The seventeenth at
Kemeniela near Riga
(no ink)

Dear Gertrude:

After having travelled from Danzig to Riga I have
acquired something of that "serene resigned feeling towards
Life" that Mr. Untermeyer attributed to you. Oh Polognia,
oh Droshkies!

The story begins with Georges Maratier who persuaded
me that I should not travel with much money, that he would
send whatever I needed immediately wherever I was. So when
I learned I was to go to Riga after all I telegraphed him
on a Monday. Then I waited. He did not send the money till
Thursday so that we missed the only boat for Riga, eluded
our landlady as best we could and waited. I forgot to say
that Sascha had lost all his money at roulette when I arrived
and he is not Jewish but a Russian Baron. You can imagine
how that changes things.

The money finally came on Monday morning and the
fast train for Warsaw left at twelve ten. It was impossible
to go any other way as no visa for Lithuania could be secured
in Danzig. Sascha had had the bright idea for me to telephone
the Chicago Tribune in Berlin and my friends there were kind
enough to send credentials so I got journalistic visas which
were gratis, saving me twenty dollars. But oh to secure them
the jabbering that one had to go through first! It was not
so bad at the Lettonian Consulate but at the Polish...! Four
windows to go to, our valises as yet unpacked and the clock
slowly turning to 11:45.

We rushed out of the Polish consulatelike mad, jumped
into a taxi, bought our tickets, hastened to our house, packed
our valises, paid the landlady, tipped the maid, and rushed
to the station arriving just two minutes late. We tried to
drown our chagrin in beer at a horrible luncheon of sauerkraut
and then Sascha went to find out when the next train left.
Ten twenty at night and no direct connection. We would be
forced to stay in Warsaw all day. I did not mind so much
for we could secure a good rest there and it would be amusing
to see the city.

At Warsaw the first thing they do at a hotel is to ask
to see your passports. Then they regulate the charges accordingly
Sascha paying much less than I. The passports are taken away
from you and then you have to pay three zloty to get them back.
We slept until two which is the Polish hour for luncheon and
then went out in the streets. The smells. I am sure a map of

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of Warsaw could be made indicating odors for the various quarters. And yet the streets are so clean and spacious and the people are so indefinably dirty. We went to a restaurant of first "Klasy" as we had not really eaten since the day previous and the room was gay inside. We had soup with some ancient ecrivisses floating about in it and I thought of Belley with a lively regret and abstained. Then a steak about two feet square which was tender but the paprika...I sneezed and pushed the plate gently away. For dessert, as there was no fresh fruit, I thought I would try something French and ordered a Fraises Melba. We waited. Fifteen minutes passed and then the maitre d'hôtel appeared as though he had been announced by a fanfare of trumpets before with a platter on which reposed something white, vaguely resembling the Kremlin. Domes and domes of icecream, flanked with flying buttresses of wafers, soused with whipped cream and splashed with strawberry jam! I had to eat some of it as the eyes of the restaurant were upon me but I fled at the first possible opportunity.

We went to a barber then and he was excellent, Sascha volubly explaining in pidgin Polish how I wanted my hair cut and I was quite satisfied with the result. Once more out into the streets, filled with soldiers, (every fifth one looks like a general with the clanking sabres and silver tipped caps.) I could no longer restrain myself from the Droskies and so we hired one and went riding elegantly about the town.

The utter absence of Gothic made Warsaw seem strange to me, it is so cool and classical and austere. The buildings were really very fine though the flowery balconies made you think of Berlin and the courtyards of Paris. The cafes, though not numerous, are quite as chic as in Paris, though there are no mirrors and they are separated from the sidewalk by tiny panes of plate glass which glitter beautifully.

Sascha had a salade and when I saw it I thought I would have another try at the Polish cuisine. It was a marvellous salad, the various vegetables so exactly matched that you could not distinguish their separate tastes but only one general flavor with many delicate nuances. And the egg that went with it! Hard boiled and the yolk had been removed first to make a layer of red caviar and then replaced upside down. Red caviar is quite different from black, the eggs are about the size of a small pea, rosy in color, first they taste like jelly and they gently explode in your tongue with a sharp salty tang.

