THE AS STABLE PUBLICATIONS

125 ENGLE STREET
ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY

March second, 1927.

Darling Monie: Circumcision is a long and tedious process. Not that. But where there
is so little doing any more we must make the most of the coarser passtimes. Antheil
arrives tomorrow. I cannot determine whether that will be amusing really, or just a
basis for more riots, frantic vigils and bargainings for the milkman's dog. Oh, I
might have known that the milkman would work into this somehow. But never mind. Still
one can bear the greater burdens of poetic outburst. Who wrote this. I give you one
guess.

The wings of the ostrich wave proudly,
But are they the pinions and plumage of love? I knew

this sort of thing so well once. And I think it may come back. But what does one do
about the person who belongs to the "souls" and would have done so well and been con-
sidered so intellectual in 1899. The person who spots one for sympathy had rushes
over saying: A flower is a beautiful thing, but is it art? All this is terrible. And
you may gain such comfort as you can from the fact that Muriel (pardon) has a weeping
sinew. And it must be well for Glenway (the darling, how is he) to know that he is
secretly coveted by Max Ewing. Oh this is unexpressed, but nothing is subtle any more.
And it is uninteresting, but I tell you, I say unto you, that it is not amusing to
break hearts in quantity. Oh, Monie darling, It seems so long, so long and so cold,
since you went away. And I count days and watch the shipping columns for news of
ships maybe bringing me word of you. I cannot wait much longer. Oh, what would you
say and what would you think if someday suddenly I turned up in Villefranche. I
will not (I probably will not) but the temptation is so great. And could I say to
father: The person I love better than all Europe and the United States is far away.
Will you give me money to go to him! I don't know. Father is a grand and amazing
person. Sometimes I think that he might. And then I have not the courage to ask.
And, Monie, the picture you gave me is not very good. Will you send me some others.

I enclose another (some others) for you to keep and remember, Always your,

THE AS STABLE PUBLICATIONS

March fourth, 1927.

Oh, Monie darling, as the criminal is so often unequal to his crime, maligning and extenuating it, so am I unequal to illness brought on in the persuit of the sweetest thing I know. That last afternoon when I was caring little for the wide open window of your room I contracted a cold. I have now chronic bronchitis. Oh, not that it matters. Not that there is any blame to be placed. But it means that I have been ordered south, and further and further from you. Next Wednesday I sail for Bermuda. It is very cold and nasty here. Bermuda will be warmer. But it means that word from you will be delayed, that you will be more than ever just somewhere out in space. But do write to me. Here. All mail will be forwarded. I expect to return the first week in April, but that will depend on the condition of my lungs. No, dear, I have no T.B. Something serious might be worth while. I think this is very silly and certainly very uncomfortable. I tried, Oh I tried so hard, to get myself sent to the south of France, but everything conspires against me. I can give no reason of sufficient (apparent) importance for the trip. I am very miserable. But perhaps much golf and much salt water and much sun will be recompense. Oh, Monie darling, my darling, I wish I could believe that you cared as much as I care. I think sometimes that if you could have loved me enough to have never gone away that I would have died of the happiness of it. This uncertainty, this beating against cold doors, is deadening. It makes me numb. I feel very little contact any more. Oh, you like me, I hope you do. But what else. I ask you, but I am afraid to ask. And I sound extravagant as I must feeling so much love and hope and hatred and hope again for you and those things belonging to you and those things keeping you from me. Your telegram, all I have of you, I read over and over, but it might mean so many things. Dear Monie, write to me. Daily I expect to hear from you but nothing comes.

Always with more and more love,

Alene

gpl

March fourteenth, 1927.

Monie darling: I started to write you yesterday, but was forced to ab-
andon the project because downstairs there was a bridge party and the
shrieks and the squeals and clatter of female voices were too much for
me. I think that there was viciousness enough in the air! I was in bed
breathing gently when your first three letters were brought to me. Oh,
it was sweet to hear from you. They brought me so much comfort and so
much joy. I think that you must promise to be a regular correspondant.
There can be no excuse for your neglecting me now that you have begun
so well! As I wrote to Glenway the other day, I could not go to Ber-
muda because of sudden temperatures. And now I doubt if I go anywhere
at all for sunlight and rest and change of atmosphere. I envy you so
London and Paris and the south. I am green with the envy. It is hard
this being so far away from you. And November. That is so far away and
so uncertain. Write to me, my Monie, of positive things which will give
a feeling of contact with you, and a sense of your holding me so tight
and so tenderly in your arms again. Little things to remember are always
so sweet. And there are so many little things to remember in you. I wish
rather that you would not be so determined about sticking me into a myth,
for I can see that I am going to have a hard enough time to keep from be-
coming one. Illustrate whatever myth you wish, but do not make it cold.
They grow so often so impersonal and cold: I suppose it would be very
well if I attempted to become a "man of letters"; I think I should like it.
One cannot always be a plaything for the gods. Write it to me. How does one
set about all this. Monie dear, I love you so -
gpl

gpl

March eighteenth, 1927.

Englewood, New Jersey.

Monie darling: Thank you for "Adolphe". It arrived this morning. I have read it, but I can say nothing now. I would prefer to reread it before I say anything. The first reading left me emotionally upset. I am still a little upset, but will be subject to calm. Being calm and not subject to surprise I will get more of the nuance. Then perhaps I will write you about it. I will read it also in french if I can acquire the text. And do send me your translation of the preface. I am very anxious to see it! I wrote a wailing sort of paragraph to Bernadine about you. Maybe some sort of affection will save it. But I fear that she will be very bored. I adore you so. And yet it is not pleasant on paper. I cannot seem to write it so that when I read it it sounds as I feel. I might have made that sentence very Steinesque, but it is true. And so now, unless I get despair or similar uncomfortable emotion, I will not write it. Or at least so vehemently. And you will have to guess, or remember the avowal, of all those tender things I always think of you! The slender Szold finally had the grace to answer a letter. The same letter indeed that she received while you were with her and which you answered so beautifully. I am always glad you answered, but I am glad too that you did not do it for the three of you! I am quite a lot better now. At least I am permitted to go into New York and there refresh as best I may my few remaining sensibilities. A former friend, the boy of whom I may have spoken who has been under psychopathic observation, has turned up and is making havoc. Almost anything might happen. But I am resolved to keep out of the courts of law. Support me, and never forget me and always write to your devoted

THE AS STABLE PUBLICATIONS

March nineteenth, 1927.

Monie darling: You are an angel. Over and over again you are the same and the only one. I expected a letter from you this morning. None did come, but a little package containing gloves was opened amid the acclaim of the household. You are very sweet. They are a delight. But, like myself when infant with my animal crackers, I want to play with them. Not daring to wear them lest they get soiled. But I will wear them and be the envy of the greater city. And you will probably see notice of them in the "social" columns of the Paris Herald. Watch out! The tedium of this place and all places at hand is appalling. One's parents are forever urging one to rake leaves or cut animals out of Ivory soap (to give to children) or paint pottery for Garden Club activities. I am going stark and annoyingly mad. There is only one nice and satisfactory person left. My friend Adlai, whom I have known forever, who does pamphlets with me, and who has to put up with very much the same sort of parental annoyance that I encounter. There is a great bond of sympathy. And I have gotten for him a copy of "Adolphe". This afternoon I am going to reread it! Dear Monie, November seems so far away. Even though the spring has commenced here, and birds twitter, it is very lonely. Often in such states of mind I will take H.D. or Swinburne or Eliot or G. Stein (varied reading and an unholy combination) and drive out of sight of houses and calm myself. I think I will do that now! I have acquired a copy of The Bitterns. Love to Glenway. I will write him shortly.

Always your devoted,

gpl

March twenty-fourth, 1927.

Glenny dear: I appreciate endlessly your two letters, written without having heard from me. But, by this time, I think you will have heard from me. You will have received from me (from my precarious forefinger) some sort of intelligence. Always serving as a souvenir, serving to remind you of too few (and a little hectic) meetings. I cannot appreciate your descriptions of your south. Envy consuming me, I might curse you for being "in the revelation of this nature and this nature and emphasis and cultural notation". I have never been in the south, your south, but conversation and imagination is sufficient as an explanation of my envy. And you swore never to let me visit you. (My verbs are playing deplorable tricks on me these days. My spelling is often based on old Dutch custom. My punctuation is my own affair.) And I cannot appreciate your suspicion that I may find reason to bear you a grudge on your return. Would you explain all this to me, or better still forget it. One's equals (what are one's equals) are available, but not immediately apparent. Without them existence assumes incongruous aspects, and is sometimes but seldom. For instance. I meant to add the word amusing to that other sentence. For instance. When members of fathers flock ask impertinent questions such as: Are you doing any writing now? Yes. What are you doing? I am writing the libretto to an opera called "Washington in Tears" which deals with Washington's 'love life' during the battle of Trenton. Mary Garden is going to play it in Dublin next winter! And now I ask you, am I justified. And am I justified in conducting dissertations on Palmerston (for example), of whom I naturally know nothing, to the sons of family friends who inflict on me random impressions and current scandal about Gladstone. Am I responsible for being impolite when other

gpl

Englewood imbeciles (notably successful civil engineers and bankers) inform me that atrocious pictures in the Constable manner are more magnificent and would be more so if the artist (misleading word) had known that never did seven men work in the same corner of a corn field. These are my domestic woes. They are fortunate only in so far as they permit me to perfect myself in conversational (rather than written) fiction. The detail is often appalling. Is this amusing. A little, but frightfully childish! I speak often with people of you. Every one is most pleasant about it. Every one says nice things (including Muriel as you know). But that woman Markhan (Dreiser's ex-mistress, that one) besides being incredibly dull is a cat and a cat without the advantages of the feline! I search your letter for clues! Yes, I thought afterward, that you are important. I suppose there is no reason why such an observation to Monie should be a confidence. "The Apple of the Eye" is a swell book. I have all of you now that I know about including "The Bitterns" ($5.00) as I wrote to Monie! It may amuse you to know that the first pamphlet I published (Genesis of Peace by Paxton Howard) which I gave away has done extraordinary things. I had four hundred copies, sent about 150 through the mails, had well over 200 confiscated by an irate headmaster, and have only four left. Yesterday I heard from a book shop in Baltimore (in response to an adv.) offering to sell me a copy of it for $18.00. Soon there is going to be a panic in the book market! And now, this is enough. Long letters can be so dull. I adore you for answering anybody's letters from me, and for other reasons. Monie answered a letter to Bernadine. You answer letters to him. He is so bad. A tease. And not (for me) immediately malleable as I had hoped from the colour of his eyes. I will write him later today or tomorrow.

