E. Bridgewater, Oct. 19 [75]

My dear Chummeke:--

Your letter from Bruxelles came a few days ago and found me in a much better frame of mind but I am not yet quite reconciled to the idea of your meeting the Adamses and not myself with you. You see I have not entirely forgotten how you all failed me there in Belgium and the most flattering promises. You had an excuse, I know how that is myself, but they didn’t – that is not much of a one. I am so dry of all news of the outside world just now – head over ears in portraits – that I hail with the greatest joy a letter from over the sea. Just a little while ago I had one from Mrs. Adams who speaks of a speedy return to Venice and a possible sojourn in our little Bohemia. How I want to buy that house! I shall if I ever have money enough. What an establishment I would get up! I have hopes of getting some money [page 2] before I return but my hopes may fail as everything else seems to now. Such tight times I never experienced.

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A letter from your brother tells me that he is like many others out of employment. We have not yet come together; neither of us have time enough to visit the other I dare say. But still it is always the brightest just before day as we found out last winter. Who knows but I may write you soon that stamps have come in to secure me for our little trip into Egypt! But I am sure of money enough to return on if no more, and I’ll go over in the steerage rather than stay. Orders do not fail me. I have been asked to paint three portraits within 24 hours past and of course have declined with thanks “hoping for a continuance of the kind patronage it has ever been my endeavor to deserve!” Since my last letter to you I have been struggling with a portrait – full [page 3] length – of a beautiful little girl four years old. She is far too beautiful for me to paint and I fear now that my struggle will be in vain. Beside my painting I have written a sketch for Appletons “The Republic of San Marino” and am now waiting to get their answer to my note. There must be millions in it for I spent three tags of evenings in writing it.

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Oh my! If you were here, Charlie we would enjoy our evenings so. Down among the trees, safe from visitors, for I let in only whom I choose to, very comfortable in spite of the chill night air outside; quiet; a good atmosphere; plenty of good tobacco and easy chairs. We would make up for many miserable evenings of the past year. Just at present Maynard is stopping here for a few days and as I write he lies on the sofa beside me. In the further corner of the room is my younger brother Charlie studying at my old fashioned chair table. Two petroleum lamps shed a gentle luster over the scene (!!) and it only wants you, my boy, to make it complete. I hope the time may come when you shall drop in whenever you please and not be ten thousand [page 4] miles away. While I am shut up out here all manner of things are going on in Boston. Last Sunday I went in to take to a concert my little Kate Merrill who appeared for the first time as a solo singer. Was encored with furore and I want her to go to Milan to study.[1] Barry Sullivan is now playing a two weeks engagement in Boston. I shall not see him. He is not at all liked here.

Look here now haven’t you felt all through this letter that I can’t talk this evening. It is because there is a mental sponge lying beside me. He completely drives me away from my own self and I can’t possibly write about anything. I can say that I am always wishing for the day to come when I shall put my foot upon the shores of good old France once more and hasten to meet you. If I were sure of Egypt I could rest easy. You are and I am not and that is what worries me the worst. I am afraid you will be away for the Nile before I can get where you are. And I don’t like to think of Europe because it always makes me nervous and impatient. While I write these last few lines word comes from the house that several people are waiting there for me. I sent back a message that I am very busy. If I were along I should be all with you. As it is I have an old man of the mountains upon me. Commiserate with me my dear old chummeke. Write me as often as you can and I will do the same.

Yours always with much love

Frank –

Notes

1. Kate Merrill was the sister of Lily Merrill, Millet's future wife. Millet thought Kate had an operatic career ahead of her. Kate unfortunately died before this could be realized.