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The day wore pleasant on into night and finally it was
time to catch our train. Sascha had the baggage check, the
tickets, all was in order, we had half an hour to make our
train and were about ten minutes away by taxi. Lets take a
droshky I suggested, the evening is so pleasant.

We had not gone far before I sensed we were going to
one of the three stations of Warsaw but not the right one.
Sascha felt the same way and sure enough the Droshky driver
did not know exactly where he was going. We should have
stopped there and walked back but there was a policeman standing
and Sascha asked which station to go to for Warsaw having
forgotten the name of the place and he directed the Droshky
driver. Off we went in still another direction. I knew it
was wrong and time was flying. Far far out into the outskirts
of Warsaw we went before I had will power enough to stop him the driver
and take a passing taxi.

This taxi driver was a bright young man and Milly moy,
begged Sascha, take us to the station for the Warsaw train or
we will surely miss it. The driver consulted a timetable very
efficiently and said smilingly, with me you wont miss it. Swiftly
we rushed in still another direction out to the other most
uttermost limits of Warsaw. I knew it was wrong but the more
I tapped on the pane the faster he went. Here you are he said
stopping short, at the third station of Warsaw and the train for
Riga surely will stop here. But Milly moy wailed Sascha our
baggage is at the first one!

So back we rushed at breakneck speed retracing our path
and finally arriving in familiar territory and at the blessed
station just three minutes late. Sascha was beside himself with
irritation and I wanted to quarrel to calm my nerves but he
would not and we went back to our hotel limp and exhausted.
We barely made the train the next morning missing our breakfast
and had no Polish money left. The Dining car refused to accept
Danzig gulders and we would have starved if a kind gentleman
had not changed some of our money.

We arrived at the Lettonian frontier about one in the
morning where we had to change trains and the station master
said the train for Riga left at two. So gaily we went into
the dining room and ate fraises de bois (they are still in
season here) and tea. In the midst of drinking it I had a
violent presentiment of disaster and said to Sascha hurry
we must get our train. He heeded the tone of my voice and
obeyed protestingly as it was only one thirty. Just as we
arrived on the platform a whistle blew and a little train
started slowly to move away. Is that the train for Riga asked
Sascha and yes it was. How we ran with our baggage! Its a
wonder we made it without accident. The time it seems changes
at the frontier by but we did not know of this till later.

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I could not believe we had arrived at Riga when we did at seven seven and no one was there to meet us as all had given up hope. Riga looked really very strange and far away with Droshkies again and barefooted peasants and bearded Jews and soon Sascha's fiancee arrived in a taxi as Sascha had telephoned and we all had a good time over a cup of coffee and rolls made with cardamum (like my grandmother's). Her name is Valeska Babbabrusky and she is charming as only Polish women can be.

Then after changing our money and taking a flying look at Riga we took the train once more and in an hour were here at Kemeniela. It is the quietest village immaginable in the midst of a Russian pine forest twenty minutes from the sea. Miss Babbabrushsky has a pretty little house here and a friend with her who is very like Jane Heep. The latter talks French very well and the fiancee talks excellent English. I am afraid I am not going to learn very much of either French or German or Russian, I am having too good a time in English.

So far we have done nothing but talk and eat and sleep. There is nothing to drink here but buttermilk but it is delicious and then there is black peasants bread which is wonderful and white Jewish bread, braided like a lady's hair, and apple cakes and cookies beyond compare. We plan to stay here a week and then go to Riga or some seaside resort. Yesterday it was cool I thought but all the inhabitants were complaining of the heat so I may not swim so much as I anticipated.

At night in the woods or rather in the evening the light is very strange and lasts till about nine. People seem rather to float than to walk and there is such an immense silence. I am very happy but almost poverty stricken. The Jane Heep girl works in an antique shop and has told me of such wonderful things it will be a shame to miss them. I had to buy a meerschaum pipe in Danzig and another pipe, one of the porcelains in Bavarian kind took my fancy too and here it seems there are still more wonderful pipes. I am coming back to France by way of sea to Havre and I am assured it will not cost more than fifty marks, if it does I will have to stay in Riga. I am not so anxious to return as Georges is in a terrible state. I am afraid he is going off to America with Florence after all and that will not be good for him. He has written me impossible letters which I can only blame on the weather and the fact that I took the translation away from him. Something had to be done about it but I fear he was very hurt.

