Correspondence

My dear Alden

Yesterday I painted all day looking from a window at the blizzard and it recalled the one we had at home but not so fierce. But it was beautiful and I could not stop painting and painted until it was too dark to see and I was tired out. It seemed to be a fifty round go and I got knocked out at about the eleventh round.

            I do not dare look at my work to-day as I am tired again of teaching but I am in better health than in a long time. Not that I had any special ailment but I feel as though I could do anything.

[sketch of Old Holley House painting]

I saw Macmonnies[1] to-day at the club and he complimented me on some things of mine he saw at Durand Ruels. He said “I like them very much—very much indeed—I think they are fine.” In a quiet way and the praise was sweet to my ears. They were things I did here this winter and he had just seen an exhibition of Monet’s things in another part of the establishment. But I seem to be sounding my own praises—but you don’t mind that but like it. I am going to begin early tomorrow to work.

[sketch of view from the Holley House porch]

            Make some sketches for me.

Your father

[1]  The artist, Frederick Macmonnies (1863–1937). The club is The Players.