This sordid disposition often exposed him to practical jokes from
his pupils; but he possessed a quiet temper, and was not easily
annoyed. One day a rich citizen came in, and asked him the price of
a certain picture.

'Two hundred florins,' said Rembrandt.

'Agreed,' said his visitor. 'I will pay you to-morrow, when I send
for the picture.'

About an hour afterwards a letter was handed to the painter. Its
contents were as follow: 'MASTER REMBRANDT--During your absence a
few days since, I saw in your studio a picture representing an old
woman churning butter. I was enchanted with it; and if you will let
me purchase it for 300 florins, I pray you to bring it to my house,
and be my guest for the day.' The letter was signed with some
fictitious name, and bore the address of a village several leagues
distant from Amsterdam.

Tempted by the additional 100 florins, and caring little for
breaking his engagement, Rembrandt set out early next morning with
his picture. He walked for four hours without finding his obliging
correspondent, and at length, worn out with fatigue, he returned
home. He found the citizen in his studio, waiting for the picture.
As Rembrandt, however, did not despair of finding the man of the 300
florins, and as a falsehood troubled but little his blunted
conscience, he said: 'Alas! an accident has happened to the picture;
the canvas was injured, and I felt so vexed that I threw it into the
fire. Two hundred florins gone! However, it will be my loss, not
yours, for I will paint another precisely similar, and it shall be
ready for you by this time to-morrow.'

'I am sorry,' replied the amateur, 'but it was the picture you have
burned which I wished to have; and as that is gone, I shall not
trouble you to paint another.'

So he departed, and Rembrandt shortly afterwards received a second
letter to the following effect: 'MASTER REMBRANDT--You have broken
your engagement, told a falsehood, wearied yourself to death, and
lost the sale of your picture--all by listening to the dictates of
avarice. Let this lesson be a warning to you in future.'

'So,' said the painter, looking round at his pupils, 'one of you
must have played me this pretty trick. Well, well, I forgive it. You
young varlets do not know the value of a florin as I know it.'

Sometimes the students nailed small copper coins on the floor, for
the mischievous pleasure of seeing their master, who suffered much
from rheumatism in the back, s