A Picture

Translated by Leo Shtutin; Published in The Los Angeles Review

I chanced to purchase, at a junk shop, a remarkable picture—the work of an old master—and ordered for it a fine heavy boxwood frame. The picture now hangs on my wall; installed in an armchair, I scrutinize it for hours on end. But the artist living opposite me had no sooner dropped in for a brief moment than he announced that what I have on my wall is but a paltry copy of a stunning masterpiece. I have never attached importance to such things, for my knowledge of painting is slight. Yet this news was so unanticipated that, much to my own surprise, it dejected me. I spent a week in the grip of consternation, and then, able to bear it no longer, hastened without further ado to consult a celebrated antiquarian. Examining the canvas with an assiduous eye, the antiquarian convinced me of its authenticity. Not three days had passed, however, when the chief curator of the city museum, who had got word of my extraordinary acquisition, knocked on my door. For a long time he inspected the picture from the far corner of the room. Then, after approaching it swiftly, fingering, eyeing, nosing it, he came to a categorical conclusion: I was the owner of a masterful forgery. Exasperated by the whole affair, I began looking, like a man possessed, for someone, anyone, who could tell me with certainty what it was that I had hung on my wall. I set about inviting the finest experts over to mine—only for them all to contradict each other. No sooner had one persuaded me that the picture was a copy, skilfully executed, yes, but a copy all the same, than another solemnly averred that hanging before us was an original work.          . My life has been diverted from its wonted course. I am engrossed by a singular pursuit: a search for the truth. But I am only an amateur, and experts cannot be trusted… This truth, it strikes me, is a truth that I shall never know. And nor can anyone come to my rescue. After all, every possessor of knowledge is always countervailed by another. Do any of them know the truth? And is the truth really necessary, anyhow?.. What am I to do with this picture, hanging dismal on my wall? Installed in my smoke-suffused armchair, I scrutinize it miserably. So what is it: an antique masterpiece, or a forgery of most masterly execution? Unable to suffer any longer, I yank off the heavy frame and hurl the blasted picture out of the window. Perhaps someone else will pick it up. Let another do the suffering.