is objection to the omission of his baptismal name
was a very ridiculous one. He said he was called Antonio after Antonio
Correggio, and Rafael after Rafael da Urbino, and that those who omitted
these names, or either of them, implicitly denied his possession of the
qualities of both these great painters.

Once I dared to tell him that he had made a mistake in the hand of one of
his figures, as the ring finger was shorter than the index. He replied
sharply that it was quite right, and shewed me his hand by way of proof.
I laughed, and shewed him my hand in return, saying that I was certain
that my hand was made like that of all the descendants of Adam.

"Then whom do you think that I am descended from?"

"I don't know, but you are certainly not of the same species as myself."

"You mean you are not of my species; all well-made hands of men, and
women too, are like mine and not like yours."

"I'll wager a hundred doubloons that you are in the wrong."

He got up, threw down brushes and palette, and rang up his servants,
saying,--

"We shall see which is right."

The servants came, and on examination he found that I was right. For once
in his life, he laughed and passed it off as a joke, saying,--

"I am delighted that I can boast of being unique in one particular, at
all events."

Here I must note another very sensible remark of his.

He had painted a Magdalen, which was really wonderfully beautiful. For
ten days he had said every morning, "The picture will be finished
to-night." At last I told him that he had made a mistake in saying it
would be finished, as he was still working on it.

"No, I have not," he replied, "ninety-nine connoisseurs out of a hundred
would have pronounced it finished long ago, but I want the praise of the
hundredth man. There's not a picture in the world that can be called
finished save in a relative sense; this Magdalen will not be finished
till I stop working at it, and then it will be only finished relatively,
for if I were to give another day's work to it it would be more finished
still. Not one of Petrarch's sonnets is a really finished production; no,
nor any other man's sonnets. Nothing that the mind of man can conceive is
perfect, save it be a mathematical theorem."

I expressed my warm approval of the excellent way in which he had spoken.
He was not so sensible another time when he expressed a wish to have been
Raphael.

"He was such a great painter."

"Certainly," said