“Sly Alma!  His Romano-Dutch St. John’s wooden eye has never looked upon them, and the fine jaundice of his flesh is none of the jaundice of my yellows.  To-de-ma-boom-de-ay!”

* * * * *

Seated in a stall at the West End Theater one evening, he was constantly irritated by his next neighbor—­a lady—­who not only went out between the acts, but several times while the curtain was up.  The space between the run of seats was narrow, and the annoyance as she squeezed past was considerable.

“Madam,” he said at last, “I trust I do not incommode you by keeping my seat!”

* * * * *

He regarded the United States tariff on art as barbarous.

“When are you coming to America?” he was asked.

“When the tariff on art is removed.”

The Copley Society asked his aid in making up their exhibition in Boston.  He refused, saying: 

“God bless me!  Why should you hold an exhibition of pictures in America?  The people do not care for art!”

“How do you know?  You have not been there for many years.”

“How do I know?  Why, haven’t you a law to keep out pictures and statues?  Is it not in black and white that the works of the great masters must not enter America, that they are not wanted?  A people that tolerate such a law have no love for art; their protestation is mere pretense.”

* * * * *

Asked by a lady if a certain picture in a gallery was not indecent, he replied: 

“No, madam.  But your question is!”

Mark Twain visited the studio and, assuming an air of hopeless stupidity, approached a nearly completed painting and said: 

“Not at all bad, Mr. Whistler; not at all bad.  Only here in this corner,” 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!”

“Gad, sir!” cried the painter.  “Do be careful there!  Don’t you see the paint is not yet dry?”

“Oh, don’t mind that,” said Mark, sweetly.  “I am wearing gloves, you see!”

They got on after that.

* * * * *

In Paris, Whistler and an English painter got into a turbulent talk over Velasquez at a studio tea.  In the course of the argument Whistler praised himself extravagantly.

“It’s a good thing we can’t see ourselves as others see us,” sneered the Briton.

“Isn’t it, though?” rejoined Whistler, gently.  “I know in my case I should grow intolerably conceited.”

* * * * *

Financial necessities once caused the sale of Whistler’s choice furnishings.  Some of the family, returning to the house during his absence, found the floor covered with chalk diagrams, the largest of which was labeled:  “This is the dining-table.”

Surrounding it were a number of small squares, each marked:  “This is a chair.”