GEORGE PLATT LYNES

June fourteenth, 1934.

Very dear Bernardine.

It appears that the Ile de France sails tomorrow, that I am leaving a week from today to photograph a wedding in Iowa, motoring out with Monroe and Glenway and Lloyd, and that I have sittings, with attendant confusion, every day except Sunday and on Sunday my floors have to be painted. In other words this seems an excellent time, in fact the only time, to write to you. A message of cheer, of love, and to thank you for the most beautiful dressing gown worn by man. I, of course, wear it all morning in my garden . . for the benefit of my neighbors as well as my friends.

Oh, I have a garden. Full of privet trees, to which I have added some twenty-five forsythia, syringa, spirea, and dogwood . . . a fine effect next spring, foliage meanwhile . . . and innumerable plants meant to bloom. My new studio occupies the ground floor of a brownstone, formerly a speakeasy, and is cool and crowded and fairly efficient. At any rate I use it to some advantage, and will have another exhibition in the fall, possibly while you are here. And there is Cupid, Philippa's son, the joy of my declining years. I am not dissatisfied. You will see when you come.

Mon interrupts to report you liked the pictures of Rosemary. Did any of us have the wit to write you how she charmed us? Please give her my love and tell her we were disappointed not to see her on her way through. If she neglects us on her way back, it will be a very great pity. Perhaps you come together.

I have thought tenderly and often of you, looking forward to Mon's bulletins, somehow confident you would soon be well. And I envy you so, taking the trip we took last summer in Spain, in the same Ford (and I hope it behaves as well for you as it did for me); I can only wish for you that you are as happy there as I was and love it as well. Think of me in Salamanca and in Santiago. I became a bull-fight enthusiast and remain one, somewhat in ignorance.

Greetings to Chester. My dearest love to
you now as ever.

214 EAST 58TH STREET, NEW YORK

TELEPHONE: PLAZA 3-8666 - CABLES: VAUGIRARD NEW YORK

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

July eighth.

Dear.

I'm no letter-writer, as you know; but it was such
fun having a note from you and so I send this along just to
say hello. As for being nice to Rosemary: that is no problem
at all. She used to be fairly exasperating but that has been
moderated, and I find I have a nice lasting fondness for her.
And she is still beautiful . . as you'll see from the photo
I am sending, which is enormous. And life goes on somehow.
I work in town and go in for home-building in the country
and Stone-Blossom, by now, is just a little gem. The farm
is overrun with refugees, all Harrisons. Verna and Geoffrey
are there now. Kiko is on his way. Even Margaret and Norvell
have been there, though she now has a house on Long Island.
Verna and Kiko we like very much, and Norvell is charming;
but that Margaret is a thorn in everybody's side. All we need
now is to have Doria show up again. Glen has almost fin-
ished a wonderful story, and is going next week to Olivet
(Mich.) to lecture. Mon goes on publishing for the museum.

640 MADISON AVENUE, NEW YORK

TELEPHONE: PLAZA 3-8666-CABLES: VAUGIRARD NEW YORK

229 East 47 Street or
157 East 61 Street

4 May 1953

Dearest B -

I should have dropped everything and answered your letter at once -
if only self-indulgently, for the pleasure of having your letter, hoping for more.
But it couldn't be. Between moving (the second address above, my new apartment) and
business as usual, I haven't had a chance. No matter maybe.

For I've nothing dire to report. Barbara, the last time I saw her,
maybe a month ago, looked and was lovely; and accounts of her are good. Both she and
Lloyd had ulcers (Lloyd badly - but that was six months or more ago). And I know
nothing more - except that she goes on taking seriously her analysis. She comes to
town often, two or three days a week I believe, but she's much too busy to see the
likes of me - at least not often. You needn't fret.

My new flat is just right, big enough, convenient. And it's gaudy
and lush. Japanese silk- and Japanese grasscloth-wallpapers, silk and velvet and
needlepoint, in a half-dozen reds and amethyst and grassgreen and gold. But, dear
God, how long it takes to settle in! Don't you, won't you, ever come this way? To
see it, to see me, to see us.

Jane can't be seen. A new man, an Italian, takes all her evenings
and maybe there's marriage in the wind. I lunched with her not long ago, but even
that took a lot of arranging. But she's the same, or seems so. Perhaps she writes
you. Perhaps you know more than I. She hasn't quarreled with Gloria so far as I
know. I know she sees rather a lot of Michele.

Of course Pavlik quarreled with Edith, but that was several years
ago and Ch Henri was more mixed up in it than he should have been. And Edith, when
she returned here, said she had had trouble with Hedda Hopper but didn't elaborate;
but in general seemed to have (shall we say) "liked" her Hollywood experience.
But - oh dear! - you're so allusive and I'm so not up to date. Who in hell is
Eileen Garrett? What is the story about Nick Muray and Tamayo?

I've no tales to tell, not about the famous or familiar, and I
oughtn't anyway. I've so much to do - my desk, including you, neglected these three
weeks - It's a wonder you get this much of a letter from me.

But I'm fond and faithful, love you dearly. Pretend that this scrap
is endless and full of info, all you deserve.