of the harlot eternal--Shakespeare's Cleopatra.

Furthermore, it will be observed that such depictions, for the
most part, are primarily portraits of prostitutes, and not
pictures of prostitution. It is also a singular fact that war,
another scourge has met with similar treatment. We have the
pretty, spotless grenadiers and cuirassiers of Meissonier in
plenty; Vereshchagin is still alone in the grim starkness of his
wind-swept, snow-covered battle-fields, with black crows wheeling
over the crumpled masses of gray...

And, curiously enough, it is another great Russian, Kuprin, who is
supreme--if not unique--as a painter of the universal scourge of
prostitution, per se; and not as an incidental background for
portraits. True, he may not have entirely escaped the strange
allure, aforementioned, of the femininity he paints; for
femininity--even though fallen, corrupt, abased, is still
femininity, one of the miracles of life, to Kuprin, the lover of
life. But, even if he may be said to have used too much of the oil
of sentimentality in mixing his colours for the portraits, his
portraits are subordinate to the background; and there his eye is
true and keen, his hand steady and unflinching, his colours and
brushwork unimpeachable. Whether, like his own Platonov--who may
be called to some extent an autobiographical figure, and many of
whose experiences are Kuprin's own--"came upon the brothel" and
gathered his material unconsciously, "without any ulterior
thoughts of writing, "we do not know, nor need we rummage in his
dirty linen, as he puts it. Suffice it to say here--to cite but
two instances--that almost anyone acquainted with Russia will tell
you the full name of the rich, gay, southern port city of K--;