Much love,

gpl

April twenty-seventh

Monie darling: A card from you, no more nor less. But I find even that charming,
ing, for I can always and with little difficulty recall the event of your
chesty eyes. Also. It amazes me how much intelligence you can crowd into the
small space which the postal architect reserves. Please now. I wrote to the
one Glenway the other day as much as I could remember about my health. But I
will say that, anticipating the giggles of the M.D., I asked Adlai's (very
beautiful) sister if I were aenemic. She said (emphatically): NO! So there.
And again. Everybody over here is absolutely insane. Adlai leaves tomorrow
for Santa Fe in a Chevrolet to buy Indian rugs for Helena Rubenstein. Oh,
the boy will die of it. And I (apparently) have a choice of going to the
Berkshires to the township where I spent nine early years of my life, to Atlan-
tic City for no good or earthly reason, or of joining the chorus of the new
Grand Street Follies. But I think that I shall just sit at home and be as
passive, perfect, original and replete with personality as I can manage. This
should be some one else speaking. And I am a little annoyed because I think I
have made a very rank impression on your (collective) friend L. Morris. The
presence of Max seems always to inspire in me a flippant disregard (or disre-
spect) for his companion (s). It must be true, for he seemed so surprised when
I accused him of it. Ah well. I am lunching with the L.M. Friday, alone I think;
perhaps, left to my own solemn protection things will go better! And I say. I
will read anything at all that you may choose to send me. Even if it involves
learning new languanes. You should have a language all of your own: I have in-
vented a splendid tradition for the Bryn Mawr faculty. Wait till you hear it. And.
Write to me more often, and less decisively and didactically literary, for I do
adore you.

THE AS STABLE PUBLICATIONS

May sixteenth

Monie darling: I have realized for some time now that you were going to object to my letters, that you were going to demand plain English, that you were going to demand a complete account or no account at all. And now that you have objected, saying that the nicest thing about some letter or other of mine was the perfume, I feel that I must make an effort to alter my ways. And so I shall. And so I might have done, before you had a chance to object, if only I were not so lazy. So loth to change my ways. But again I hardly know where to begin. Should I say, for example: Last Saturday I went into town quite early with mother. After shopping for sometime in the larger stores, which is always distasteful to me, we had lunch, and after lunch we went to the Silver Cord. And that was unfortunate for the play is about "mother love" and I had a great deal of assuring and reassuring to do. It was a very unwise selection. Then mother left me. And I discovered Adlai together with Jane and Muriel on the scene of Jane's Machine Age exposition which is due to open this week. We left them. I dined with the Harbeck's. Adlai went to the theatre with Everett and I went to another theatre alone. At 11:30 I met Adlai at Child's. We ate, went to the midnight show on Low's roof and went back to Park Ave and spent about three hours planning an advertising campaign for Tecla. By that time we were well into Sunday. Do you want to hear about Sunday. I hope not. I find all this very very stupid. And since nothing happens here often - such, for example, as Strawinsky auditions and "poses plastiques" - I find it difficult to write news. And I have only two prospects. I will write you of "The Grand Street Follies" and of "The Machine Age Exposition" when I have seen them. But I am afraid that you will have to expect to receive the same old kind of letters, unless you prefer no letters at all, in the intervals between the few events worthy of mention. For I cannot write a catalogue, like this above, ever again. Even to thee, dear heart, All these requirements make me very sad. But if ever there is anything particular of which you desire news that I can give you do ask for it. I have not stopped adoring

you.

Devotedly,

July eighth -

Englewood, New Jersey

Glenway darling:

Thank you for thanking me for thanking you for sending the book. Like a lover
to Max. Only that is not exactly what I mean. I hope that that is not what I mean. Max has
been always very sweet to me, I think he has, and I am very fond of him and that should not
take me from your heart. And I think it pleases me, even as he pleases me (knowing my sever-
al attitudes, though not my capacities, for sensuality) when speaking of IT, that you are
pleasant about him in spite of Firbank and sideburns and Morris' policies. Which leads me to
remark that if that man takes for granted any such approaching episode as you suggest I will
meet his S.S. and he will be not particularly glad to see me. That is not exactly a threat,
especially as Paxton would have meant it and written it (spreading indiscriminate VALEs all
over the sheet), but I can be very disagreeable, and strangely enough most disagreeable when
it is to my own disadvantage. I will send you Max's music one day when I have had a chance
to buy it, that is if I do not forget. I deplore these my wearying proclivities.

Is this too republican.

Again, even as it must weary you, I am just tired. And I can hardly care. My
future (my darling hopeless future) must be taken care of and I do not know how, nor do I
find myself very curious. Immediately I am going to Columbia (detestable place) again. This
time to learn retail bookselling. But that will be all over and finished by the first of Aug-
ust, and then what. Perhaps I shall try to get at some "SMALLER" bookshop, and then open one
myself. But I have no desire to sell books all my life. THE APPLE is staring me in the face.
Haven't you a suggestion. And what about the active resistances.

Let me hear everything about Septentrion. Everything. And I would remind you:

> If you like it before it is written, and if you wish, I might make you a present of it . . .
> I admire it. I adore it. And I do wish it. I've got to acquire self-confidence. At present I
> am too well described by M. Valéry . . . "moitié d'une amour trop pareille à la faible amitié"
> Thay is precisely what I mean. I come in somewhere and sometime but my cue has never been dis-
> covered.

2.

I am just back from those two weeks in Norfolk, during which sojourn I received from you, as you have probably guessed from my answer, the most disturbing letter it has ever been my lot to read. And I am just back from two days in that pallid city, New Rochelle, where I most unsuitably celebrated Independence Day. There is a great deal about a $10,000 display of fire works that disturbs me. There is very little in innumerable (huge illuminated) American flags that is pleasing. And surely what scant patriotism I have is not augmented. The rest was pretty enough, or noisy enough, but it only lasted an hour and now there is nothing but chared paper floating in the sound.

I am sorry that the silver prints I sent caused any concern. I am quite well physically. All that remains of my earlier illness (which, as it happens, was much more serious than I was permitted to know at the time) are nerves. I suppose you know all about those, and you will guess that they had something to do with the condition into which I worked myself calmer after receiving that letter. I am becoming calmer, how much I cannot tell, and I am not wan and haggard. I will try to be photographed soon just to prove it to you. That since you are sweet enough to be concerned.

Never mind about Morris now. Later, and under more favourable conditions, we can settle anything that needs it. No matter what anyone says or thinks, I love you best. And I shouldn't think that I would be involved in anything of importance that might affect you from that quarter. Let it drop now. It takes so long to get an answer to a letter to Europe.

Give my love to the sweetest Monie and to Bernadine. You might suggest to them that they write me, or you might give them P.S. room on one of your letters. I can never forget the excess of emotion I went through for that young man. Don't let him forget me.

Devotedly,

gpl

July twenty-ninth

Glenway darling:

"George child", a moderately expectant young man, is free again. Free to write to you, free to lavish more attention and more or less sympathy and certainly less money on that Paxy, free to catch up on sleep. Columbia is finished now. And there will be no more early rising and no immediate thought of incunabula. Though other excursions into this retailing will be soon necessary.

Please think of lots of irrefutable arguments in favour of my opening a shop in New York. That is what I want to do and, I think, what I must do, for if I open in Englewood I will undoubtedly be unhappy with a dour and acrid sort of unhappiness. I dislike this place so. The city might bring more trade; it probably wouldn't, but it is always amusing. And I cannot exist on the profits alone.

And then I, "George child" if you like, am so subject at this time to those revulsions of which my less favoured friends continually speak. I have been living calmly in Adlai's and rather less calmly though pleasantly in Paxton's company lately. I have been so nicely tempered. The jolts are just so much harder.

For everything that happens to me now comes in the nature of a jolt. I am peaceful. Then Paxton turns up, having run away from home, and, refusing to make application for funds to his family, becomes our responsibility. He is a school friend we had not seen for three years; perhaps I have spoken of him to you. I am enjoying him now in that uncomfortable way. But worse than that is the sudden reappearance in my morning mail of the bitch chatter. Sailors. Camp. The North Shore's inner secrets. Love among the Portuguese fisherman. Those things which make word from you increasingly important and welcome. Moonlight and Monroe and Septentrion and a bit of that travesty which you deprecate are so much more pleasant.

In reply to the first part of your letter I can only say: I adore you. And, I think, on that basis many pleasant things will happen. In reply to the last part of your letter I say the same. I might say a variety of things, pleasant and precocious and personal, but **gpl** I am going to save them. My delivery will be bad, but, at least, it will not sound like a recitation. A little of the right kind of perfume will carry me far.

And so it is all over with Lloyd now. All over for you and I expect over for me though there was nothing more than a beginning. A beginning of what I cannot say. Not that I would not. And I can be just glad that there is nothing more than a beginning, for it is unpleasant to "get over" a person with whom one has no quarrel. To have to so break. He was exceptionally nice to me inspite of my rather impudent manner and facetious disregard. I like to have strangers like that. I like to have them like me (I suppose he does) after such an overture. But ...

Here is where I am in need of a guide to conduct. He says he is "curious and concerned" about my attitude to him when he returns. Is he? And what attitudes do you suggest. I think that is for you to say, for if you have quarreled with him (as you admit), and if I am concerned in some way in the quarrel (as your letters would lead me to suspect), and if I am all for you (as I am bound to be although it is really none of my business), what can I do. So please advise.

I enclose the adv. from The Publishers' Weekly. You may have seen it. At any rate it is the first one I have seen and so I send it on. I have ordered my copies and am having a bad time of it while waiting. It annoys me that Terence Holliday has read it and I have not. That, however, has nothing to do with you probably. This printed part of you together with what I have seen of and heard from you makes you just so much more perfect and valuable to me.

Give my best love to that Monie and To the Szold who suggested that you come my way. I am always and more and more

Devotedly

Great Barrington, Massachusetts

September eighth -

Glenway darling: Without prejudice I knew, when I began this letter yesterday, that things, the view, the light, were part of its destiny. Always so far. And that pencil and the roughest sort of pad were not a part. From the car, which I had been driving all day in a maudlin fury, and which was perched precariously, almost above the well-favoured Wyantenuck courts where my brother, blond and sixteen, and others were playing indifferently but with, to me, amazing grace, and the hills, at false distances, were irresistible in the sun, I could see the winter. Perhaps I shuddered a little. The late summer here is so clear and crisp. And the lore of this country, such as it is, is so lonely and lovely. And, as usual, things reverse themselves for me. The anodyne first. The pain, the sultry moments, the whole frantic winter, comes afterwards. And, as usual, I will not realize that it does not suffice! At the moment, with card table and somebody else's typewriter and a good fire, I lose a little. The contrast is not great enough. And I can be as smug, or domestic, and, God knows, maternal, as a number of young men whom I do not admire. And the adorable, with a little gusto and a great deal of well-placed affection, will refuse to be disgusted, or a little alarmed. And I will never be quite able to understand why it all is for my memory and uncomfortably persistent desires, even desires that have become tempered beyond the point of consideration, though that does not go so far, have a way of becoming lost. And those too, lonely. I will never know, I suppose, somehow discounting endless voluntary explanations and sinister and mystic aids, why all these things have happened. God knows, a rather tired and architecturally inclined deity knows, that I had nothing to do. In fact, that I might really have committed that unthinking suicide that I supposed I had. And that I can no longer believe. And all of which puzzles me, and which is to be a sort of foundation to my immediate activities. And I wish I had some one to forgive something not quite without my comprehension. And I wish I knew where I am going. Any decision now is bound to be colourless.

