East Bridgewater [Massachuetts]

Aug 15 [1875]

My dear old Chummeke: --

Your little letter came yesterday and brought an odor of the old country with it that was refreshing in this desert. If there ever was a soul killing place this is it. I landed at the wharf –- not a soul was there to welcome me. I had two English shillings and one dollar in currency. It cost me a dollar to get to the railway station and I succeeded in borrowing one to take me home. Found my folks surprised to see me because as you remember I didn’t write when I was coming.

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I hate to surprise folks and this was my first shock. The second was that I didn’t recognize my youngest brother nor my nephew. I’ve had nothing but a succession of serious shocks since then and if it goes on I shall go [page 2] as imbecile as Bernice[?] was. Crowds of people whom I never knew but slightly and whom I never had the least interest in, swoop down upon me and bore me to death. Others claim an intimate acquaintance when I’m sure I knew never for a moment. Lord! But ‘tis awfully exhausting and I envy you in crowded old London with its exhausted atmosphere. As I wrote in my little note where I sent the money no one in whom I have the slightest interest selfish or unselfish is at home and money is awfully “scarce.” I gave you a hint of what a close shave I had in the draft, well since then I haven’t had a red [cent], not a red. Came home on a newspaper pass. Now this worries me to death for I am chained up here. I don’t want to touch the sum I have reserved to pay my return passage –- if ever Mr. [Charles Francis] Adams [Junior] pays it -– and consequently have given up all my planned excursions and shall probably stick in this little place. Now [page 3] if I don’t get to work I am a lost man. Tomorrow I go at a temporary studio where I am to paint my Father’s and Mother’s portraits. When that is done I shall feel as if I could return to Europe with a clear conscience for I’ll never stay here any day longer than I can help.

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Have already an offer of Secretary to commission for International Exposition[.] Was obliged to tell my friend that the offer was not the slightest temptation, that I was going to return in the fall and wouldn’t stay here for a million of dollars. You see what I have to write you about. I am like a fish out of water. I flop about and don’t’ know which end I stand on. That’s why I can’t write you a decent letter, not even you old boy, and you are the only one I can write at all. I won’t sing such a wailing strain any longer now, it must be a bore to you and it certainly isn’t pleasant to me to have to write this and nothing else. Very likely by the time I write again I shall be in better spirits -– I hope [page 4] to be at any rate.

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My Father is in sympathy with me and he is sort of a fender to the rest. He saw in a moment that I could never paint a stroke so he proposed building the temporary studio away down in an offset perfectly jolly little place, all trees, hidden away from the world. A few steps away is a deep silent river all hidden among the trees like the Dee only not one tenth as pretty or as large. I shall allow no one to come into my lot and I shall be alone there.

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If you were here dear old fellow we could be happy a few months and do some good work. I shall do my best now and try and keep alive on the hope of joining you in London in the Fall or better, of meeting you in Havre on my way to Spain. For I’m sure of coming back if I live, my death or the death of my father alone can keep me here, and I hope for a long life for both of us yet.

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Your medal [page 5] of St. Anthony I always wear with the rest and I wouldn’t lose one of these for the world. You are accountable for as much trust in the saints as now belong to me and that is not a little. You know that I only feel whole when you are with me. Is it magnetism? I’m sure it is the magnetism of the soul that can not be explained or what had better not be analyzed. That Venetian experience is unique and I still hope for as good one if not a similar one. We can do the world if you keep up your courage. Don’t think of coming home -- for the world do not! You would not live a year –- I should not last much longer if I were obliged to stay. The wear and tear of the nervous, aimless, soulless American life is too much. No repose, always a burden of insipid talk, vapid conversation. Do you know, even my most intelligent friends seem all tainted [page 6] with this hideous Americanism they have all gone into trade if not literally at least spiritually. The people eat so much, know how to live so little, value repose so cheaply and have such a small conception of real life and the supreme enjoyment of the whole nature of a whole people (nothing antiphysical or even meant)…that, I am at constant swords points with them. My studio will give me a place where I can be alone and from them. I will give you a brighter view of things. I feel it is coming. I place my return at the last of November, possibly I shall go sooner. If I can’t come any other way I shall come in the steerage, anything to get on the other side again. The Newspaper business was never duller. The Advertiser has been running with two men in the local Depart -– where six usually have to jump around [page 7] to do the work. I have written one letter to the N.Y. Tribune & a few little screeds and that is all. When I get my studio I shall begin on my sketches again.

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I told you that my brother took away my sketch from the Atlantic and gave it to Appletons. They will print it soon.

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I see in the list of the Overland’s [magazine's] things that Donny’s [Charlotte Adams'] stuff is printed this month or in the coming one. I don’t know which. I shall send them one perhaps.

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I’m very sorry that Joe’s fence failed. Hope he will know the impulse in the failure to start him anew. Will is very foolish . . . will he never stop?

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You will remember me kindly to the Hardy’s won’t you? I was delighted with them all and shall be charmed to meet them later. I’ve written [author] Joaquin [Miller] who is at Newburyport. Have as yet no reply. If you wish to write direct to Merrimat[?] House. Tell Mrs. Brown that I shall send her [page 8] a photograph as soon as I can get one made, the man who owns the plate is away for a few weeks now. I enclose a crumpled proof of me as “Juliette”, the only one I can find. Will send later an iron type of the other character. Don’t remember what it was.

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I hate to send this letter full as it is of my troubles but you had best know the details that you may appreciate my mood. Have you sent those things to Father John? Please remember me to the Browns and Mrs. Pillad [Pllar ?].

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Now I see indications of butterflying in your threat to try another boy if I won’t come back. Go ahead, you know -– I’m not jealous . . . if I were it should be of “Bob” [apparently, a romantic partner of Stoddard's who he had visited in England]. Anyone who can cut me out is welcome to. Proximity is something but you know I’m muddling (?) faithful. I’m going to write you pretty often that you may not entirely forget me even if you don’t come to Spain, which you must do. So do write me often, for you are my windward anchor. With all my love and good wishes, I am, dear Charlie

thine.

Frank