who, as you know, was the master of Giotto. After my wife's death
I departed from Florence, leaving behind me the impression that I intended
soon to return; and I would have been glad to take the portrait with me,
but I had no opportunity. It was in 1503 that I went back to Florence, and
as soon as I could I visited the stately mansion where I had once lived,
and there in the gallery still hung the portrait. This was an
unsatisfactory discovery, for I might wish at some future time to settle
again in Florence, and I had hoped that the portrait had faded, or that it
had been destroyed; but Cimabue painted too well, and his work was then
held in high value, without regard to his subject. Finding myself
entirely alone in the gallery, I cut that picture from its frame.
I concealed it under my cloak, and when I reached my lodging I utterly
destroyed it. I did not feel that I was committing any crime in doing
this; I had ordered and paid for the painting, and I felt that I had a
right to do what I pleased with it."

"I don't see how you can help having your picture taken in these days,"
I said; "even if you refuse to go to a photographer's, you can't escape
the kodak people. You have a striking presence."

"Oh, I can't get away from photographers," he answered. "I have had a
number of pictures taken, at the request of my wife and other people.
It is impossible to avoid it, and that is one of the reasons why I am
now telling you my story. What is the other point about which you
wished to ask me?"

"I cannot comprehend," I answered, "how you should ever have found
yourself poor and obliged to work. I should say that a man who had lived
so long would have accumulated, in one way or another, immense wealth,
inexhaustible treasures."