and the growing contrast between the two images of himself, so he also grows more isolated and more focused upon himself. Simultaneously, as Dorian grows more lonely and starved for attention, he throws himself with increased vigor into his vices, thus begetting and continuing a vicious cycle. His world shrinks to encompass fewer and fewer people, as is shown by his increased apathy to the bodies piling around him as he uses people and casts them aside. By the end of the story, Dorian has become detached from the world around him--he is his own world and the pinnacle of his own existence. 

Pushkin wrote, “Two fixed ideas can no more exist together in the moral world than two bodies can occupy one and the same place in the physical world” (108). While that may or may not ring true in all cases, it certainly fits the cases of Hermann and Dorian. The former dedicates himself fully to gaining wealth, the latter, to living entirely for pleasure, yet both fail to consider any potential consequences. Each character dedicates himself so completely to his respective cause that it drives out all compassion, all love for life, and at last, all other thoughts entirely, leaving each a hollow, isolated caricature of a man. As demonstrated in the two characters’ mental declines--and, in Dorian’s case, his death-- to devote oneself entirely to such shallow and imaginative pursuits as material gain or instantaneous gratification is a very dangerous business, indeed. 

Works Cited

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