All my love,

gpl

VIA NEW YORK

S.S. AQUITANIA

October 26th.

Monroe Wheeler Esq.

Guaranty Trust Co.

3, rue des Italiens

PARIS

France

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TELEPHONE: ENGLEWOOD 4466

GEORGE PLATT LYNES'
PARK PLACE BOOKSHOP

ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY

December thirty-first

Dearest Monie: I fancy it's a good thing that the year is almost over.
It has been a time full of unexpected things; full of tempers, enter-
prises, outrages; filled with formidable images; not without a cer-
tain reward. At this time last year I was still quite unaware of the
importance of your existence. This time, this year, things are much
the same. As I had left college, and created a sullen sort of havoc,
I'll leave this place. Do you see, dear. Having known you, as I might
not have done, has been to me a consolation, a justification of my
own intuition, more than compensation for the neglected academic
opportunity. The fact that I feel lost now is of immediate, but
scarcely devastating, importance. I know only that, feeling as I
do about it, I will not be here much longer. And the situation, which
resembles last year's so closely, differing from it in only two as-
pects, that fact that I leave this time with plans, that I am a bit
the wiser for having suffered (comparatively, I suppose) a little,
is provocative. This time, as last time, I promise myself no consol-
ation, no justification, no compensation. They came to me before as
the gift of heaven. They will come again partly as a gift, partly as
the result of guidance and of effort. To me Europe is almost synony-
mous with promise. I was very happy in, or rather was rewarded by,
Paris at eighteen. At twenty-one I may see things I overlooked before
At that age a difference of three years is in itself a promise. I

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2.

TELEPHONE: ENGLEWOOD 4466

GEORGE PLATT LYNES'

PARK PLACE BOOKSHOP

ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY

look to a Europe without you. Think of the margin of surprise and pleasure. Though, as Glenway says, not daring to anticipate them will make a lonely trip! But perhaps not, after all. Your wire has just come. And, although I had not expected it, I was astonished to find how little I was surprised. I assure you that I was a great deal less surprised than I was, when at Muriel's for tea last Monday, to see Lloyd. I have gone there so many dozens of times, knowing that he was friendly with Muriel and more particularly with Esther, and never encountered him. I seem to have been under the impression that it was an institution to which he did not subscribe. Apparently he does, though I know nothing of the frequency of his visits. That Deric, whom Wesson accuses of smelling of cooking, has been there every time I have for the last several weeks, and it was with him that Lloyd bore down on that heterogeneous, small company composed of Muriel, Esther, Adlai, Edgar Leo, and myself. He seemed a little amazed to see me.

I was stupefied. I said: I've not seen you for a long time. He said: Call me up sometime and we'll have dinner together. Deric said, speak-not to me but to Esther: Dear, dear Una, Sir Donald is dead in the Ukraine. So. But I did not telephone him; he telephoned me, the very next day. And I, taken by storm, feeling a little malicious and no end curious, accepted. With the result that the messenger who took the reply to your wire took one to him, pleading an unexpected fam-ily party. Monie dearest, to no one but yourself would I allow such power. I could not feel, in accepting the invitation, that I was

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3.

TELEPHONE: ENGLEWOOD 4466

GEORGE PLATT LYNES'

PARK PLACE BOOKSHOP

ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY

spiting you. I could not feel that I might annoy or harm you, for I
was determined not to speak of you. Were you afraid I might? Did you
think that he, having the cleverness with which he is accredited,
having the maliciousness of which he is accused, might prey upon the
feeling I have for you? Did you think that I would easily lose the
contempt and pity I feel for him in his liason with that ineffectual,
transparent-mouthed, automatous, ugly, oblivious, little brat! I think
you had better tell me every single thing there is to know about that
man. It may be a help to me on future occasions? On the other hand,
I find Wesson being faithful in his fashion. I have had telegrams
from Washington, from Atlanta, and from New Orleans. He is sad, a
little oppressed by a confusion of flowers, negro porters, and dirt.
I am afraid that it will be rather a shock to him when he realizes
the uselessness of it all, when he realizes that life in Englewood is
no more fatuous, is no less productive, or rather no less conducive
to that sort of production which springs (spontaneously it is to be
supposed) from an acquired seventeenth century. It's obvious that he
will never be a scholar. Why must he be so indistinct? Why will he not
cultivate those charms he so obviously possesses; become a drawing
room ornament, a New Criterion critic, perhaps a father? My talents,
obscured as they are, are not his, but, except that he is economically
lucky, his situation is much the same. We are both victimised by the
insecurities. But I can be cured in a way that he cannot. An intel-
ligent seascape would do worlds of good! Dearest, please do not be

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4.

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impatient. I will finish with all this shortly. The letters I write
are tricks of destiny in any case; this one is as near to being destin
itself as any I have known! The telephone rings. I answer. It is
Lloyd. He has not yet received the wire I sent twenty minutes ago.
He asks if I will dine with him Friday instead of Monday. I do not
know. I will telephone him tomorrow. (Maybe not.) Isn't it the devil?
My hypothetical little family party is going to be a nuisance when I
meet him, quite accidentally, in town Monday evening. And it will
take more than Adlai's smile to reassure me, and more than his amuse
ment to discompose me. I think I'll be ill until after you have re-
turned. It's such an excuse. I feel now a bit excited. It would be
so easy for me to work up, for my own sentimental gratification, a
conspiracy, a romance, in which you were the here, Lloyd the villain,
and I, disputed territory, rather weak and coy, a sort of Jennifer
Lorn. Perhaps the victory would be too easy. A victory of a million
kisses. The actuality would be too sweet. Things like that do not
happen to this boy! I am afraid that I have neglected to thank you
for the miracle of those red socks, for the ring which I am wearing,
for the ties which I will not wear until you are present to see the
effect. I appreciate them so much. Everything you have touched is
a souvenir, and you, a Midas without desire . . . I desire. I envy.
I feel not at all deserving. I too.

All my love, dearest, there is no more . . .

Monroe Wheeler Esq.

La Cabane

Villefranche-s/ Mer

Alpes Maritimes

France

Monroe Wheeler Esq.

Guaranty Trust Company

3, rue des Italiens

PARIS

France

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February seventh

My dearest:- Your lettres-ocean have just arrived. There is more to say than that, but here and there, republican English having fallen into disrepute, you will find a phrase that will convey comfortably those things that would corrupt a substantial discourse. To thank you once and once again . . . much more cannot be said! I'll fetch the spoon. There will be no difficulty in that, I fancy. And will send it to you, guarded by a book shop label. Careless, careless, my darlings! And, oh I am pleased enough, I may see you sooner than all that. In fact, if little things do not miscarry, I will be able to leave here, let us say, April first. I notice that the Rochambeau sails again on April fourth. Everything depends on one female in whom I, at the age of six, roused a considerable maternal instinct. She has never gotten over it which would be excuse enough for her remaining involuntarily single and virgin. I cannot tell. I can but pray! I really do not know whether or not the book is started. There exists at the moment a note book about a quarter full of things not to be forgotten, and that is formidable in a way. And it is bound to grow. Fancy turning Gurdjieff into pantomine. But, as I may have said, I do not intend to start the writing of it in this place. The sooner away the better. I would be afraid of so many things: interruption, local architecture; nothing keeps its distance, things here are either too close or too remote! I gave Bravig Imbs a letter to you to mail

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February twentieth

My darling: I've quite deliberately not written these last few days.
Please understand. So many things are almost happening, and I feel
that, if I take them too lightly or too much for granted, there may
be catastrophe. I think I have written that I am on the point of sell-
ing the shop. If it goes through, and I should know any day now, I
will be not only free but several thousand dollars to the good. My
impatience is suffocating. Add to that the fact that I have been in
a dark bed these last two days with my annual sinis. I have felt that
my skull would split under that incessant pounding. This morning it
is better, though, like the poor, it is always with me. There is snow
now, and an incredible dampness. Soon I will be far from these things.
Far away . . . somehow or other. My plans are rather vague. Wesson can
not leave before the first of May. I will probably be ready sooner.
It's a question whether I will wait for him here or over there. I
cannot see that it matters much. That, at least, is one problem that
time and a little transcontinental mail can solve. There aren't many.
I will keep you informed, of course, of whatever may happen. I am
quite sure that things are progressing for me, properly and advantage-
ously now and for the uncertain future! I am getting along nicely, I
think, with the book. All those people seem surprisingly real in their
altered characters. I am awaiting answers to several questions about
it. I should have them soon. The first mail from you should come to-

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morrow. Another impatience. There are so many things, gestures and
phrases, of Muriel's that I suddenly remember. I am usually so amazed
by them that I nearly forget to write them down. The importance of
"a little fever", the slovenly indifference to others' embarrassment.
I am resolved to call her Cunegonde. But there is a difficulty, a lit-
tle one. She must have a pet name. Have you any suggestions? I think
I will enclose a list of names. For the most part rather appropriate.

The dots . . an interval of an hour. I flattered six plumpish women,
took in about thirty dollars. And, while all that is very nice, I find
the headache has returned. XXX I'll not write more now. The list of
which I spoke I'll send later. Write to me, my darling; the beds at
home are haunted. I always want and want to see you.

Your

~~fug~~

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March fifth

My darling - I had to give up reading just now . . all because of you.
My eyes would steal little by little from the page and suddenly they
would be looking into yours. And I became confused. There were three
darknesses: the sombre magnificence of the photographed you, the som-
bre impatience of the book, the sombre irridescence of an afternoon
filled with wind and snow. Your double gaze warms me now, saves me
perhaps from the whistling at the window, from the malice of at least
one woman. If it were warmer, there would be a thunder storm. If it
were warmer, I would be having the joy of seeing you, and all this
that holds me would have disappeared.

