December 29th.
[DEAR MOTHER:]
A blizzard has swept over London. The last one cost the
City Corporation $25,000!! The last man who contracted to
clean New York of snow was cleaned out by two days of it, to
the tune of $200,000. Still, in spite of our alleged
superiority in all things, one inch of snow in Chelsea can do
more to drive one to drink and suicide than a foot of it "on
the farm." At the farm we threw a ton of coal against it, and
lit log fires and oil lamps, and were warm. Here, they try to
fight it with two buckets of soft chocolate cake called Welch
coal, and the result is you freeze. Cecil's studio is like
one vast summer hotel at Portland Maine in January. You
cannot go near it except in rubber boots, fur coats and woolen
gloves. My room still is the only one that is livable. It is
four feet square, heavily panelled in oak and the coal fire
makes it as warm as a stoke hole. So, I am all right and can
work nicely. Janet Sothern came to lunch today and Cecil and
she in furs went picture gazing. Tomorrow we have Capt. Chule
to dinner. He came
up the West coast with us and is accustomed to a temperature
of 120°.
New Year's eve we spend with Lady Lewis where we dine and
keep it up until four in the morning. We will easily be able
to get back here but how we can get a hansom from here to the
great city, I can't imagine. I have seen none in five days.
It is fine to be surrounded by busts of Carlyle, Whistler,
Rosetti and Turner's own, but occasionally you wish for a
taxicab. Tomorrow I am going on a spree to the great city of
London. The novel goes on smoothly, and all is well. I am
still running for Mayor of Chelsea.
Love to you all.
DICK.
