Dear Machi:

By your letter we couldn't be sure whether you knew we are
in Norfolk. Just the name of the town is enough.

The dates you mention sound perfect. The train you must take
is from New York to Canaan, where the three fat little Gills will be
happy to meet you. Any time at all on the day appointed; but you'd
better check the trains from New York, as any information from this
end of the little old line would be liable to be cock-eyed.

The only pity is, you can't stay longer. Honest, in spite of
the price of groceries, and the high cost of laundering sheets !. At
least we can play golf or tennis, whichever you come equipped for, not
to say both, and also swim. Also sit and eat and talk and sleep.

The country Gills will have much to learn about the big city,
with its electric lights and (so I have been told) running water. And
of the big Time family, g-r-r-r-h !

Brinda sends her love, and so do we.

Dear Machiavel:

You really have cut out a most marvelous piece of pie
for yourself, and one that ought to do worlds of good. The schedule
sounds perfect. Quix and all the rest of us are mightily impressed,
and we cannot resist making table talk of you. The amount of apocrypha
that will be attributed to you in days to come staggers the
imagination.

And Anne and I certainly understand about Sally. It
was a story-book situation, and something worse, and there was no
apparent way out for either of you. Thank Heaven that by the grace of
a thousand different things over which we had no control we were not
forced into the same awful state; because we might never have
extricated ourselves successfully.

And as for what any one may think, as you very well know
it is nobody's damn business. Not even—honestly—ours. We do feel
that all's well at long last, but it doesn't matter a rap that we
have any thoughts on the subject at all; the chief thing is for you
two to make some sort of happy harbor from the fragments remaining
there-of, and with God be the rest. And you seem to be doing just
that.

The little bastard is expected in ten days, so that
there is a certain amount of excitement about the house. Anne hasn't
been sick or even bothered by the darn thing for two seconds (as you
might guess !) so that we hope this is only the first of ten or
twelve. In your own words, what a sinister thought ! But just the
having of it like this has been fun—which it usually isn't, what
with womanly tears and the general appearance of look-at-the-woman-who-
has-swallowed-a-watermelon. And after the little nigger has arrived,
I trust that you'll be able to drop by to say hello, and talk over
the antinomian situation in the sixteenth century with it, the
influence, such as it may be, of Scarlatti upon the romantics of the
dineteenth century, specifically Liszt, and the very serious question
of whether Joe diMaggio's efforts to equal Babe Ruth's homerun records
may not keep him from being one of the world's greatest ball players.

These are all topics upon which a considerable amount of light ought to be shed; and there's no point in little Junior (male or female created we it) ducking his studies so late in the game. He hasn't opened a book in nine months !

My career (I'm sorry: CAREER) is toddling in very lackadaisical fashion indeed. I'm making very little money, and the chances of writing a really good novel are zero. I've just reached the point where I think I have a notion of what a really good novel should be—not pure shit, and not pure English, but a little of both, among other things—and yet I haven't the equipment, practical and intellectual, to get it down in proper fashion. I know as well as I need to know what Benedetto Croce would say of a situation like that; but the hell with him. I want to write a good one, and I want to make a lot of dough—oh, a terrific amount of dough!—and I'll go hammering along like this until I do.

But your CAREER, now ! I'd like to know what the Red Man thinks of your novels, and whether you've started another; and what else you are doing in the writing line. Lord knows if you are trying to learn short-hand in two months, you have enough to do; but if you can do as much as you did last winter, I wouldn't be surprised to hear that you'd polished off two or three novels since we saw you last.

Well, tell me.

This is a fucking-ass letter, but it will have to do. I want you to know we have been thinking of you, and if I don't send you this you may not hear from us until after the baby. So so long, and take care of yourself.