THE AS STABLE PUBLICATIONS

125 ENGLE STREET
ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY

March seventeenth, 1927.

Oh - Bernadine my darling - it was sweet of you to write. But I am afraid that au fond you are an evil woman. Oh it was not decent, it was unkind, to introduce me to that man when he was bound to sail away soon and leave me on these shores with my heart smashed. My wailing is going to produce nothing. I can see nothing coming out of all my complaint. But I will continue to wail and to complain of that quality of manner that makes Monie desirable. I think that this has happened before, but nothing ever happened quite like this in my short memory. But this all depresses me and I will shift my finger! If Allen wants to do Christian Science, do let him. It's a thing I haven't taken any interest in. Following after. But it can be no worse than Gurdjieff and those other things people always do. Let it drop. And let me say that it gives me no end of pleasure to belong to you if you like. And certainly I saw you (or you saw me) first. And what a beginning. Gertrude is a little annoyed with me at the moment for trying to be executive. I hope all this, too, will pass. And you ask what happened on February 15th (1926). Let me see, I was keeping the wrong sort of diary for a time then. I have it. It was the day Edith met Allen and Pavlik under your eye. It was the day that there was a formal transfer of cash from Edith, via myself and via Allen, to Pavlik. And that is all. Edith I still see often and she often speaks of you. But I never have news of you to tell. Oh the pity! Yes dear, the women are all bitches, but then so are most of the men of these parts. O tedium. And I wouldn't malign you for anything at all. If I see M. Boyd again I will give her your vicious message, but I doubt if it will be soon. I have been ill. I am well again. I am glad you are happy and in love. I envy you. Where do you so successfully find such young men. I envy you so. Again and again, but I must not repeat. Send me a snapshot. And write more to

Your devoted,

(LYNES)

gpl

June ninth, 1929.

125 Engle Street
Englewood, New Jersey.

Bernardine darling . . Forgive me for neglecting you at so important a time. I am still pretty weak and it took a letter from Monie, with the news that you were to leave Paris on June second, to stir me to the proper pitch of affection and regret to write. I have known all along, or so it seems, that you were to leave toward the end of May, but somehow I could, or would, not admit to myself that it were true. Without undue bitterness let us agree that the common and soul-saving illusions of separation have their uses. I think of you now somewhere in Siberia, so far as I know a vast and desolate stretch, and wonder how much alone you are. It is some comfort to know that by the time this reaches you, you will have arrived at some comparatively civilized spot. I couldn't bear to have you in the wilds forever. Do let me know how everything goes. I hope you have a lot of time for letter writing. I was sorry to hear that Rosemary would not be able to visit me, but, as things turn out, I shall be in Englewood all summer and perhaps I shall have a glimpse of her as she passes, one way or the other, through New York. At present I am in North Egremont but I return, in other words . . go south, in about two weeks. Of course Adelaide (my mother) would rent this house the one summer I need to be in the upper altitudes. My father and brother desert us and go to England. I suppose you were in Paris long enough to hear of my projected visit this summer and of the cruel way in which my doctor, playing at God, forbade it. Should I care if my belly bursts open? Frankly, should I? Especially when there is so much to go over for. I wonder if this is the right moment to inquire about the lapis ring you promised me. If it is the wrong one, forget that I did. I am serious and seriously alone. What of you? I think of you with infinite affection

With best love,

THE AS STABLE PUBLICATIONS

August second, 1929.

Bernardine darling. . It was like having the clouds rolled away to hear from you. I have wondered so often how you are, and no one seemed to know any more than I. Of course, I suppose you know that our darlings are in this country. They have just finished their visits to their respective families, and are at present at Dick's in Connecticut. They come here, for the rest of the month, on the fifth. You must know ever so much better than I what was going on in Paris before they left, though I have been talked to about it by the hour. I think things are going well now; in any case I have never known G to have better control over himself and all that concerns him, and, that being the case, there is no need for worry. M seems to have had an easy time of "doing the right thing by his family"; G's task was rather more arduous. Every one of the seven or eight (or however many there are) Wescott is in moral or financial or physical difficulties, is or was, for I expect he would not have left them too badly off. But, beyond these generalities, I know nothing. I expect I'll hear a lot on Monday. I am still recuperating. Not ill in any way, but I tire very easily and must rest a lot. For the present, that is for the month of August, I am running my old book shop (mornings only) while its present owner is on vacation. Not that I'll make anything worth making, but I'll be confined three hours a day and I may get some work done. The boys, sometimes, so far as I am concerned, are the arch-distraction, and I chose this method of getting myself off the property. It's rather like going to school again. The only other Paris-dweller I have seen is Mary Reynolds. She came over for a short visit to her family and I had a day with her on her way from Minneapolis back to Europe. I find I do not like New York any more. It is a fabulous city and cannot be believed in. I envy you China. The fact that you are there, of course, makes me want to go more than ever. Perhaps I will one day.