Bradley has written me that my proofs are on the way but nothing about VanDoren except that he was writing to him. Thanks so much for your letter, it was waiting for me. Yes, could you please send me two of the snaps each, the one where I am laughing with you near Birillat-Savarin, the one alone at the table place which you said was good would be good and the one at the fountain with my glasses seated to Alice also seated. Much love to you and Alice and more hereafter,

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<table><thead><tr><th>ORIGINE</th><th>NUMERO.</th><th>NUMERIQUE DE MOTS.</th><th>DATE.</th><th>HEURE DE DÉPÔT.</th><th>MENTIONS DE SERVICE</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>Paris</td><td>31645</td><td>17</td><td>22</td><td>13h25</td><td></td></tr></tbody></table>

Vous verrai tSAMedi ouze heures dijjas
commode ëcrivez Permollet love

Brarig

Nº 701, av. 321 6r.

4 RUE DU DOME, XVII

August 8, 1938.

Dear Gertrude,

I have just finished reading Everybody's Autobiography and want to tell you how much I enjoyed it. Everybody told me it was a bad book and dull so I did not try to get hold of it; the other day at the Library I saw it and it interested me.

It is not at all like the other autobiography and personally I like it better, it is so solidly set and vigorous and stimulating. The view of America which is bird's eye but not -- as is generally true in that case -- bird's brain, was wonderfully done I thought -- it gave even me a patriotic feeling!

Did you see Elliot's book, Concert Pitch? It does not quite come off but there are good things in it. He combines Bernard and Irving Schwerke in the same character and the result is vitriolic. I think it might amuse you.

If you want I'll send you my last novel, Empire Over The Boy, which Bernard has got got over yet -- I'm afraid it did shock him. At the moment the mss is somewhere in Rumania with Derek Patmore but I am expecting him back in Paris soon and could send it on. I have just finished a play, too, but I am very doubtful about it -- so hard to judge it without seeing it -- and it's not a play to be read, but acted.

In any event, thank you for having written such a good book.

With cordial wishes to you both,

Sunday September 25, 1939.

Andilly.

Dear Gertrude,

Just a line of farewell. I wanted to stay on here and work in the Propaganda Department with Giraudoux but the Embassy said my passport would be revoked if I did so, and I don't see what other kind of job I could get. Dorland folded up overnight and didn't give me any indemnity -- they have treated everyone shabbily, including Francis, but I think it is mostly because they had not much cash on hand when the crisis occurred and of course, no one is paying bills. Some of our clients owe us many hundreds of thousands. Secondly, Valeska is expecting a baby in November and she couldn't enter any hospital here -- even the American hospital is French military -- and so all in all I thought I had better be returning to the States, although the uprooting has been particularly painful and complicated. I had the greatest difficulty in getting a visa for Valeska and it was only because I knew Ambassador Edge that I was able to get anywhere. I suppose Latvia will soon be wiped off the map and it will be all to the good if Valeska can get her American papers on time.

Fortunately, I was able to make use of my contacts with the couture here so that I am going over with a little job -- big in francs but small in dollars -- which will at least keep the wolf from the door and which will not take up all my time. I shall relish being my own master again after all these years. And I will be doing my bit for France because the French couture must be kept alive. After the last War it was shot to pieces and the cadres had to be painfully built up again -- this time an effort will be made to keep the working girls busy so that they don't forget their metier. I will present collections there -- inasmuch as buyers will not be able to come over -- and have a little perfume business to launch.

The last days of peace I watched over Francis because he was in a terrible state of nerves and he came out to Andilly to rest. I did all I could for him. Madame Bruyere liked the drawings he made very much and what a pity they were sacrificed. Well maybe not. I am taking them along and will try to sell them to Mrs. Chase. I think she was impressed by his work though Brunhoff just couldn't stand it.

