Letter from Frances Hodgkins to Rachel Hodgkins
Date
23 Oct 1906
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Date
23 Oct 1906
Transcript
Hotel Luxembourg Avignon Oct. 23rd 06
My darling Mother
I got a horrid fright this morning on catching sight of a cable in yesterday’s paper of a disastrous fire in Wellington & my heart thumped so I could hardly read the words. From what I can make out the whole of the Quay below Will’s house has been swept away & including the beautiful new Bank N.S. Wales & all day I have had visions of a seething cauldron of fire below your windows, leaping flames, struggling firemen & engines & hoses all mixed up with a frightened family of Fields in their night garments. I have felt sick & unnerved all day with a nameless fear that perhaps the flames did get as far as Will’s beautiful house & if so what it wld all mean. I have eased my mind a little by writing to the High Commissioner’s Office for further details: they will surely know if any private dwellings were burnt. The cable said “many other houses” besides mentioning some of the offices destroyed. The Trocadero I know is just below Sissie’s window & I know she has often speculated on the chances of a fire in that quarter. What wanton wind made so much mischief. There was no letter for me by this Frisco & I have been anxious about you dear. There was a letter from Miss Richmond but no mention of you in it. I know of course there are a 1000 little reasons why you have missed the mail but ones foolish unreasoning brain ignores all these & dwells only on the possibility of illness, such is the penalty of distance & separation.
The days slip by, one very much like another all very monotonous & uneventful. I think I told you in my last that I had undertaken to get 20 pictures ready by March, big important ones by which I must stand or fall. It won’t do to think about it too much or my courage will go. I hear Mr Paterson for whom I am doing them is fastidious & critical, so much the better for me of course for it puts one on one’s mettle. I wish there was a little more society here, it is hardly good to have no one to talk to after one’s work is over & lonely walks are not inspiriting. Poor Miss Hill is very lame with varicose veins & scarcely stirs out. She has a cheerful bright nature though & finds plenty of amusement in working up her morning’s sketches into very appalling pictures & every evening she has nice new picture to look at. She paints strictly by formula & mixes her paints with a mixture she calls “soup” & which stands for the atmosphere of the day – yellow soup for a sunny day, grey soup for a grey day. By this ingenious doge she claims never to “go wrong” & it certainly never fails to produce exactly the same effect in every picture but to me at least the effect of the “effect” is not so pleasing. But the great point is that her painting makes her happy & in this she is more successful than I. We have had one other visit from the linguistic Frenchman. After the first call he sent up his card on 4 successive evenings but there is moderation in all things. However on the 5th night, having used up all our excuses we came down to the drawing room to have “conversation”. He talked well & fluently as usual, this time by request in French for my benefit. We chided him for allowing his countrymen to shoot little singing birds but he got out of it by airily saying that in France “there were no Savage Dukes (wild ducks) & other games as in England & a man had to bring home something however small when he went out with his gun. They certainly never deserve to hear a bird sing again – they kill everything with a feather on it & it almost makes one cry to see the numbers of those beautiful little birds for sale in the market. Maud Nickalls is going out to India to her brother who is there with is regiment. She will have a good time. Well Mother my dear I must go to bed. I wish, I wish I knew whether you are all sitting in the ashes of your once happy home. I shall have lurid dreams of you all tonight. Much love to you all & your own dear self. From your loving Frances. Try not to miss another mail.
My darling Mother
I got a horrid fright this morning on catching sight of a cable in yesterday’s paper of a disastrous fire in Wellington & my heart thumped so I could hardly read the words. From what I can make out the whole of the Quay below Will’s house has been swept away & including the beautiful new Bank N.S. Wales & all day I have had visions of a seething cauldron of fire below your windows, leaping flames, struggling firemen & engines & hoses all mixed up with a frightened family of Fields in their night garments. I have felt sick & unnerved all day with a nameless fear that perhaps the flames did get as far as Will’s beautiful house & if so what it wld all mean. I have eased my mind a little by writing to the High Commissioner’s Office for further details: they will surely know if any private dwellings were burnt. The cable said “many other houses” besides mentioning some of the offices destroyed. The Trocadero I know is just below Sissie’s window & I know she has often speculated on the chances of a fire in that quarter. What wanton wind made so much mischief. There was no letter for me by this Frisco & I have been anxious about you dear. There was a letter from Miss Richmond but no mention of you in it. I know of course there are a 1000 little reasons why you have missed the mail but ones foolish unreasoning brain ignores all these & dwells only on the possibility of illness, such is the penalty of distance & separation.
The days slip by, one very much like another all very monotonous & uneventful. I think I told you in my last that I had undertaken to get 20 pictures ready by March, big important ones by which I must stand or fall. It won’t do to think about it too much or my courage will go. I hear Mr Paterson for whom I am doing them is fastidious & critical, so much the better for me of course for it puts one on one’s mettle. I wish there was a little more society here, it is hardly good to have no one to talk to after one’s work is over & lonely walks are not inspiriting. Poor Miss Hill is very lame with varicose veins & scarcely stirs out. She has a cheerful bright nature though & finds plenty of amusement in working up her morning’s sketches into very appalling pictures & every evening she has nice new picture to look at. She paints strictly by formula & mixes her paints with a mixture she calls “soup” & which stands for the atmosphere of the day – yellow soup for a sunny day, grey soup for a grey day. By this ingenious doge she claims never to “go wrong” & it certainly never fails to produce exactly the same effect in every picture but to me at least the effect of the “effect” is not so pleasing. But the great point is that her painting makes her happy & in this she is more successful than I. We have had one other visit from the linguistic Frenchman. After the first call he sent up his card on 4 successive evenings but there is moderation in all things. However on the 5th night, having used up all our excuses we came down to the drawing room to have “conversation”. He talked well & fluently as usual, this time by request in French for my benefit. We chided him for allowing his countrymen to shoot little singing birds but he got out of it by airily saying that in France “there were no Savage Dukes (wild ducks) & other games as in England & a man had to bring home something however small when he went out with his gun. They certainly never deserve to hear a bird sing again – they kill everything with a feather on it & it almost makes one cry to see the numbers of those beautiful little birds for sale in the market. Maud Nickalls is going out to India to her brother who is there with is regiment. She will have a good time. Well Mother my dear I must go to bed. I wish, I wish I knew whether you are all sitting in the ashes of your once happy home. I shall have lurid dreams of you all tonight. Much love to you all & your own dear self. From your loving Frances. Try not to miss another mail.
Pages
3 pages
Sender's address
Hotel Luxembourg, Avignon
Institutional No.
MS-Papers-0085-17
Credit Line
Letters
from
Frances
Hodgkins
to
Rachel
Hodgkins.
Ref:
MS-Papers-0085-17.
Alexander
Turnbull
Library,
Wellington,
New
Zealand.
https://natlib.govt.nz/records/22480531
https://natlib.govt.nz/records/22480531