All love,

Yv

gpl

125 Engle Street,
Englewood, New Jersey.

October fourth, 1929.

Bernardine darling . . You are always an angel, and, knowing that, I hasten to attend to your requests. "Natives of Rock" will be mailed to Glenway, who is back in Paris, this week. And I have written him that it is on its way, and told him what to do. So that is that. Did you ever receive the birthday cable I sent? I fear it may have gone astray, and I did want you to know that I remembered. Ever and forever wanting, or pretending to want, credit. But I shall give you credit for sending the picture of you and Chester. I saw Glenway's and, of course, was envious. So picture my delight when I discovered that in your letter. Need I add that it is not going to be sent on to Dick. After all, it was he who disliked, or was jealous of, me. I never cared one way or the other. And now that Glen has formally severed relations with him, I'll probably never even think of him again. How many decades since you have seen him? I'm just back from a strenuous ten days in the country. I did miss my books and my typewriter and the discs of music so much, and have resolved never to travel again without them. I wish I could take them to Europe or to China, but I'm afraid it's Englewood for me for some time to come. This business of learning to be a photographer (did you know about that?) is a long and tedious, but, if I ever get through with it, I'll be a free man. And what a relief that will be. And I'll not spend any time or cash on getting that troublesome Gertrude's "things" published either. She has been after me again. Do write, darling, and often. I miss you.

Best love,

October thirtieth, 1932.

Bernardine darling.

Distance does not lend enchantment; not a bit of it. It is a most fearful obstacle. For, when I think I have not written you in a year or more, I blush . . partly from shame, partly from sheer wistfulness. But I have had news of you, through Glen and Monie and Barbara, so you have not become a stranger. And I love you still as I always have.

The fact that Monie and Barbara start for China in ten days somehow brings you closer. Of course, I envy them. And I envy you, which I shouldn't, for I have had them all summer. That I should envy you really isn't a sign of bad nature. That I should envy them seems so natural as to be almost absurd. But I am sorry, sorry for both of you, that Glen isn't going too, and I hope he makes up his mind which novel he wants to write and writes it.

New York is exile, this year at least. By the time I went to Europe last May, I was so sick of all the people I had been seeing all winter that I never wanted to see them again. And unfortunately that state of mind has not passed off. I am campaigning (this is presidential year, of course, so I am not out of fashion) for new faces, fresh faces, almost any kinds of faces that are different. I probably will not find any, but am willing to risk it. A discreet flirtation would divert me enormously. All I am likely to get are parlour lectures on the Fine Arts (usually in slang) and gossip about people I have seen or heard about for years and who ought to be dead. And fancy my becoming old enough to like to have young people around: my brother's young people mostly, though I have one or two.

I reached these shores late in September, only to discover that my beloved Claus (B. gave him to me last year in Germany) had died the day I sailed. There are lots of reasons why I wish I had not sailed that day, or, for that matter, any other day. Ever since I have been studio-hunting and

as yet have met with no success. Monie and Barbara will tell you
about the first chapter of that history, about how I failed to
"muscle in" on the Fifth Avenue property. It is too boring a story
to write. And they will tell all there is to tell of our summer.
As for the studio: all the advantageous ones are too expensive
(unless I land one of those jobs I hear about), and all the cheap
ones would drive away the clients. And I am rather at my wits' end.
To top it all, my mother was operated upon last week for a multi-
plicity of disorders, the sort of thing you did in Berlin, and,
although she is making splendid progress, she is still pretty mis-
erable and life at home seems to lack direction.

It would be nice if I could think of something
cheerful to tell you. I cannot seem to remember who your friends
here are, but, if you want any private detective work done, I
will be glad to oblige. (I am pretty good about errands too.)

Do you think my virgin brother, aged twenty-one,
should be allowed to see Madeleine Boyd? She is printing a poem
of his in some anthology or other, and showers him with invitations
It appears that I cut her at a vernissage a couple of weeks ago.
I didn't mean to. I mean, in fact, to be polite to everybody.

Only one job of any consequence since I got
back: photographing a "society matron" for Pond's Cold Cream adv.
(Mrs. T. Markoe Robertson, born Cordelia Biddle, to appear in all
the January magazines; you might be on the alert for them). A few
small jobs help to fill in. And I am about to photograph ten
opera singers, all of "international reputation", for the National
Broadcasting Co.. That is by way of being a really good job. But
not steady. I have improved. Has anybody told you?