We shall be sailing from Bordeaux on the Washington on Sept 29 -- eleventh wedding anniversary date. I am going with mixed feelings but not resigned because some force seems to be pushing me there. I didn't make the slightest effort to get passage -- it was practically given to me -- and here are hundreds desperately trying to get tickets. I hope you will write me to let me know how you are faring, my address for the moment will be care of Dora Miller, 183 Madison Avenue, New York.

With love to you and Alice,

P.S. Thanks says Jane for Prince and Pauper which I shall leave with your concierge.

Dec. 5, 1939

4 Rue du Dôme
Paris.XVI

Dear Gertrude,

There is a publisher's representative in town for a
week and she wants to see the mss. of the Empire. Could I
have back the copy you are reading, just for a few days --
I will return it as soon as she has finished it. I don't
like to make myself such a nuisance about this mss. but it
is the only one I have in Paris at the moment and I don't
like to muff what might be an opportunity of publishing it.

Don't bother to send the mss. back. I shall be in
the quarter on Wednesday or Thursday evening and all you
have to do is to leave it with your concierge. Don't even
bother to wrap it because I can put it in my portfolio.
As soon as I get it back which ought to be the following
Monday I shall return it to you as naturally I am keen
to know what you think of it.

Did you see in the editorial of the last New Yorker
there was a knocking boost for the new Faust?

mes hommages,

Feb. 6, 1940

23 Seventh Avenue,
New York.

Dear Gertrude,

Many happy returns of the day I should have remembered sooner and forgive me for having been so tardy. I am only just catching up on my correspondence. First I was so occupied with business that I couldn't do anything else, then when that eased up I plunged or was plunged into the giddy party life of this city and now that that is tapering off with people going South I am beginning to strike a proper balance between pleasure and duty.

You will be amused to hear I have become a 100% American, in love with my country to the point of being chauvinistic, mad about New York in particular. I don't regret having lived in Paris -- not at all -- but I am very very happy to be here. It has the feel of Paris in the twenties -- but different. Everyone is hard at work or hard at play and there are great doings in the air. I feel ten years younger and the illusion is helped by the presence of a baby in the house. Faustina Rosemary arrived the day after Thanksgiving, an extraordinarily delicately formed creature weighing scarcely four pounds but quite healthy and perfect. She has Valeska's beautiful eyes but otherwise resembles her sister very much. She has said papa to me twice though Valeska refuses to uphold this contention. I never thought I could get interested in babies but I certainly am in this one. She has real charm I think to maintain so much interest with a one-word vocabulary.

My business has been a fight and a struggle because there is a great campaign to break the sway of Paris in fashion and I have had to bear the brunt of it. Either Paris must continue to push and strive or she will lose the American market completely. It is as serious as that. But even if I am only making a bare living -- how the French francs melt away here -- I am doing that and that is something in this city where jobs are still very very scarce and very exacting. At least I am my own master and that is very agreeable after many years of the other thing. I write almost every day in the morning -- completely rewriting my play -- and I have loads of ideas. I want to write for the radio -- wonderful things could be done.

I see Elliot quite often; he lives around the corner and we are back to musicmaking with a vengeance. He has a superb accordeon and has gone out of his mind practically with playing boogie-woogie on it -- a new and very complicated form of swing. He still drinks terrifically and so does his wife but she can go him one better and I think that he has caught a tartar at last. She is very nice to me but she has a thin upper lip and I have had occasion to note how hard she is under the surface. She keeps Elliot pegging away at his hilarious mystery stories -- have you seen them? -- the new one called Hugger Mugger in the Louvre is very amusing. He finished a third one last week one morning and started the

2

fourth one in the afternoon. I was there the other evening,
playing Swedish folksongs --Elliot chose them to tease me --
and who walked in but Jolas and that odious bearded Whit Burnett.
Jolas had been out in Iowa visiting his brother and Burnett
in addition to his publishing activities (which are in a very
bad way I understand) is telling our tender American youth
at Columbia how to write short stories.