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March fourteenth

My darling - First I read: "Bravig says sometimes you are nice and sometimes not so nice, but you used always to be nice." Would that not demonstrate what happens to a young man when a young man, in this case one unaccustomed to the less terrifying darknesses, tries to break through the Picasso crust of the rue de Fleurus with a water pistol.
Let him look to his guns. Two days should be enough to regain the victory. Then I read, for child-like I save the frosting for the last:
"I am very proud . . . ". Your letter is wonderfully fragrant, a sweet for which I have hungered. I would rather have had it this morning than any other thing in this world, except yourself, always that. And I love the pictures. There is admiration for the blond and stalwart nakedness of L.W., but a vast preference for Glenway's faun-postures and your ease among the dandelions. There have been no new pictures of this one since your departure. I think I remember sending an old one, cut out of the Berkshire School (1925) class book. I hope you managed to overlook the blond abortion on the reverse side! It is too soon, as yet not soon enough. I am calm, too calm, almost insensate; things are going passably well. Father, with infinite patience, resource, and sympathy, has decided to put an impossible price on the shop. Any one who wants it will have to want it a lot. It is to our advantage to get somebody to run it for us. All that, and over and over again, which

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you have heard before. I'll not go into it further! I am reading, all
at the same time, Corydon, Moore's Héloïse and Abélard, and E. Wylie's
new one. There is lots of time for it. What more! It is my misfortune
that Gertrude Wolcott, in whose breast the infant George roused an
equivocal emotion, has no intention of endowing me, or anything else.
How could I have given that impression. There are to be no simplific-
ations just now. If the skies were not grey and the pavements damp
and the theatres dull and people bad tempered . . etc. As it is I
am subscribing to a new (little) book of Gertrude's and am having it
sent to you. It will not appear until May or June and my address, that
time this year, is uncertain. I will probably reach you first; if I
shouldn't, just save it for me.

So much love to you, dearest, from

Important P.S. I am ordering several suits from London which I am
having sent to Paris. Will you please find out for me the duty on such

gpl

March fourth.

Dearest.

What could be lovlier than to find three
small packages besides one's breakfast plate, all
addressed in your handwriting, all containing books.
I hardly know which I loved more, the books which
are so handsome, or the little inscriptions. It has
been such a bad week. I think that I need you nearly
all the time. So I thank you, rather lamely and
without half the explanations, but with all my heart.

Photography has gone rather stale, and my
life here rather sour. But, I think, that is only be-
cause I am so very tired. I cannot remember when I
last wrote to Monie; it seems weeks ago. And I had
a lovely letter this morning from London. Explain
for me that from hour to hour, and from day to day,
there have not been ten consecutive free minutes,

ten in which to write even a postcard. I have thought
of wiring; perhaps I should. You will understand how
busy I have been. In the last ten days I have taken
well over 150 pictures, 8 sittings of which 6 mean
money; the others were Marie and Sansone. Kirkland,
one of the 6, has paid for last summer's prints, and
I have taken him again . . this time for the movie
magazines. Marie is giving a ball at Webster Hall, and
wanted pictures for the newspapers. These two rush
jobs, on top of all the others, which are by no means
finished yet, have left me gasping. I think that even
when I am able to write at length, I'll not be able to
remember half of all I want to say. May and the De
Grasse are sentimentally far away, but financially
they are near, and financially I am not very strong. If
it weren't for my debt to father. But I am trying to
say too much. This evening Lloyd and I are giving a
large party, and of course all the preparations fall
on me. My party after all. Left alone, he would never
think of such a thing. This time I am buying the gin,
but I believe that the cause is good. A long letter
when that and the next job are finished. How I wish
I were seeing you this evening, instead of that mob.

gpl

March twenty-fifth

Dearest . . It is only two hours since you left, two
hours full of astonishment. I have been too busy to
brood over our separation. Thank God for that. As I
left the hotel I found a very charming note from Ber-
nard Fay, inviting me to tea on Thursday. At the bank
I found 12,896 frs ($500) from father; I am bewildered
and amused. He took it for granted that I would need
at least $100 to pay my debts here. What a surprise for
him. I bought my passage; there was no difficulty about
that and I thank you. When I found out how much father
had sent I cashed your cheque into dollars which I, at
least, think a brilliant idea. And enclosed, my dear, is
something. Forgive me if I feel rather smarty about that.
Will you mail it back to me. I want it on file. Jean B.
is dining with me tomorrow. I dropped in on him this
morning. He looks like the wrath of God. That is all.
I have still many things to do; I do prefer to be busy
now.

Soon, dearest, soon. I adore you.

Ego.

is the Greek book you have. The evening with Moreland
and Herndon was a success. I like them; they liked Ger-
trude gp1 who, thank God, was at her most amiable.
I had tea with them yesterday, and they said something
about dropping in here today. The tea with Bernard Fay
was delightful. I think he liked me; at any rate he asked
for my address and said he would look me up when he comes
to New York in the fall. Even Kate Hardy, now that I am
leaving, is all sweetness. You know, dearest, that I
did not expect you to miss me. I did not know that I
would not miss you and not want you to miss me. I am
glad for that. And I know now that I can never lose you.
I feel no pain in having you away from me. Nothing but
the goodness and the beauty of our love remains. I need
no other nourishment, no other love. As for love-making
I must now accustom myself to abstinence or find some
sensible solution. I hardly know how to break the news
to my body that you are away . . . I do feel rather lub-
ricious . . . but I think I will not do anything foolish.
Louis G-V is the only suitor I have now, at least the
only obvious one, and his insistence is rather mild, that
is not troublesome. I have at moments a bad conscience
about my letter to Glenway. If I have done wrong, I am

fundamentally wrong. It flowed out of me like water
out of a pump. I saw Jacques again afterwards; even my
farewell to him was painful. He seemed to cling to me,
begged me to write. He has the impression that you will
be in America in June. I am not so optimistic but hope.
Have you decided anything. I will send this to Seville
on the chance that it will reach you there. I suppose,
in any case, that it would be forwarded. My love to all.

Your adoring

March 30th, 1929.

Dearest ... I love my cigarette case. It is one of the prettiest I have seen, and I am continually afraid of losing it. I ought to be able to forget the unpleasantness; I want to. Let it go at that. My memories of you must be whole and good; if they were not, perhaps I might not love you as I do. I am lunching with Desbordes today. Cocteau does not arrive here until Monday. Our friends, Moreland and Herndon, left early this morning for Munich. We spent the evening together yesterday. Maratier and Florence T. visited on cooking a dinner for me (it was pretty bad); we all met afterwards at Le Bateau Ivre. There I danced and talked with Kiki. She was sober and completely charming. We had a good time and left at eleven-thirty. Peter Teigen's drawing of me has appeared in The Hound and Horn over the caption "Athlete". Now I ask you. It is not the least flattering he might have called it, but "Holy Roller" would have done as well. I have sent a package containing the Picasso drawings, Grischa, and the case of your Gilette, to the Welcome ... recommandé. I wonder if that will make complications, or can somebody there sign for it. How is Bernardine?

Leather suit aside. Is she reconciled to the fate of being poorly
(comparatively poorly) dressed? The pictures you sent were vague
enough. I decided the woman without a head must be Barbara (my love
to her), you look cross, and Glenway as if he needed to see a doctor.

Is the woman in the mist Bernardine? Not that I do not love them and
want more you understand. Nancy Perrie, who used to live with Floren-
ce, is, it appears, the daughter of the vice-president of Lord and
Taylor's; I saw her for a moment yesterday and she gave me a letter
to the president, her god-father or some such thing, telling him to
buy my cards. I had not realized that it was one of a chain of fifty
stores but it is, and if I can interest the gentleman I ought to be
able to sell him a lot. Pray for me. So much for my news. Rene is
to dine with me the night before I leave. That is the only thing on
the schedule at present. I have still a lot of packing to do. My
trunks go Tuesday morning. A very swanky bag I am having made for
Adelaide will not be ready until Tuesday, too late to go into a trunk
which is annoying. I need all my suitcase space. I do hope this
reaches you; I haven't much faith in the Tangiers address. Dearest
love to Glenway.

Always yours

Quo.

gpl

April fourteenth, 1929.

My dearest . . I have so much to tell you and I am so afraid that I will never get it written. I couldn't write on the boat. I tried. The trip was hideously dull, with only one incident of sufficient interest and importance to distract me from the contemplation of the sea and my soul. I will write you of that in detail if I can muster the courage . . an affair with a girl or rather an attempt at one for at the last moment I couldn't function . . though I fancy it would be best for me to forget about it. I cannot say "theatre", though I did taxi to the door. I was so lonely. The boat was haunted. Everywhere I went I saw you.

And now,
of course, I am being made much of by my family. Russell came down for the weekend and has just gone back. I am enormously pleased with him. For the rest I cannot make up my mind whether my present state of mind is one of complacency or of serenity. I have not waked up to the fact that I am back. Even a new set of wall papers makes no difference in number 125. Father has aged I think; Adelaide has another double chin but will probably never change. I am neither glad nor sorry *хххх* that I am here, that Europe and you are far away. I have wept only once . . in bed . . my first night here. I want you, I miss you, I love you always. I wait for you without knowing for what I am waiting. I think of all the things I have said, things I have feared, wanted and despaired of, and of your scolding and soothing. It was wise of you to know that you could not harm me. I know that loving you will bring me *хххх* greater and more beautiful things than I have already had, that continuing to love and be loved by you will make possible this new-old life. I suppose I will not be able to

RETURN IN 5 DAYS TO
THE ENGLEWOOD HOSPITAL ASSOCIATION
THE COMMUNITY HOSPITAL OF THE NORTHERN VALLEY
ENGLEWOOD, N. J.

gpl

in the world. I would give everything to be with you now. I would rather be with you there than here, but any place would do so long as I could touch and smell and talk to you. I think of you with sadness, not for what has been, but for what is and apparently must be. It would make me happier than anything else could make me if I could only give to you some of the beauty you have given me, give back the strength of your triple holiness. Write me about yourself. That is all I care about. A rose must bloom for each of us soon. But I must stop. This is a longer letter than I thought I should write and I am tired. Blessings on you, my dearest, you deserve everything wonderful that those who love you can provide.

Your adoring
Ggo.

gpl

May sixteenth, 1929.

