“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.