Paul Bowles has a wizened Early American look. He no longer
lives with his wife, who has quite a personality of her own,
but pays elaborate attention to her at parties especially
making protracted farewells. Paul wrote an opera for negroes
-- after Virgil -- but the negroes wouldn't sing it, didn't
like his negro talk.

In certain circles here Virgil enjoys quite a halo. There are
a number of young men who quote his witticisms and some of them
unfortunately try to imitate him. There is only one Virgil
after all and one is enough.

Pavlik is now considered the Old Master of Connecticut and
paints fogs. Charles Henri guides him about on occasional
sallies to the city and tries to keep up an atmosphere of
ritual around him.

I have been trying to do something for Francis here but I think
it will be quite impossible to arrange anything in advance.
If he could be on the spot I am pretty sure he could get some
sort of commission. There has never been so much ballet before.
I have been seeing a number of people and generally the mention
of Francis stirs up a wake of terror and delight. He did please
and he did get into trouble but I think most of the feeling
against him here is on account of his having forced the Mills
person on his friends. Among others I saw Henry McBride who
was very sweet and considerate. He told me that he had invited
Francis sight unseen to his conservative Coffee Club (that was
when Francis had just arrived) and when Francis arrived wearing
his red silk waistcoat he created something of a sensation.
The members wondered whether Henry had slipped at last...

The Museum of Modern Art has been turned into a thoroughly
commercial institution and is used in the realm of high politics.
Visiting Presidents from South American republics are given
elaborate receptions there etc. Monroe Wheeler is the big noise,
having evinced all his rivals and he is so forceful and such a
goetter among the millionaires that he has been nicknamed
Monroe Whelan. It seems that he actually makes the lists of
the people the Rockefellers may see and that he has had a
hand in fortifying the Rockefeller New York estate, so that
it could be turned into a concentration camp at very short notice.

There are a lot of ugly things going on in America and I think we
are going to have some unpleasantness over the Jewish question.
Business is on the whole very bad or feverishly good; everyone
is scared to death that Roosevelt will plunge us into war.
If the people have anything to say America will stay out whether
Hitler wins or not. If the Allies had paid their debts people

3

would feel differently but all that bitter feeling about money
has come up again, especially as taxes are going up and relief
is such an item in so many states.

Jane has turned into an American child with a French accent.
She is very happy here, has adjusted herself beautifully and
likes the language. She has started writing, much to my surprise,
and shows considerable talent. I too began in the school magazine.

It will be great fun if you come over and I hope you can. People
speak of you frequently and with affection and I really think the
opera could be given again successfully. There must be many
people like myself who would like to see it and never have.

Do give me your news and I'll promise to answer right away,

Best to you and Alice,

THE CHATEAU AND MONSIEUR JOUHEAUX

Aside from the annoyance of wasps hovering fusily over my glass of Pernod, I
thought the little country café was charming. I was the only customer -- vil-
lagers rarely came at noon -- but felt happy and expansive, as one does on a
vacation, and knew that after some judicious conversation with the Madame who
ran the place, I should eventually partake of the *pot au feu* which was simmering
on the stove inside.

I was sitting under a tree in front and as the café was built on a rise of land,
it commanded quite a view. I could just make out the Alps in the far blue haze,
while at a short distance below a small round lake blinked in the sun. At twi-
light, I thought, it must mirror the chateau, which stood on a hill of terraced
gardens rising from the shore.

The chateau was an old one, judging from its two squat towers -- pennants were
flying -- and the tawny color of its weathered stones. Despite the distance,
I fell quite in love with it and toyed with the idea of buying it, though I had
no fortune in prospect and only a few hundred francs in my pocket.

The idea was enough, however, to start a conversation with Madame, and she, hiding
a romantic heart under her bombazine-covered bosom, instantly pictured me as the
classic eccentric American seeking an ancestral background in France. She was
all information and curiosity, and only too glad to serve me some of her savoury
*pot au feu*. The chateau, called the Chateau de Grammont -- though the Grammonts
had sold it in the seventeenth century, or perhaps the sixteenth, she couldn't
remember -- was owned by an old lady who lived in the East wing and who was ex-
pected to die hourly. As she had fourteen nephews and nieces, it was sure that
the chateau would be put up for sale, because they could never divide the heritage
among themselves otherwise.