Beloved . . I thank you for the flood of letters, postcards, menus, snapshots, etc.. I shall be surprised if father, after the letter you wrote him, does not fall in love with you too. Glenway's half dozen words were a blessing; I suppose he knows how much the sight of his handwriting means to me. Thank Jean; I'll get out my dictionary and try to write him. The picture of Angelo is superb. Who is Mrs Window? But all that amounts to so little when I know you are sad. Knowing, as I must, that things were not not going well with you, my heart has been heavy, and it is hard for me to tell whether your statement has been a relief or a burden. I can support misfortune so much better than uncertainty, and I beg you again to write me all you can. I wish I could persuade you to go into retirement somewhere near me. I resent the existence of all the people you see except those who give you pleasure. So far as Eardley is concerned . . if I continued to think of him as a rival I should go mad, though I suppose I resent him more than anyone. I do not want to be a fool in any of these connections, and have a sense of appearing foolish. Many remedies of my own prescription are ineffective, but occasionally one works and, in a sense, I manage to keep my end up. Why should I say again and again that I want you, suggest that I might (though God knows how) be useful to you, plead and tease? I feel much of my old discontent, and am neither really happy nor unhappy. I feel the same urge to get away that I have always felt here, but without the slightest desire to search out the old make-shift New York diversions . . the fact that they are forbidden even does not make them tempting. Englewood offers next to nothing. Charles Boynton, father's assistant, aged twenty-three, is the only person I care to see, and I do not see much of him. My body fancies him, but he is probably

not to be had; even if he were I think I should not
care to do anything about him. The girl on the boat
still gp! haunts me from time to time. That near-
experience was so horrible; when I feel erotic I have
only to think of her . . I get a sick-feeling which
having been
wears off slowly. And I have a sense not only of *being*
unfaithful to you, but to every least thing in the
world that I care about. And the hell of it is that I
get so much pleasure and satisfaction out of being
faithful. Now I do. There is no interpretation to my
disadvantage. All my relations here, and especially
those to my family, are very *respected*. The other night
I made a few general observations on homosexuality to
father. His benign indifference on that occasion will
prevent my making another. And I do not care. Adelaide,
nearly fifty years old, has suddenly acquired religion.
Rather she did while I was away. All in all a cure-all
to her, she cannot bear to think that such advantages
leave me cold. But why should I mention these things
which interest neither of us, these unfragrant domestic
notes. I wonder if this ever was my home; it certainly
is no longer. There is just one other thing. My body
is no longer worthy of admiration. I take a childish

spl

comfort in the fact that you once said that you would
love me if I had no legs. I do not think it is all van-
ity that makes me mind being so disfigured. I take a
childish comfort in what you said, and pray it may be
true. Destiny must have something further in store for
us; if my faith in that is shaken, I will not dare hope
again. Inevitably I count on you to write further on
the page of my life, the blank page of the future. How
right or wrong, time-saving or time-spending, calculated
to confuse or to guide me, has this illness been? From
what have I been saved? What am I being let in for? I
feel disgust and fear. I am steady, morose and bewilder-
ed. Where do you come in again? and, in your troubles,
more than ever my troubles, where do I come in? What do
you find and do in Paris? You keep up relations with the
other Monteux-Guérins. What of Jacques? I search the
shipping news for boats which may bring letters from you;
there are the horizon, so close to my window, my book
shelf, the phonograph. I seek rest and find only sleep.
I sometimes talk in my sleep; father heard me once and
said I was speaking French. Good-bye for today, my dear-
est; I fancy you near or in my arms.

I love you.

gpl

May twenty-seventh, 1929.

My dearest ... I have just sent the wire to which your reply is going to make me sub-
limely happy or utterly miserable. I am so excited that I can hardly write. To think
that this time yesterday I had no notion that such a thing would be possible. It came
about like this. Father was presented with a "purse", a token of esteem of the parish,
and was instructed to betake himself and Russell, neither of whom have ever been, to
Europe for the summer. Adelaide and I were to stay at North Egremont, which neither
she nor I particularly fancied doing. So, being the woman she is, and I must give her
credit for it, she telephoned the woman who wanted to rent the little house and closed
the deal with her. She and I will live and travel on that money plus father's salary.
The plan is this: father and Russell go to England (apparently the only place father
wants to go though they will spend a week in Paris), Adelaide goes off with some dozen
women to England and France (on an interior decorating tour), and I, God willing, go
to you. It seems incredible. All last night I did not sleep. I want so horribly badly
to be with you and was afraid, not that you might not want me, that it might be incon-
venient to you and Glenway to have me around. Bless him. His letter this morning was a
miracle of what I have hoped to hear. And you, my dearest ... what can I say of you?
I have longed so for you, wept for you and for myself. I pray to God that I may have
and may make your life sweeter for being in it. All this and ever so much more. My head
is in a whirl; I hardly know what I am writing. And I wait so impatiently for your ans-
wer to my wire. I cannot expect it before tomorrow. What will you have to say to me?
And next winter. Will we both be working in New York? I will be strong, stronger than
ever before, because of this illness and because of you. I could and do weep for the

gpl

May twenty-ninth, 1929.

My Monie . . I would give my soul not to have to write this letter, or to have sent the
wire I did. I am bitterly disappointed. My dreams have become nightmares. To have thought
I would soon hold you in my arms and hear the word 'lover' from your lips, then to have
that hope snatched from me, utterly and cruelly, is almost more than I can bear. I am in
the power of some vampirish, double-dealing deity. Who could have foreseen that the doc-
tor who had recommended a long trip for me would announce that I stand little chance of
living through an ocean voyage. It doesn't much matter why. I suppose that, after father
and Russell have gone to England, I will go motoring with Adelaide. For, you see, they
are not willing to leave me alone and try unwittingly to force me to famine and corrupt-
ion. Doomed to motoring, or to living in Englewood, with Adelaide; the house in the country
has been rented. As if being deprived of you were not enough. Monie dearest, I cannot be-
lieve that you are averse to coming over here. I only fear an injustice to Glenway in beg-
ging you to come at once. I want too badly to talk to be able to write. Here I keep silence.
Life in this house in insupportable. Everyone's relations with everyone are strained,
half-shrinking and half-patronizing, ineffectual and unlovely. I need authority and realize
with sorrow that there is no one to whom I can entrust the reins of government. I cannot
live wholly alone. I am still so weak physically, and generally lack faith in my ability
to make the mask of this existence fit the muscles of my face. Today I feel at the end
of my strength. I want to die, run away, anything to spite fate. You must know that, lov-
ing you as I do, this abrupt excitement and frustration dangerously try my patience. How
can I pretend to resignation, or ignore the damage. Even the light of your love seems far.
I see your face through tears. Is there any conspiracy unworthy of God? Will he comfort
me . . calling you mine.

Your

gpl

June first, 1929.

My dearest ... I am illish today. I wish you were here. Your last letter from Ville-
franche and your first two from Paris have just arrived. I am alone in this too-pretty
house. I want to write at ramdom, to tell you everything, to get rid of my headache,
my dizziness, my lonliness. Yet I do not know what to say. My disappointment in being
unable to join you does not lessen. You tell me to make friends with fate. Must I make
friends with mediocrity? All beauty I compare with yours, and find none so satisfying.
I suppose, in time, I can learn not to need you always with me, but I cannot accept
the second best. And, when we are separated, I must feel alone; less alone when in
point of fact I am alone, though always with a thick dull ache. I thought I might find
something in New York and for three nights, while the family were getting this house
ready, I stayed there at an hotel. It was hot and unpleasant. There is nothing to see
at the theatre. I lunched with Max; it was horrible ... again I submit to your prejudice.
Adlai continues to be evenly, mildly, pleasantly sub-normal. I enjoyed Lloyd Wescott.
He came to dinner; afterwards we saw one of Mrs Fiske's poorer efforts and drank beer.
L was winsome and loquacious, at moments quite adorable; in short I have invited him
here for the weekend of the fifteenth. He longs for farm country; I wonder if this will
please him. Last night I arrived here. Adelaide has the house full of women, three in
all, whom I cannot expect to <u>insist</u> be rid of before Monday. Did I write that the house
is rented from the first of July. Adelaide did that at the time of my good-news wire,
when we both expected to go to Europe. Now, of course, we have only the <u>Englewood</u> house
for the summer and that will continue to be my address. A summer alone with my mother.
Yes, I shall make friends with that situation; but you know, and I am telling you, that

eventually I will run away. And I hope to heaven that the next time I leave there will be no occasion for returning. Do you think there is any chance of my being able to make enough in New York to live there? Could I live on $20 or $25 a week? I do not suppose that I will be able to get more. I should never hesitate between one room of my own and twenty of father's (fifty if he had them). Especially if you were there I could enjoy the necessity of discomfort. There are other things. Perhaps it is useless to write about what G called the 'aerial harpies'. But they will not leave me alone. I need a lover, and do not want a bed companion. Sometimes I thank God and sometimes I bitterly regret that loving you has made the thought of a summary contact tasteful or impossible. To such an extent am I changed or hypnotized. Wherever one is there are plenty of beauties and not the least of them can be had. We both know that, though, more or less fortunate than you, I have no suitors. I am continually wondering what you are doing and thinking about these things. To me, of course, you are always the lover, somebody's lover. I wonder how well you succeeded with Glenway. For the rest you have not mentioned 'theatre'. I have your promise. I take it for granted that there has been no one else. What I shall do I do not know. I do not want to take a chance on anyone who might come along. The regret and unhappiness that went with the Blue Train and Hugh Brooke episodes are too vivid in my memory for me to be anxious to have them repeated. Why should all that is not you be so meaningless. I think often of marriage, a marriage of advantage, and remember how you ridiculed such an idea. I do not forget the episode of the De Grasse, yet believe such a thing possible. Of course the argument always before me is that I cannot have you for my own and there is no reason why I should not try for other favourable circumstances. My problems appear to be love and money, and there seems little chance of solving both if either. I wonder who would have me. But there is too much of this. I cannot rid myself of a certain erotic nervousness and irritability, but I am far from beyond control and shouldn't be complaining in this way. You must always be my lover whether I have you or not. Now I have a number of things to do that must be done before Adelaide and her guests get back

spl

gpl

June third, 1929.

My dearest ... Manikin Number One is the lovliest present. You know how I have hounded
the book sellers. A few weeks ago I even wrote Janet Lewis asking if she had a spare
copy. And now my set is complete. For that and for so many things I thank you with all
my heart. I was delighted to get the Yeats. Shall we have "our Yeats" bound and boxed
uniformly? Why not send me all of yours so that they can be done together. What colour
do you fancy? And the Gide, and the Green . . . Léviathan I had and had read and so have
given the copy you sent to the most likely person; the Gide is on the table by my bed.
I'm still at "Le Rouge et le Blanc". What else? Packages from you seem to arrive every
other moment, the sweetest surprise packages. Is it necessary to tell you how they de-
light me. The photographs were not ready to send with the records; I got them from
Franco only yesterday and will send them off, with this letter, by this afternoon's post.
As soon as Adelaide finishes it I'll send "The Innocent Voyage". It's amusing and rather
horrible and generally good. If you already have it, it can always be passed on. Adelaide's
guests have departed and, aside from the noises father makes reading the newspaper in the
next room, the house is silent. I think I will like it better now. Father departs tomorrow.
Russell arrives on the eighth. After the twenty-fourth such xx of us as are not quitting
the country will be back in Englewood. It is quite cold here; it was so hot (90-ish) in
New York last week. I have been so much at sea level these last two years that this al-
titude makes me fearfully sleepy. I sit in front of the fire and doze, even as I write
this, too comfortable to wish to be anywhere or doing anything else. It occurs to me,
however, to tell you that I have ordered the new (limited) Yeats for you so don't get it
for yourself. It should be ready this month. Consider it a miracle that I have gotten

through this letter without complaining about something. I shall try my hand at writing
again, though I am not particularly optomistic as to what may come of it. Where are you
settling? What are you doing? Whom are you seeing? Did Bernardine go East? And Barbara
North? And Eardley to Cannes? (You haven't mentioned him recently.) And Cocteau? And
Mary R.? Give my love to all who want, and should have, it. E special love to Glenway
and especial affectionate greetings to Jacques. A catalogue of wishes. Forever and ever

Your

Think of me at Bagatelle, at Moret, or at Versailles. X always marks the spot. I loved
the postcard of the Gare St Lazare . . I think I treasure that evening particularly.

gpl

June seventh, 1929.

