A friend of Mark Twain’s tells of an amusing incident in connection with the first meeting between the humorist and the late James McNeil Whistler, the artist.
The friend having facetiously warned Clemens that the painter was a confirmed joker, Mark solemnly averred that he would get the better of Whistler should the latter attempt “any funny business.” Furthermore, Twain determined to anticipate Whistler, if possible.
So, when the two had been introduced, which event took place in Whistler’s studio, Clemens, assuming an air of hopeless stupidity, approached a just-completed painting, and said:
“Not at all bad, Mr. Whistler, not at all bad. Only,” he added, reflectively, with a motion as if to rub out a cloud effect, “if I were you I’d do away with that cloud.”
“Great Heavens, sir!” exclaimed Whistler, almost beside himself. “Do be careful not to touch that; the paint is not yet dry!”
“Oh, I don’t mind that,” responded Twain, with an air of perfect nonchalance; “I am wearing gloves.”
This is a story of Italian revenge. A vender of plaster statuettes saw a chance for a sale in a well-dressed, bibulous man who was tacking down the street.
“You buy-a de statuette?” he asked, alluringly holding out his choicest offering. “Gar-r-ribaldi—I sell-a him verra cheep. De gr-reat-a Gar-r-ribaldi—only thirta cents!”
“Oh, t’ell with Garibaldi,” said the bibulous one, making a swipe with his arm that sent Garibaldi crashing to the sidewalk.