I seemed to have come along at a most opportune moment and perhaps when I had
acquired Grammont I would employ Madame as cook? In her youth, when life was
humming at the chateau, she had worked there as a kitchen maid, but the old chef
was dead now and she always could cook rings around him. I told her I was con-
vinced of her superiority -- judging from the *pot au feu* -- and when the chateau
should be mine, the job was hers.

We parted, best of friends, and I went off on my walking tour with another dream
in my knapsack.

That was ten years ago and it was only last week that I was once again in the
neighborhood of the chateau. I soon found out that History had been made during
my absence.

The old lady had lingered on much longer than anyone had thought she could.
Eventually, the chateau was put up for sale but no wealthy American snapped it
up. Times had changed. Wealthy Americans were selling chateaux, not buying them.

And then the consternation -- and in the cheap cafés, the exultation -- the chateau
was sold to Monsieur Jouheaux and his C.G.T. The may or the nearest big town,
Belley, fumed. And well he might! Imagine if the White House were sold to
Mr. Lewis and his C.I.O. That was the way the mayor -- a staunch conservative -- felt.

2

Monsieur Jouheaux did not arrive on the scene at once. Overnight, he had become a gentleman, a Director of the Banque de France, and he knew that a gentleman did not come to his chateau until it was ready for him.

Three of his henchmen, however, turned up and announced that Monsieur Jouheaux would come in a fortnight's time, to preside over a gigantic fête -- how the local C.G.T. lorded it over the local gentry! -- but it was only after the announcement had been made that they discovered the gardens were in a dreadful state, that flowers would not grow any faster for Monsieur Jouheaux than they would for God, and especially that the century-old chestnut trees of the driveway needed surgery if they were to survive any longer.

There was only one man in the whole countryside capable of handling the job, Monsieur Jean Leblanc, the florist of Belley, who looked like Strawinsky and was noted for his piety.

The C.G.T. henchmen swallowed their prejudices -- their Chief need never know he had ridden under chestnuts treated by a Catholic -- and called in Monsieur Jean.

They talked turkey to him -- the only way they knew how to talk. "Look here, Monsieur Jean," they said, "we're in a spot. The Chief is coming down here in two weeks for a big blow-out and the gardens have got to be fixed. Especially the trees on the drive. We've heard you're the only guy around who can do it. We've got the dough, we wont haggle over your price, but the work must be done in two weeks. O.K.?

"I can do the work with my helpers," said Monsieur Jean, "I will charge you reasonably. But to get it done in time we will have to work from sun-up to sun-down. No forty hour week."

Had Monsieur Jean asked an outrageous sum, that would have been all right, but to touch that holy of holies, the forty hour week, nothing doing. The man was crazy. He was striking at the very keystone of the C.G.T.

"Au revoir," said quiet Monsieur Jean.

But the henchmen remembered their orders, to get that chateau epic and span, inside and out, and they remembered the blasting and blistering fury of their Chief. The boldest of the three suggested telephoning him for special permission. (Monsieur Jean said later it was as if he had suggested telephoning the Pope.)

Monsieur Jouheaux was horrified, of course, -- they had finally managed to get past his barrage of secretaries -- and could see no way out of the dilemma because he could not countenance breaking that law.

Monsieur Jean interposed at this point. "But it's not against the law. In this 'département' the Prefect has ruled that the forty hour law does not apply to agricultural workers."

That settled it. As soon as Monsieur Jouheaux heard that he was within the law he ordered them to go ahead and work like slaves. There were so many important people coming down for the party at his chateau.

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They came all right in their long-snouted limousines and admired the chestnuts and the gardens which were like a small Versailles. The members of the local C.G.T. caught only a glimpse of the festivities, however, for Monsieur Jouheaux had his henchmen shoot them away to that little café I had visited, where they were treated to a few bottles of cheap champagne.