Monie dearest . . I wrote you yesterday and got as far as the post office with the let-
ter before I decided not to send it. It is perhaps unfortunate that I should want to
write you in my low moments, because I do not want you to get the impression that I
know no others. Also there is no reason why I should recall past miseries. I cannot
forget these days last year, the few days that preceeded your flight, but I feel better
this morning, poised enough not to be miserable about that all over again. And I shall
stop there, not wanting to work myself (and, oh God, how I can do it) all over again
into a mess of self-pity. I can, at least, assure you that only you ever hear my com-
plaints. At present we are without a cook. Sometime yesterday ours had an attack of
gall stones (Adelaide's mother died of them) so we rushed her to the train. Now our
stalwart negro, not the one you knew, gets the breakfast; we lunch at Bess Millard's;
Adelaide gets dinner. It is not a state of affairs that can be tolerated for long.
And to complicate matters I have to be driven to New Haven tomorrow to collect Russell.
He is apparently very excited about going to Europe. As I wrote they will spend most
of their time in England, but will undoubtedly go over to the continent. Russell wants
to hear French spoken. They will get in touch with you, probably toward the end of
August; I need not ask that you will show them what they want to see. My own excite-
ment and disappointment about being with you this summer were too abrupt and upsetting
to envy them. I am numbish about that which is probably just as well. I cannot wire
you this weekend; I sent Lloyd W the money for his carefare up here and haven't enough
left. But I'll send one soon. I need that extravagance now and then; it makes you seem
so much nearer. Always, my dearest, your adoring

gpl

June tenth, 1929.

My precious Monie . . Your letter this morning, your first after receiving my pair of wires, brings back to me all my chagrin and helplessness. What the doctor said . . . about the possibility of bursting the intestine and the certain death which would result if I could not have an immediate operation, impossible of course on a boat . . . may be perfectly true, but I imagine that it is merely a trumped up excuse to keep me from going. You see he was one of those responsible for the raising of the fund to send father over this summer, and felt and spoke strongly when he heard that Adelaide and I intended to go also. He was certain that public opinion in Englewood, for, of course, many people who could not afford to go to Europe themselves subscribed, would be very strong and that father would be greeted on his return by a hostile parish. I may not be putting this very clearly, but it seems to me to be quite reasonable. And I suppose, for father's sake, I should submit inwardly as gracefully as I did outwardly. However, I do not. I might care less if I were to be in the Berkshires, for I do feel that they are good for me, but Englewood which has the filthiest climate in the world (at the hospital they call it "fog hollow") is not going to be much use. And I wonder, for, of course, staying at this house is out of the question, whether I should be less uncomfortable in Englewood with my books and "private messes" about me or up here in some hotel or boarding house; I can do either, and will probably decide in favour of the messes, though whichever I choose I shall regret the advantages of the other. I am always so tired and shut in. I can imagine nothing worse than being a permanent invalid, and pray that it may never be my lot, or yours. As for waiting: "Seven years is a long time, but longer . . . et cetera". How long must it be?

I love you dearly,

gpl

June thirteenth, 1929.

Beloved . . You must not think that I am unhappy or consider myself less fortunate than others. If you could only know what a help it has been to me to write you of the little things that have been not so pleasant, after an illness one is rather more susceptible than when one is well, you would have no occasion to pity or chide me. It has been chiefly a way of getting them out of my system; once dispatched they are pretty thoroughly out. It has been the easiest, for me the most natural, way of minimizing them. Please understand. And you must realize that everything that I have had to complain of has been the by-product of missing you. I want you every minute of the day. No theory or ideal can keep me from considering my love, and your love, the most precious things in my life, your presence something to be longed for. Everything that is lovely and good I see through your beauty, and because of it. Blame me if you like for taking the greater risk, the chance of being disappointed in you, but do not, I beg of you, reproach yourself for what I might be and am not. The value and the solace of books and music these last months have been inestimable; I could not have done without them. But do remember that I am a sensuous creature and live instinctively through and on and beyond and because of being alive. I may be destined to an elementary and functional activity, not that alone, but there are compensations. I gladly accept Glenway's dictum of sentimentality and unmorality, but I deny them a place of importance in my life. Above all remember that no one can destroy what you have given me. I do not care that the waters are often troubled. I shall always want more of you, and more and more. But I shall not be discontented with what I have. I hope blindly for your return to New York, for circumstances as I know and understand them do not give me much to go on. Long since I abandoned myself to loving

you and chancing happiness. To this day I do not know if I lack self-respect, but I do not think so. I am so proud of being loved by you, so happy in your letters, happy or happily miserable. There is nothing about you that I do not cherish. I need that sort of religiousness. Especially now that, contrary to instinct, I must live within myself, in the twin privacies of silence and these letters to you. St. Martin Vésubie where I could talk to no one was less terrible than here where I cannot open my mouth without being misunderstood. But do not fear, dearest, I shall be worthy of you according to my sort. I am not likely to miss you less, but I do not want to be a child about it. I know you are constant, perhaps faithful; that means everything. I want not to want to write about your body, about the needs of mine, but you must consider that as contributing largely to my general depression. I'll not ask your forgiveness for this letter; I had to try to explain myself, not wanting to explain away a few things which would in any case have been forgotten; I am afraid I have failed, and am surely mad to hope that, between the lines, you will read what I had not the talent to write.

Your adoring
George

gpl

June fifteenth, 1929.

I pray that this may reach you in time, but have little
hope that it will.

Monie, my dearest ... How can I tell you all the things I have felt and thought since your wire came. I am trembling with excitement. It seems as if some good angel had taken my life in his hands and had answered my prayer. Last night there was a terrific thunder storm which awakened me, and as I lay in bed listening there came a brilliant flash of lightning and your face, the photographs on my bureau, appeared above me. It brought me peace, as if you were always there watching over me, and I went back to sleep and dreamed of you. Now I consider it an omen and in that thought I am happy. Really happy for the first time since we parted. How can you ever know how I have missed you, how much strength I have selfishly wasted in longing for you, your hands, your lips, your voice and thought.

I think I can never regret the pains of separation when there is in this world a thing
as perfectly beautiful as the joy I feel in knowing that I am soon to see you again. I
can wait to know what brings you, and try not to guess. I am pagan and a god, drunk on
the lovliness of man and of nature, and in particular of you. May my angel bring you
safely home. Russell's own disappointment in missing you, and his pride in my happiness,
are very touching. Lloyd arrives in two hours; I wonder if he knows. But I cannot very
well do justice to the feeling of others for you; I can hardly restrain my own. What a
blessing it has always been. And I cannot keep from wondering how I will appear in your
eyes. What I have been through has, I think, sobered me a little. Physically I am con-
sumed by voluptuous weariness. But perhaps I had better wait, let you find out for your-
self and tell me. I am hoping that you have plans for me. I can do anything but cross
the ocean and, thank God, all desire to do that has passed. I wait now for a letter,
with the gladness of loving you and the perfect and terrible satisfaction of being loved.

These days of waiting will not seem so long. Always your adoring Etnay

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gpl

Thursday evening

Monie dearest ... I am terribly tired this evening. Yesterday I motored Adelaide BKK to North Egremont to get the house ready for her tenant, and this afternoon I motored her back. All the time between I worked like a dog. But I want to tell you how things stand. To begin with I didn't get your wire straight. It arrived while I was in the country and father telephoned it on. I understood that you were to sail, not to arrive, on the 27th was so I wrote you a letter, which all exclamation and delight and which you will receive sometime later. Then I came home and found the original. I began to have misgivings about your coming which now I can hardly regret. You see I was to be left alone with Adelaide and could not have been with you without leaving her, and vice versa. Either way I should have had a bad conscience, and should have begrudged her every moment we were together. So I conceived the idea of sending her off with father and Russell, which of course was the only thing she wanted to do, and, no sooner said than done, she is going. I have saved all their consciences by saying that you would take care of me, etc. ... which of course you do not have to do. When you arrive they, the three of them, will be on the Paris two days out, and I, with $600 at my disposal, can do as I please. I have the car and the Englewood house and servants whom I can discharge and take back (apparently) when I like. It sounds pretty good to me. So, having not very well understood what "Lafayette in general Englewood in particular" means, I will plan to bring you here from the boat, that is I will keep the house open. I expect I shall have a letter from you before you arrive, but I must arrange for you, as it were, in the dark. I wish I knew who knows you are coming. Lloyd was told by me. That was rather the obvious thing to do. But I wish I knew if I ought to invite him here, for the first night at least, and have a feeling I should. Yet a first night is a first night and I want it, reasonably selfishly, all for

myself. If you arrive early in the day, and he is at work, we can confer and telephone
him. If you should arrive in the late afternoon or evening, I'll have to decide some-
thing and hope you will stand by me. From a general point of view everything is perfect.
I am to have you, and . . . no family. Can you imagine what that means to me? But I am
dying of fatigue. I will write again before you arrive.

Your

P.S. I may not be able to get a pass to the dock, not being a member (so far as I
could prove) of your family, but if I am not there you will find me as near as I can
get to the gate through which you must pass. If Lloyd is tied up by his work, I'll
try to pass myself off as him. Otherwise, I suppose, he will be there himself.

gpl

c/o Miss Bessie E. Millard, Gt. Barrington, Mass.

July twelfth, 1929.

Sweetheart. . . This is the first moment I have had for writing since we parted. I was rather exhausted by the time I got to Englewood on Tuesday, upset though not unhappy, and there must be a difference. Then all day and all of Wednesday morning I packed and directed the closing of the house. There were your two wires which were comforting, and which made me realize that unwittingly and God knows unwillingly I had led you to believe me in a rather sorrier condition than I am. You must have patience and let me prove to you that I can be satisfied with life, variously and without bitterness. I am perplexed but not in despair; there is no room for worry while I hope for the best.