If I have not written you in a year, it is
safe to say I have not heard from you in as long. And I adore the
letters you write. Monie will write me from out there, but there
will be lots of things he will forget to tell me. If you write
too, I will get a fairly complete bulletin. And send me some of
your journalism. And tell me what has become of Rosemary. And
everything. I wish I could see you. Is there another vacation
for you next year?

Best love to you and to Chester.

Devotedly your

125 ENGLE STREET

ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY

Nov. 19th, 1932.

Bernardine, my dear.

I wish I knew how long it takes packages
to reach China. For I have just sent one to you, containing a
Christmas toy for each one of you (i.e. for you, and Barbara,
and Chester, and Monroe), and I greatly fear it will not reach
you until Christmas is not only past but forgotten. Perhaps it
will not reach you at all. How awful! But the thought is there,
and the love, and I am hoping that five weeks will be enough.
(Air mail postage on packages is fantastically expensive; I
considered it, but decided it was not worth it.)

I do wish I could be with you this
Christmas (it is never much of a day here, what with father's
parochial duties and no pretty decorations). I will always re-
member our Christmas together. Wasn't that 1928? The music at
the Val de Grace, and the presents, and Santa Claus' pants com-
ing off, and then all the people . . . never will I forget Clem
Randolph's get-up. Now you are there, and I am here, and Glen
is in Paris, and I don't even know where RM is. Where is she?
It is all very sad.

I have work to do this morning, and this
afternoon too. But you will hear all the news (I hope there is
going to be some . . N.Y. is hopeless, or rather I am); just now
I am inclined to run off all the language charts.

Nita Naldi, who attended the opening of my
show at the Waldorf last spring, has just opened in a play. I
would like to see it, but probably will not. Irresistibly I hark
back to the days in the Rue d'Assas. And when I think what a
difference all that has made . . .

Fondly your

10 March 1950

145 EAST 52ND STREET
NEW YORK 22 NEW YORK

Dearest Bernardine:

Quickly to business - for yesterday Jane called to read me
your letter, then sent it on so that I should forget none of the details -

I paid $32,500.00 for the house and put another $10,000.00 into it, into things I couldn't take away. So much for that. And of course I want to sell it, though anything I might get (I certainly cannot expect $40,000.00-odd) would not put me in the clear. It has been listed all this while, ever since I left, at $32,500.00. I don't expect to get even quite that. Moreover, just between ourselves, thanks to Sorel's nasty trick, don't trust that one, it is no longer valuable to me as a rental property. I may get the OPA thing reversed, but there's no knowing. It's being appealed.

This must sound discouraging to you. BUT maybe there's a way.
I cannot sell at $20,000.00; that represents too much further loss. But, as I say,
but ...

When I bought the house I took on, as I had to do, a mortgage
on the house. The balance of the mortgage due is now $9231.08. It is payable at
the rate of $94.90 a month, and will be paid up in ten years and a couple of months.
And I could, and would love to sell the house at $20,000.00 cash plus the mortgage.
Could you manage the $94.90 out of your income? A lot less than you would pay in
rent elsewhere. But excuse me dear - I mustn't make you salestalk.

What else should you know? The house is in good condition, so
far as I know, though Newell I've found is not to be relied upon to keep one in-
formed. (Some letters he doesn't answer for months, some not at all.) The taxes
last year were $320.00. The plants in pots and tubs I did sell to Sorel, but every-
thing in the ground (as of when I left at any rate) is mine. And there are two
articles of furniture, a cheapish double bed and an electric ice box, I left be-
hind which I'll give you as a housewarming present, when and if.

Darling I'd love to have you have the house. I've thought of
it so often, not only in the unpleasant real estate and landlord terms, and have
missed it. It would make me so happy to have you there. Maybe you would invite me
to visit.

Oh, one other thing! Who is this female agent who showed you
the house? I haven't listed it with a female. I made some overtures to Jean Gordon,
who sold the house to me, but she insisted upon an "exclusive listing" which I
(or my lawyer) refused to give her. If you decide you want it and can manage,
couldn't we do it through said lawyer (I pay him enough anyway to look after things)
and save that 5% agent's commission. I'm so bloody broke just now. Ever since
Hollywood in fact; that was a ruinous excursion economically. Of course you'll
know how much you are committed, but . . . I'll send the lawyers name and address
and write to him, if you like.

