East Bridgewater Jan’y 15

My dear Chummeke: -- Your letter of the middle of December reached me a day or two ago on my return from a trip south. I left here shortly before Christmas driven away by the extreme cold for during several days it was away down below zero. I had a pass to Richmond and return as I thought I would take a bit of warm weather down there for as long a time as I could spare. Went on to N.Y. and Philadelphia, spent Christmas in Washington and the next few days in Richmond where it was deliciously warm, but you may imagine what I said when I saw in the papers that in the [page 2] North the frost all came out of the ground and it was like summer. And so it was. All the time I was gone it was so mild here as could be and even now we can get along without an overcoat.. the sun rises…clear every day and we have had no snow at all. Do you blame me for being the easier reconciled to what seems now to be my fate viz. to remain here until the winter is gone.

As the weeks have passed away and I have seen Egypt grow less and less and more beautifully small I have cursed my luck right and left and have been very ugly about. I dare say. As to trying to explain to my friends why I want to return, that I don’t attempt to do any longer for they all refuse to see any reason in it. As it [page 3] is now I am putting the finishing touches on the little portrait I spoke about. It has dragged along up to this time and I am awfully sick of it. With this I am in the midst of several others and out of the whole I am likely to get some money sometime. Thus far for all I have done no one has paid me and I have lived on my newspaper work. I find it altogether impossible for me to practice my profession on a business basis. They delay about paying me and I don’t have the courage to ask them for the money. Then I am foolish enough to put my prices down and so it goes. One thing I am doing and that is trying my level best to produce good work. I find it is not so easy by any means.

[Page 4] Coming to America is like coming to Italy. It takes a long time to get acquainted with this country and nationalized enough to work to advantage. Do you know what I am trying to get money enough for? I have an insane desire to possess our little house in Venice and I want to get money enough to buy it. If we could pass another season there together I think I would not begrudge any sacrifice. My dear boy, it pains me beyond expression to hear that you are not in good health. You must not get blue. I know how you are tortured and would give [the] world to be able to ease your mind a little. Your ill health I could I am sure change to soundness if I could be with you. Why is it that we can’t come together? I find that when I try to explain how much I want to come back to you [page 5] the words seem too tame to express it and I am sure you don’t realize it. When you say you are not well it makes me very nervous. I have dreamed lately about you but not bad dreams. I know Paris is not good for you in the winter. It is very depressing. Then you say you are not at work. Why can’t you go South and write that novel. When it is written I shall be with you if you begin at once. Don’t stay and brood and think and get morbid and give up work! It is too wicked that we can’t be together. That I should be working away here in good health is unjust while you are in the opposite emotion. And I hate myself for being away from you. But now I can only advise and I do most earnestly ask you if your present state of mind and body

[page 6] continues to go away somewhere where the climate is good, to the Channel Islands, to Cornwall, to Nice and write and work hard. You will be happy, you will be well. And you know it. I have not seen your brother but am sure you need not be worried about him. He has my address and I have not his. I told him to call on me if he wished me to do anything for him. He need not starve, that is certain, although it is very hard times here this winter. But people here don’t know what poverty is. Good old Venice. We were poor and happy there and I hope we may be yet the same in that old house (with an ownership in it). A year ago this time we were suffering with the cold in [page 7] that smoky room. I’d change all the comforts of my home and the mildness of this season for one week of Venice life again.

Do you ever hear from the Adams’ I do not now. They seem to have deserted me. I shall write them this evening if I have time. As for my own literary work I don’t do much except for the Advertiser. Out of them I now get around $12 a week and work only one day. I find I continually raise my own salary. To be sure I have an occasional dab at one of my sketches but it goes slowly enough. I have a letter of introduction to the G.P. Lathrop the ass! Ed. Of the Atlantic and shall go and see him and at the same time call on the Wakefields. I have seen the small boy once or twice [page 8] they have sent word for once to come and see them. When my story is coming out in the Atlantic I can’t say. Hope it will soon for I want the money and they pay not until printed. Now, my dear old chummeke, don’t for your own sake and mine go on as you wrote in your last letter. Do make an effort. I know just how you will read this letter as you used to do so many that came to you when we were together. You turn to whoever is present and say “He is advising me” and then you smile and smile and go on as before. Knowing how you will receive my counsel I am awkward in expressing it. But I am sure you don’t want Paris you want the South, quiet and work. Do write me often. And I’ll do the same though I have to fight for time.

Yours always with much love, Frank.

People here think I am insane about a chum of mine and wonder why I don’t find a female attachment.