On Wednesday I lunched with Max Ewing and Sansone, and am richer by several photographs. I was in a good mood and really enjoyed myself, and resolved that Max with one other person is infinitely preferable to Max alone or Max in a crowd, and can be, in fact, very nice. I remember that you dislike him and that I have too; there were other moments, such as the evening he introduced me to Aline MacMahon, when I was appreciative. Sansone, with his clothes on, was much more beautiful than I had expected to find him, and was very agreeable. Inspite of the photographs I go on wondering what he must look like undressed, and hope to be shown. I dined with Mrs Smyth and went to the concert. The symphony was lovely though I did not like it so well as the first. For the rest see the enclosed clipping. I spent the night in New Rochelle and motored here Thursday morning.

On arriving I was greeted by the news that our house is waterless; the well has dried up. And so my life since yesterday has involved consultations with plumbers, with Bess Millard, and with our tenant. And it is up to me to decide between pumping water from

our neighbor's well or digging another of our own. I fancy *thuck*, since money has to be
spent in any case, that the more permanent arrangement, that of a new well, is the wiser.
Now for these *gpl* timates from the plumber, etc.. Inspite of the inconvenience to her, old
Mrs Reese is being sensible and good-tempered. Thank God for that. She seems to be the
sort no honeyed words could placate, once she was aroused. The weather, the scenery are
perfect. I wish you were here to enjoy them with me. I'll ask Lloyd for the weekend of
the twentieth. I even contemplate calling on Mr Buck. My love to Glenway. I am sorry you
would not let me take charge of the luggage you left behind; I could have managed. Think
of me in this setting, being nourished, always calm, and tenderly waiting for the day that
brings you back.

I love you.

gpl

July fourteenth, 1929.

My dearest ... I go to Edith's tomorrow morning, and this will probably be my last letter until after I get back. Her particular sort of friendliness is going to do me a world of good, I know; and perhaps, though it would be stupid for me to count on such a thing, as much as I would like to, she will be able to help me in another way. Whatever she can or cannot do for me, I go to see her with tender memories of other occasions, with much affection and anticipation of pleasure. I'll write you all about my visit as soon as I return. I have had a letter from each member of my family. Father, for some reason, insists upon my telling you that the wireless you had from Russell was meant to be signed The Lynes, or some such thing. Meant to be, apparently, by all but Russell. For the rest he and Russell wrote only about alcohol, Adelaide about putting "woolens" in camphor. I think it a pity that R could not have gone alone or with some one his own age. I anticipate that they are all going to get a minimum of pleasure and benefit out of their trip. The "Lynes temperament", if such a thing exists, does not lend itself to tripping, and either father or Adelaide would find little satisfaction in a prolonged visit to any wholly unfamiliar region.
On the other hand, I am glad the experiment is being made. All day yesterday I was with a pretty and moronic girl who is staying at Bess Millard's. I took her here and there in the car; last evening we went to Stockbridge to see an old tiresome Joseph Jefferson play, "Rip Van Winkle"; I remember that Russell took you there to see a play last summer. I avoid use of the word "theatre"; nothing would be less likely, though I flatter myself (why should I? as if it were of any consequence) that she wants it.

I've probably got a hang-over of embarrassment and wounded vanity from the episode on the boat. Next weekend I shall take Lloyd to see Shaw's "You Never Can Tell" which could not in any case be worse. There is nothing of interest to write about myself. I have no interest in myself at the moment except hypothetically in connection with Edith, and as a specimen perplexity. I am not sure that I do not need your confidence more than your ingenuity. If you can keep my head above water for a while, I think you can count on me to swim. Nothing is truer than that while your arms, actually or not, are about me I feel safe. Even now I have the sensual and sustaining fancy that you breathe into my lungs. God knows I love you, and that love is the one elastic and competent power I recognize. I want you not to worry. Enjoy yourself while you are at home. If there seems to be nothing else to do, we can be miserable when you ever get back, though I deny over and over that such a moment will be known to us. Believe in the bond that holds me to you, my dearest, and do not let any feeling of helplessness come between you and the life you create.

Your adoring,

gpl

Wednesday evening,

July seventeenth, 1929.

My dearest ... I am not going to comment on the letters I found upon returning from Deerfield this afternoon, except to say that I am ashamed. I am going to try to put aside my petty wishes, to forget what I have always felt your influence must produce; I am getting tired of even wishing for miracles. I know that I have got to prove that my love for you, and yours for me, is right, is as good as its best moments. I am not making promises, nor writing a manifesto. I think that I can be happy only in making you believe, as I believe, that we have not met in vain, that our relationship, which you have asserted would only be embarked upon by maniacs, must be of ever increasing joy and usefulness. I am not asking for "a chance", rather that you keep an open and happy mind and let me see what I can do. For the present, that is for the month of August, I have accepted an offer to run my old shop on a commission basis. I'll get 25% of profits, though that is not likely to be much and is certainly not the reason I decided to do it. It means that I will be tied up there three hours each morning, five or six days a week, at a desk, and practically without interruption. I have wanted to have another go at writing this summer, and realized that your company was bound to be too attractive for me to want to keep uninterruptedly at this And so, the opportunity being presented, I have chosen this method of keeping you out of my sight for a given period of the day. I think it sensible, and hope something may come of it. I had a delightful time in Deerfield. The companionship and friendliness of Edith did much toward making me feel friendly toward my problem. We spent two days canoeing, swimming, walking, and talking. Last evening we sat for several hours on a hillside, under a benevolent moon, and I explained as best I could the position I am in. And,

though surely nothing is less likely than that she will assist me in a material way
(I did not ask and tried to keep from hinting), it was a comfort to talk, to try to
talk without complaining. She seemed like an old friend and yet a stranger. Her ap-
pearance has greatly changed since I last saw her, though changed in a way I had rather
anticipated. She is thinner, and is gradually acquiring a spinsterish, professorish
look. She is gentle, intelligent, and responsive; in short, she is sympathetic. Going
over the course of study she has planned for her next year's classes was fun and like
a dream. And I find that I have faith that I too may find work that I will love and
build a life on. I will in writing if I can get into it. I know that the writer's life
is the life I want . . and again I feel ashamed. God bless you, my Monie, I'll be
worthy of you because I am yours.

July nineteenth, 1929.

My dearest ... I didn't want to send the wire I did this morning, but frankly couldn't see any way out. My bank balance, after having paid over fifty dollars for repairs on the car (for which, incidentally, father should and probably will pay when he gets back, for there was no damage done by me), is down to fifteen dollars. It will take sixty to get me out of here, and then I'll have about six days to live before the first of August arrives. If you are not in a position to let me have the money until then, I suppose I can give Bess Millard a post-dated cheque, though she might think (I having wisely told her what I have to live on this summer) I was up to some "funny business". So far everything here has been very pleasant. Bess has been rather good-tempered and affable; I always sit in the kitchen for fifteen minutes or so before each meal, and many things come beneath our notice. I haven't seen anyone else I know, although a cousin of mine has been here with his wife ... we didn't pay much attention to each other. I've declined several invitations to country club festivities. Monday I have contracted to call on Mrs Walker (the old lady who paid for my operation) who has taken a house in Norfolk. Lloyd arrives tomorrow afternoon. Apparently Ruth didn't leave until the day before yesterday, so he hasn't been too much alone. I'll take him to Stockbridge to see Shaw's "You Never Can Tell", which I hope will amuse him. The reason for my leaving here on Thursday instead of waiting for the first of the month, is that here one pays by the week ($25 per) and I want to finish it up evenly. Besides I'll have to be on hand for MY JOB, and I've bought Brahms first and have no phonograph here on which to play it. I have become quite fat. I was horrified the other day when I computed that I had been drinking a quart and a half of milk (rich milk) a day, and have cut down a little. I do not think I need as much as that. For the rest ... but wait and see. I do not feel that I am wasting my time here. I am fairly contented and completely tranquil. But, for all that, I can hardly wait for August fifth. Why not have Dick meet you in

Pittsfield. Doesn't that make a shorter trip for you? You can express most of, your lug-
gage direct to Englewood. Do you want me to call at the Lafayette for the things you
left there? If so, give me a letter authorizing me to take them away. I love you. I love
you.

I will call at Englewood and then return home by the 12 o'clock train if you
leave it there. I will call at Lafayette and then return home by the 2 o'clock train if
you leave it there. I will call at Lafayette and then return home by the 4 o'clock train
if you leave it there. I will call at Englewood and then return home by the 6 o'clock train
if you leave it there.

Your

gpl

Saturday

Lover . . I do wish you were here to see how lovely
my Berkshires can be. Today particularly, for the
air is cold and the sunlight hot and I am happy.
This morning I called on old Mrs Wheeler, a former
parishioner of father's; she has always adored us
all and was so glad to see me, she even wept a lit-
tle when I said good-bye, and I was gratified and
came back to my funny little room and toiled at this
machine. And your letters, even though the last two
have contained little besides instructions to forward
letters to Russell, and though I must sit through
luncheon before I can open them for they are deliver-
ed while we are at table, bring me joy. Love is so
glorious when one is happy, and comforting when one
is not. But, you see, I can be happy when you are away.
Build your faith on that for, though I have my ups
and downs, I'll love you always.

July twenty-second, 1929.

Manie dearest. So many thanks for your wire. I wasn't quite sure what I should do if you were unable to help me, but thought I could count on you, and am considerably relieved. And your letter from Ripon has just arrived and I am more anxious than ever to make the acquaintance of the rest of the Wescotts. I fancy they are all more remarkable than Lloyd, less remarkable than Glenway. My curiosity as long been aroused. The weekend was pleasant enough. After the play Saturday evening we went to a large and, as such things go, successful dance at the country club in Great Barrington. Lloyd had several partners whom I procured for him with the help of a friend of Adelaide's. I took refuge in the operation and declined to dance, being tired, and knowing that if I did dance I should be bound to favour any number of women whose relations with my family are sufficient for them to expect it. I was gratified to see that my generation, our generation, was better behaved and much less tipsy than my parents' "little crowd". Sunday afternoon we walked through the woods in back of Berkshire, and then inspected the school. It is almost five years since I have followed those paths in which I used to take refuge from all the things and people I hated there, and was moved. Lloyd had a notion that he would have liked to go to school there; perhaps he was right. And Sunday evening I took him to his train and then came home and went to bed. About an half-hour afterwards a young man xxix with whom I used to play ten years or more ago dropped in to see me. He was incredible. Neither of the country, nor of the city, rather like Wesson. . . a Great Barrington edition of him, if you can imagine that. I was not sorry when he left. Wesson, himself, is now on the ocean bound for Nova Scotia. I had not expected he would come, but, for his mother's sake, am glad he is. I suppose this means further difficulties with, or indifference toward, the famous Chuck. "Something awful has happened. A friend (quite a nice one) is sailing with me just for the trip. Did you ever? And I don't particularly want it. But there you are." Which makes me, for one, shudder. And convinces me that whatever attitude toward him suits one best

is only right. I shall go to the Berkshire Playhouse again before I leave. This week they are doing "Thunder in the Air", or something with a similar title. Aline MacMahon has joined the cast. You may remember her as the woman Max introduced me to at Dreiser's several years ago, whom I like very much and have seen several times since. If I can afford it I think I'll invite her to tea. That is about all. I have discovered that the Jordan has a temperament worthy of a novelist's consideration. I know no human so eccentric, or so perverse. I want to know what you think of my taking the shop for August. Write me hereafter to Englewood. I wish I could somehow combine this peacefulness and climate with those comforts and advantages. In any case I am glad to be dividing my time between the two.

