The Picture

"The Picture" is a poignant short story by Russian author Aleksandr Kuprin that explores themes of art, beauty, and the complex relationships between individuals. The narrative centers around a painting that captivates the protagonist, leading him to reflect on his own experiences and emotions. Through vivid descriptions and deep psychological insight, Kuprin delves into the power of art to evoke memory and desire, ultimately illuminating the profound connection between life and artistic expression. The story serves as a meditation on the nature of human perception and the lasting impact of aesthetic encounters.

• Novel

								
I

One evening, at the house of a well-known literary man, after supper,
there arose among the company an unusually heated discussion as to
whether there could exist in this time of ours, so barren of exalted
feelings, a lasting and unalterable friendship. Everyone said that
such friendship did not exist; that there were many trials which the
friendship of our days was quite unable to support. It was in the
statement of the causes through which friendship was broken, that the
company disagreed. One said that money stood in the way of friendship;
another that woman stood in the way; a third, similarity of character;
a fourth, the cares of family life, and so on.

When the talking and shouting had died down, and the people were
tired, though nothing had been explained and no conclusion arrived at,
one respected guest, who till that moment had not taken part in the
discussion, suddenly broke silence and took up the conversation.

"Yes, gentlemen, all that you have said is both weighty and remarkable.
Still I could give you an example from life where friendship triumphed
over all the obstacles which you have mentioned, and remained
inviolate."

"And do you mean," asked the host, "that this friendship endured to the
grave?"

"No, not to the grave. But it was broken off for a special reason."

"What sort of a reason?" asked the host.

"A very simple reason, and at the same time an astonishing one. The
friendship was broken by St. Barbara."

None of the company could understand how, in our commercial days,
St. Barbara could sever a friendship, and they all begged Afanasy
Silitch--for such was the respected man's name--to explain his
enigmatical words.

Afanasy Silitch smiled as he answered:

"There's nothing enigmatical about the matter. It's a simple and sad
story, the story of the suffering of a sick heart. And if you would
really like to hear, I'll tell you about it at once with pleasure."

Everyone prepared to listen, and Afanasy Silitch began his tale.

II

In the beginning of the present century there was a family of princes,
Belokon Belonogof, famous on account of their illustrious birth, their
riches and their pride. But fate destined this family to die out, so
that now there is hardly any remembrance of them. The last of these
princes, and he was not of the direct line, finished his worldly career
quite lately in the Arzhansky, a well-known night house and gambling
den in Moscow, among a set of drunkards, wastrels and thieves. But my
story is not about him, but about Prince Andrey Lvovitch, with whom the
direct line ended.

During his father's lifetime--this was before the emancipation of the
serfs--Prince Andrey had a commission in the Guards, and was looked
upon as one of the most brilliant officers. He had plenty of money,
was handsome, and a favourite with the ladies, a good dancer, a
duellist--and what not besides? But when his father died, Prince Andrey
threw up his commission in spite of all entreaties from his comrades to
remain. "No," said he, "I shall be lost among you, and I'm curious to
know all that fate has in store for me."

He was a strange man, of peculiar and, one might say, fantastic habits.
He flattered himself that his every dream could at once be realised.
As soon as he had buried his father he took himself off abroad.
Astonishing to think of the places he went to! Money was sent to him
through every agency and banking house, now in Paris, now in Calcutta,
then in New York, then Algiers. I know all this on unimpeachable
authority, I must tell you, because my father was the chief steward of
his estate of two hundred thousand desiatines.[1]

[1] A desiatin is 2.7 acres.

After four years the prince returned, thin, his face overgrown with a
beard and brown from sunburn--it was difficult to recognise him. As
soon as he arrived he established himself on his estate at Pneestcheva.
He went about in his dressing-gown. He found it very dull on the whole.

I was always welcome in his house at that time, for the prince liked my
cheerful disposition, and as I had received some sort of education I
could be somewhat of a companion to him. And then again, I was a free
person, for my father had been ransomed in the old prince's time.

The prince always greeted me affectionately, and made me sit down with
him. He even treated me to cigars. I soon got used to sitting down
in his presence, but I could never accustom myself to smoking the
cigars--they always gave me a kind of sea-sickness.

I was very curious to see all the things which the prince had brought
back with him from his travels. Skins of lions and tigers, curved
swords, idols, stuffed animals of all kinds, precious stones and rich
stuffs. The prince used to lie on his enormous divan and smoke, and
though he laughed at my curiosity he would explain everything I asked
about. Then, if he could get himself into the mood, he would begin to
talk of his adventures until, as you may well believe, cold shivers ran
down my back. He would talk and talk, and then all at once would frown
and become silent. I would be silent also. And then he would say, all
of a sudden:

"It's dull for me, Afanasy. See, I've been all round the world and seen
everything; I've caught wild horses in Mexico and hunted tigers in
India; I've journeyed on the sea and been in danger of drowning; I've
crossed deserts and been buried in sand--what more is there for me?
Nothing, I say; there's nothing new under the sun."

I said to him once, quite simply, "You might get married, prince."

But he only laughed.

"I might marry if I could find the woman whom I could love and honour.
I've seen all nations and all classes of women, and since I'm not
ugly, not stupid, and I'm a rich man, they have all shown me special
attention, but I've never seen the sort of woman that I need. All of
them were either mercenary or depraved, or stupid or just a little too
much given to good works. But the fact remains, that I feel bored with
life. It would be another matter if I had any sort of talent or gift."

And to this I generally used to answer: "But what more talent do you
want, prince? Thank God for your good looks, for your land--which, as
you say yourself, is more than belongs to any German prince--and for
the powers with which God has blessed you. I shouldn't ask for any
other talent."

The prince laughed at this, and said: "You're a stupid, Afanasy, and
much too young as yet. Live a little longer, and if you don't become an
utter scoundrel, you'll remember these words of mine."

III

Prince Andrey had, however, a gift of his own, in my opinion, a very
great gift, for painting, which had been evident even in his childhood.
During his stay abroad he had lived for nearly a year in Rome, and had
there learnt to paint pictures. He had even thought at one time, he
told me, that he might become a real artist, but for some reason he

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