Which of us did not, looking at the paintings in the museum or at the frescoes in the old church, among the impersonal heads of saints, angels, gods, nymphs or satyrs, spectators or executioners, notice the face about which we thought: "This is a portrait!" We would not have been able to say why, but it was certain for us; in this person we recognized features so individual, so exceptional and therefore so alive that it seemed impossible to us that our artist had extracted them from his own imagination: we were sure that he had taken them from life. And it is possible that we were not mistaken. They are really portraits, these images striking us among all others, coming out of the row and telling us: "I live, I lived!... I am not an academic formula like my neighbors!." These are portraits, but whose? Here the strength of intuition runs out, and, behind the impossibility of resolution, the question remains unanswered.