Now to other pleasanter unbusinesslike things:-

Mon flew to Europe last week and will be gone about two months. He will vacation with Willie Maugham on Cap Ferrat for a couple of weeks, and then be about his business. Modigliani and Soutine this time; and he'll go everywhere I gather except maybe England. Glenway, on doctor's advice, has given up smoking. That's been going on for a week or so and I must say he takes it very well - remembering the hell he went through and the hell he raised when he gave up smoking back in 1928 in Villefranche when I was "young and impressionable". He's in wonderful form and is, so he says, hard at work on a novel - to be finished maybe in July. I've not seen Lloyd and Barbara in months but get good report of them. He came alone to a party here one night this winter; he's handsomer than ever and up to his ears in hospital-building. She came alone to dine one evening; alone with us, and really shot the works; she was at her most seductive, most adorable - you know how that can be. But we're going out there for a weekend soon so of course will see them. The sisters, Beulah and Elizabeth, are going on a European jaunt late this month escorted by Bernard Perlin our great friend. Eliz is being amorous with a character none of us can bear, in some respects with good reason, and that sometimes is trying. Katherine Anne is here, but I never see her. Oddly enough I do not know why. I have guessed at this and that and it has bothered me. But by now I am reconciled. It doesn't matter. Perhaps our three-cornered intimacy in Hollywood was too much for her - in so many ways that was a bad period for us both - my problems added to her own. Still, after nearly twenty years ... It is very strange. I miss her. There's the usual English-type invasion: Cecil Beaton, Freddie Ashton, Harold Acton, Peter Watson, and such. The first two did a ballet for Lincoln Kirstein and very pretty it is. His, Lincoln's, otherwise known as the New York City Ballet, company is quite wonderful this year, better than they've been, better I think than any of the other companies (Tallchief and LeClercq are superb dancers). Five new ballets this season. In July they have a season at Covent Garden. I'm about to make photographs for a souvenir program for them. I'm THE ballet photographer this year; I also did one for Ballet Theatre. Maybe you've seen it. They did play Los Angeles, didn't they? What else? I can't think whom we see. Marianne Moore, the Jared Frenchs, Paul Cadmus, the Kirsteins, God knows whom else, masses of the young and beautiful, and of course clients. My 84th Street family flourishes. Akin, fed up with housekeeping, is job-hunting. Russell goes on at Harper's and is engaged upon a book called The Taste Makers. Young George, aged twelve, is athletic beyond endurance and is, and is going to be, handsome. Elizabeth, aged ten, goes to ballet school. She'll be a "beauty" I think if we can talk her into it. Wonderful eyes, not enough chin, and impressively sexy. She'll not be pretty but, if we can get her to have the right ideas about herself, she'll be quite a number. Already she has taste in clothes. The rest can come. Jane thrives, so far as one can tell; she looks thriving. Chuck definitely thrives. He's designing lovely things and has built up a nice clientele. He would send greetings, if he were here at the moment, so I send them anyway. The Adrians haven't called me. Should I call them? I like them very much, but I do bog down in sloth or shyness or something, knowing too that they are busy.

Don't fret about the business about the house. I'd love it if you could. If you can't don't let it upset you, not on my account. There'll be a purchaser sooner or later. Just let me know; no great explanations are needed. I've loved you for a long long time (twenty-five years ago in Gertrude's studio - imagine!) and I miss you. There shouldn't be any self-consciousness between us.

Fond messages to your children and grandchild, to Daphne Day, to ...

Bless you

THE AS STABLE PRESS

TELEPHONE: ENGLEWOOD 4466

GEORGE PLATT LYNES'
PARK PLACE BOOKSHOP
ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY

November first -

Bernadine darling:

Things are often so abominably adequate when far
away, and, often enough, all sweetness. And, like a preface to love,
and not so sterile, a letter from you. And I adore you for it. If
I had counted I might have guessed for you are rather precise and
every nine months by the calendar comes the word. And you're the
one to get the dusty answer. Even though we are still young and
lithe, interruptions mean business and a mealy sort of thing.

But, aside from all this and this is rather sin-
ister and backward, I am enjoying myself. It is satisfaction en-
ough to chuck the stupid things at the dull people and walk the
aisles, swearing and weeping. And, I must say, the approach of
your angels (sometime my angels) is exciting enough to make one
pretty and exclusive enough to keep one "off the market". And I'm
intending to be rather pleasant. Do you care? I suppose not. So
I am waiting, and trembling a little, 40th Street being ignored!

But that is only the half of what you could
guess from the enclosed, rather wide-eyed, and eloquent snaps.
Backgrounds of Stein and Crevel and Tchelitchew speak for them-
selves. It is so much easier to look than to wade through what end-
less and inconclusive descriptions I might write. And you may ap-
preciate me in that connection.
have, Genav