Three Portraits

"Three Portraits" is a novella by Russian author Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev, exploring themes of art, identity, and the impact of social change. The narrative revolves around three distinct portraits of a young woman that reveal different aspects of her character and the perceptions of those who behold them. Through these portraits, Turgenev delves into the complexities of human relationships and the elusive nature of beauty and truth, while reflecting on the cultural tensions of 19th-century Russia. The work showcases Turgenev's signature lyrical prose and his keen insight into the human condition.

								
'Neighbours' constitute one of the most serious drawbacks of life in the
country. I knew a country gentleman of the Vologodsky district, who used
on every suitable occasion to repeat the following words, 'Thank God, I
have no neighbours,' and I confess I could not help envying that happy
mortal. My own little place is situated in one of the most thickly
peopled provinces of Russia. I am surrounded by a vast number of dear
neighbours, from highly respectable and highly respected country
gentlemen, attired in ample frockcoats and still more ample waistcoats,
down to regular loafers, wearing jackets with long sleeves and a
so-called shooting-bag on their back. In this crowd of gentlefolks I
chanced, however, to discover one very pleasant fellow. He had served in
the army, had retired and settled for good and all in the country.
According to his story, he had served for two years in the B------
regiment. But I am totally unable to comprehend how that man could have
performed any sort of duty, not merely for two years, but even for two
days. He was born 'for a life of peace and country calm,' that is to
say, for lazy, careless vegetation, which, I note parenthetically, is
not without great and inexhaustible charms. He possessed a very fair
property, and without giving too much thought to its management, spent
about ten thousand roubles a year, had obtained an excellent cook--my
friend was fond of good fare--and ordered too from Moscow all the newest
French books and magazines. In Russian he read nothing but the reports
of his bailiff, and that with great difficulty. He used, when he did not
go out shooting, to wear a dressing-gown from morning till dinner-time
and at dinner. He would look through plans of some sort, or go round to
the stables or to the threshing barn, and joke with the peasant women,
who, to be sure, in his presence wielded their flails in leisurely
fashion. After dinner my friend would dress very carefully before the
looking-glass, and drive off to see some neighbour possessed of two or
three pretty daughters. He would flirt serenely and unconcernedly with
one of them, play blind-man's-buff with them, return home rather late
and promptly fall into a heroic sleep. He could never be bored, for he
never gave himself up to complete inactivity; and in the choice of
occupations he was not difficult to please, and was amused like a child
with the smallest trifle. On the other hand, he cherished no particular
attachment to life, and at times, when he chanced to get a glimpse of
the track of a wolf or a fox, he would let his horse go at full gallop
over such ravines that to this day I cannot understand how it was he did
not break his neck a hundred times over. He belonged to that class of
persons who inspire in one the idea that they do not know their own
value, that under their appearance of indifference strong and violent
passions lie concealed. But he would have laughed in one's face if he
could have guessed that one cherished such an opinion of him. And indeed
I must own I believe myself that even supposing my friend had had in
youth some strong impulse, however vague, towards what is so sweetly
called 'higher things,' that impulse had long, long ago died out. He was
rather stout and enjoyed superb health. In our day one cannot help
liking people who think little about themselves, because they are
exceedingly rare... and my friend had almost forgotten his own
personality. I fancy, though, that I have said too much about him
already, and my prolixity is the more uncalled for as he is not the hero
of my story. His name was Piotr Fedorovitch Lutchinov.

One autumn day there were five of us, ardent sportsmen, gathered
together at Piotr Fedorovitch's. We had spent the whole morning out, had
run down a couple of foxes and a number of hares, and had returned home
in that supremely agreeable frame of mind which comes over every
well-regulated person after a successful day's shooting. It grew dusk.
The wind was frolicking over the dark fields and noisily swinging the
bare tops of the birches and lime-trees round Lutchinov's house. We
reached the house, got off our horses.... On the steps I stood still and
looked round: long storm-clouds were creeping heavily over the grey sky;
a dark-brown bush was writhing in the wind, and murmuring plaintively;
the yellow grass helplessly and forlornly bowed down to the earth;
flocks of thrushes were fluttering in the mountain-ashes among the
bright, flame-coloured clusters of berries. Among the light brittle
twigs of the birch-trees blue-tits hopped whistling. In the village
there was the hoarse barking of dogs. I felt melancholy... but it was
with a genuine sense of comfort that I walked into the dining-room. The
shutters were closed; on a round table, covered with a tablecloth of
dazzling whiteness, amid cut-glass decanters of red wine, there were
eight lighted candles in silver candlesticks; a fire glowed cheerfully
on the hearth, and an old and very stately-looking butler, with a huge
bald head, wearing an English dress, stood before another table on which
was pleasingly conspicuous a large soup-tureen, encircled by light
savoury-smelling steam. In the hall we passed by another venerable man,
engaged in icing champagne--'according to the strictest rules of the
art.' The dinner was, as is usual in such cases, exceedingly pleasant.
We laughed and talked of the incidents of the day's shooting, and
recalled with enthusiasm two glorious 'runs.' After dining pretty
heartily, we settled comfortably into ample arm-chairs round the fire; a
huge silver bowl made its appearance on the table, and in a few minutes
the white flame of the burning rum announced our host's agreeable
intention 'to concoct a punch.' Piotr Fedoritch was a man of some taste;
he was aware, for instance, that nothing has so fatal an influence on
the fancy as the cold, steady, pedantic light of a lamp, and so he gave
orders that only two candles should be left in the room. Strange
half-shadows quivered on the walls, thrown by the fanciful play of the
fire in the hearth and the flame of the punch... a soft, exceedingly
agreeable sense of soothing comfort replaced in our hearts the somewhat
boisterous gaiety that had reigned at dinner.

Conversations have their destinies, like books, as the Latin proverb
says, like everything in the world. Our conversation that evening was
particularly many-sided and lively. From details it passed to rather
serious general questions, and lightly and casually came back to the
daily incidents of life.... After chatting a good deal, we suddenly all
sank into silence. At such times they say an angel of peace is flying
over.

I cannot say why my companions were silent, but I held my tongue because
my eyes had suddenly come to rest on three dusty portraits in black
wooden frames. The colours were rubbed and cracked in places, but one
could still make out the faces. The portrait in the centre was that of a
young woman in a white gown with lace ruffles, her hair done up high, in

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