Madame, re-telling the event, was quite grim about it. (I had come back for a drink, but she had forgotten me.) "My husband, sir, was one of the first members of the C.G.T. and I, myself, had actually worked in the chateau. Imagine being refused admittance! Being treated like nobodies! Monsieur Jouheaux and his friends tried to act like grand seigneurs but they didn't know how. We country people know what grand seigneurs are like. At least, they have manners. Now, we no longer belong to the C.G.T."

"And the chateau?" I asked.

"It has fallen to Barcelona," she answered, "Just look."

I did and saw the ragged gardens teeming with a horde of shabby folk. Even at that distance, it seemed a strangely miserable sight.

Madame explained. "After Barcelona was taken and the refugees were pouring in, the Mayor of Belley telephoned the Government in Paris for permission to house them in the barracks, but the Government refused. Put them any place there's room, he was ordered. So he sent the four hundred of them to Monsieur Jouheaux's chateau and to-day the place is a shambles."

I paid for my Pernod and while waiting for the change, let a wasp sip the last green drop.

--Bravig Imbs
4 rue du Dôme,
Paris, XVI,
France.

United States Information Service,
APO 887, U.S. Army

Nov. 2, 1944

Dear Gertrude,

At last I can write to you! I have been in France since early in June and have often thought of you and wondered how you and Alice were faring. I understand from Georges that your pictures are all right, which is an incredible piece of luck. I am staying in Francis' flat which has been pillaged only slightly -- a few tables, andirons, a Picasso and some miniature and the chauffe-bain. Everything else is there.

I am a civilian attached to the army -- wear an officer's uniform -- as a radio man. I am on the air regularly -- but I don't think you can hear me yet. I set up the first radio station in free France -- in Cherbourg, shortly after its liberation. And I had the honor of opening the station. In the States, I worked for the Office of War Information and spoke to France every night. I wonder if you ever heard me. People in Andilly recognized my voice and so did a friend of mine in Abbeville.

You probably know that Francis has married -- a charming pretty and talented girl named Fredericka. I saw a good deal of them in London. Francis has painted some amazing pictures, est devenu un N恐er garcon range, talks for China Relief, is seriously considering politics and entering Parliament. He has a pleasant flat in Chelsea, is very poor but manages to get along with book reviews and various odd commissions.

I lived very well in New York, had a beautiful flat on Washington Square and gave lots of parties until the war caught up with us. We know have three children -- Jane, who is a tall young lady of fifteen, very brilliant in school and turning out to be quite a beauty; Kiki, who is my especial love, aged four, part elf, part clown, who paints every day; Peter, aged two, a platinum blond miniature Russian giant who is amiable and easy-going and very handsome. Valeska adores him.

I couldn't write a line in New York but now that I am in this town I feel like writing again and have a book in mind. It is a positive rejuvenation to be back here and alone. And I like being with the army very much.

Do let me know how you are, love to both,

23 Quai d'Anjou, Paris, IV

Jan. 27, 1946

Dear Gertrude,

Georges spoke to me about the rent of Francis' flat.

Of course I do not want to leave the flat until the
time comes to turn it back to Francis himself and I do not
want to stand in the way of Francis' getting money for the
flat either. As you know, when I first moved in I offered
to pay fifteen hundred francs *im* per month in addition to
the regular rent but Francis turned down this offer. I
am perfectly willing to renew this offer and as the exchange
has changed since to pay four thousand francs a month for
the flat. I will pay this sum each month on the first
but *XXXXXX* when I have to pay the "terme" I will pay
the difference between it and four thousand francs -- that
is approximately a thousand francs. The sum varies with
the different charges. I will start making *my* payments
as of February first -- if this arrangement is agreeably
to Francis.

I would write to him directly but since he has
approached you on the matter you no doubt prefer to write
to him yourself.

Let me know how the payments should be made -- by
cheque to Francis, by money order to you, by depositing
the sum to Francis' account at Barclay's, or by money order
in British money to Francis in London.

I shall be away in Monte Carlo most of this week
but I suppose you will not have an answer before then
anyway.

I do regret that you have been obliged to bother
about a matter that does not concern you directly -- but
je n'ay suis pour rian.

Hoping that Francis will find the offer satisfactory,
and with kindest best wishes to you and Alice,