I had received from a friend in Boston a letter asking if I would "sound Whistler" about the probability of his accepting a commission for the decoration of some part of the Public Library. The authorities hesitated about approaching him. They had an idea that his attitude toward America was antagonistic, they knew he was "touchy"; they did not wish to submit a proposal, or to invite a suggestion, that might, ninety-nine chances to one, evoke a scornful reply. He might tell them he was not a housepainter. "You are a friend of his. Won't you find out how he would receive a proposal, and advise us how best to make an approach?"
One day when, like Rosalind, he was in "a coming-on disposition", I asked, "What is your real attitude towards America?"
"I haven't any," said he. "How can a man have an attitude toward a continent? Oh, there are the discerning; more of them, perhaps, over there than here. But there 's no 'public taste' there nor here. There never was 'public taste' anywhere. There's only the relation of beauty to the discerning. That's all. But the American mind is not closed. The English mind is closed and bound. England wants art that tells stories. I want art that tells of beauty."
"If the discerning in America were to say, 'There's Whistler now, an American; we wish him to do a great public work'—for instance, a room in the Boston Library, or something like that,—well, would you accept?"
"Of course! It would be the evidence of discernment that I 've been waiting for. But there's no chance of it."
"Yes, there is; I assure you there is."
"If that's true, I'd really like it. I'd like it immensely."
"Hand on heart?"
"Hand on heart!"