Always your adoring,

gpl

July twenty-seventh, 1929.

My lover . . How brave you were to write while having one of those dreadful attacks.
I felt, while reading that letter, that I had been unusually blessed: in knowing you,
in being able to call you mine. And I was glad, knowing the pain would go away. Here
things continue as they must. I find myself counting the days until I shall have a
servant (it is lonely in this big house even in the daytime), then the days until you
will be here with me again. I hope it will be possible for you to come sooner, as I
asked in my wire, rather than later. I see August, our month, slipping out of sight.
I shall be sorry if one thing and then another delays your arrival, as if beginning
and end were the same. But I know you will do what you can. Yesterday I went to town
and had a pleasant time. I had given Lloyd a rendez-vous at Adlai's for six o'clock,
but (when, at eight-fifteen, he had not turned up) I decided to forget about him. And
Adlai and I went to Palisades Park and then I brought him here for the night. This a
morning Lloyd telephoned. He was very contrite, claiming that he had left work early,
had gone out with "some of the fellows from the office," and had gotten so drunk that
he forgot his date with me until it was too late. I was not annoyed and so suspend
judgment. But that sort of thing gives one an unpleasant feeling. I read your accounts
of everybody's predicaments in connection with everybody, and wonder why I am not tak-
ing my own more solemnly. All the Wescotts, more Wescotts than there are, I suppose,
and Elly, and Barbara. Who else? You do take rather a lot on your shoulders. You in-
vite it; I fancy that must be the price you pay for your charm. And I am happy to
have nothing to complain of, no immediate or prospective disaster. On the whole I'm
rather cheerful, and am hoping it will last. I think I ought to warn you that I am

gpl

trying to grow a moustache. I have been at it now for six days and am optomistic. All this, you understand, subject to your approval. I am expecting it to make me look older. In any case (a cloud on my lip, growing dense) I like its size and shape. I shall go to dinner now. I think I could go on writing to you forever. My heart is warm and my ~~unlimited~~ willingness unlimited. But I shall not.

Devotedly . .

your

Heath's dictionary instructs me that "Ne voila-t-il pas qu'il pleut" means "Well! I declare, it is raining." Odd, from any point of view.

gpl

Halacho Englewood (N.J.)

August tenth.

My Monie . . Perhaps it is foolish of me to write to-
day, for I will see you again and there is nothing
left to say, but I do want you to have some word from
me and this letter, though it goes on your boat, should
reach Paris before you. I'll have to trust the mail
airplane not to collapse. I'll not try to tell you all
the things I feel. Sometimes it seems as if my heart
would break when I think you are going away, and then
the conviction comes that my problem is only to be solved
and my happiness only to be assured darkly and in solitude.
And I'll be thankful when this cold is gone, for
it still keeps me from my work, and when the room on the
top floor is done. To be silent and unappeased, controlled
and ambitious. I fancy that I know what I want, what
you want for me. I trust in you and in my love. Though
it may be a long time before we meet again I am not
afraid. Trust in the faithfulness of my heart. I love
you.

Qnaq

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Received at

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GLENWAY WESTCOTT=

SECON CLASS PASSENGER SS BREMEN SAILING SEPT 12 58 TH

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BE GLAD FOR ME AND HAPPY FOR YOUR OWN SAKE AND FOR ALL OF US
WHO LOVE YOU I REMEMBER THAT YOU SAID TIME MUST PASS AND
DISTANCE SUSTAIN AND I FEAR NOTHING OF THE WINTER BUT WRITE
IF YOU CAN AND REMEMBER ALWAYS=
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THE QUICKEST, SUREST AND SAFEST WAY TO SEND MONEY IS BY TELEGRAPH OR CABLE

THE AS STABLE PUBLICATIONS

September sixteenth, 1929.

Beloved Monroe . . Your scrap apiece from the Bremen have just come and have made me so happy. If I were not still having trouble with the sinis, I would write a long letter of the sort that would please me most. I do miss you so, and I do want you back. I have been sad, but I have had no momentary regret. And I shall not complain, for in my heart I know you are not gone, out of reach, beyond the magnetic circle. All that you have been to me, all that you have done for me, is treasure; the future, even the present, is privilege. I do not forget. And I am so glad you were proud of me as I said good-bye and walked away down West End Ave.. I wanted that, for you see I was crying. Let it be an omen, a tribute to your idealism, to our love. I could say so much more, and I mustn't. Last night Max took Lloyd and me to Namara's for supper. She is still beautiful, but I have never seen man woman or child so beautiful as her daughter. The sort of face that will drive men mad. I was profoundly moved. And poor Lloyd, who is in a state of apprehension and despair that Ruth will turn up and that he will have no Glenway on hand, became starry-eyed and incoherent. Mindret is otiose, ill mannered, and, to me at any rate, physically unattractive; apparently the rapacious and fascinating lady demands too much of his manhood, he looks exhausted. The Misses Martha and Annabella Winslow were also on hand, mad as the best of them, but I'll not bother. Here is my little list. I'd like so much to have the things as soon as you can send them. (1.) Three or four boxes of a dozen Kalmine. (2.) Two of your famous hair nets. (3.) A copy of Les Enfants Terribles. (4.) A miniature spirit-lamp and pan, used for melting sealing-wax, to be had at Beauvais. I'll thank you now, and again later. I'll send the new records of Miss Morgan and Miss Holman when they are issued, together with anything that seems amusing. And so good-bye again, my dearest; I can be alone with you, in my little attic room, whenever I please . . that comforts and pleases me.

Your

Eugene

gpl

September 16th

Glenway dear . . Thank you so much for everything. You know how much I love you; there is no need to tell you that. You, perhaps, know why I did not say all that was in my heart to say, why I was a little shy the last times we were together. I've had moments of regretting, and yet am glad, knowing that you will always understand the things I cannot manage to put into words, knowing that they are acceptable to you. I pray that you may be comfortable and at peace, that your winter and Monie's may be a success, and that it will not be too long before we see each other again.

Love,

gpl

September twentieth, 1929.

Lover. . . This week, since your departure, has not seemed too bad. When I cannot have you, I like to be alone, and what Siegfried calle "the struggle towards orientation" is not distressing. I know that at any given moment I can shut myself up, and my room is a delight. And when I am not writing, there are "The Awkward Age" and "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire", a combination which enchants me. And, of course, I can see people. Yesterday I called on the Weils. They were both charming to me, and went to no end of trouble to hunt up and drag out the collection of photographic equipment and literature. Monday she is going to take me to the Eastman place, and later on, when I get back from the Berkshires at the end of the week, we are going to take pictures together in her drawing room. I'll be tremendously pleased if she is interested and takes me seriously, and mean to behave accordingly. And last night I dined with Kate. We sat for nearly three hours in the diningroom of the Lafayette, and then dropped in on the closing acts at the Palace. I'm devoted to her, as you well know, and hope to see her often. But madness reigns at home. Not three days after you left, father sold the car and bought <u>two</u> others: a larger and more splendid Jordain, and the Ford roadster we wanted all summer. All this on top of the trip to Europe on which he spent a thousand dollars or so more than he was given. I've said nothing. When they were talking about it, I listened; a protest on my part would have made father angry, and besides I really didn't care very much one way or the other. And now I regard the collection dispassionately, although anticipating the enforcement of bread-and-butter economies. Is it for this sort of thing that Glenway calls father an immoral man? I rather do. Your wire from Cherbourg came at a moment when I was exasperated with Franco, and I was cheered. On the whole things are going very well, and, though, God knows, I want

gpl

you back and want even more to be with you there, I am not afraid and am sure you will
have reason to be pleased and proud. There is trouble ahead, but I can manage that and
~~things~~ I do not foresee. I seem to have no neuroses; wanting you is sometimes
painful, but I have learned to live with that pain and it cannot last forever. You or
I or chance will find a way. I love you tenderly.

Monsieur Glenway Wescott

Guaranty Trust Company

4, Place de la Concorde

Paris

France

32. rue de Vaugirard

VI

gpl

October fifth, 1929.

Dearest Glen . . Thank you for the letter from the Bremen. For days I have wondered how
I should answer it, for I want just that, to write you something with beginning and end-
ing, something neither of us will regret. And I find I am full of feelings, and have not
a thought. The letter, as I re-read it for the hundredth time, is heartbreaking, doubly
precious for its simplicity and faith. And I am glad and a little ashamed. It is more
than affection that makes me want for you, and rather more particularly for myself, all
the quality, the sureness and inquietude, the farewell kiss and future blessing, of our
brotherhood. You are the nourishment, and no one of us has failed. And I cannot bear to
have you feel, even out of politeness, that I have anything to forgive. You see, I ap-
preciate you, and that, for practical purposes, amounts to understanding; it more than
justifies my belief in your life and your work. Needless to say, I envy you Paris and
each other, but our summer was good. In a sense I have been glad that I was illish when
you left. Sinis, / the things one takes to relieve it, are narcotic, and when I had re-
covered I was calm. I'll not complain about the obvious nuisances, because, in general,
I am happy. My consolation to myself, at the moment, lies in the construction of a dark-
room; for the rest, I've done a vast amount of reading. I believe in the pride and the
fulfilment, and have no intention of letting it "last anywhere nearly forever". And I
realize that almost all of this is your doing, and am grateful. Aside from this job, I
am ambitious enough to want to learn all that you learn, especially about yourselves, and
ourselves, which perhaps is presumptuous. I am anxious to know how everything works out.
I am good at riddles, your riddles, which are all that matter, though I do not know if
that is a compliment you once paid me or something I thought up myself.

Love,
Eugene

Love,

October thirteenth, 1929.

Beloved . . I am free again. Wesson, who has been here three days, left this morning, and I am glad. He was welcome. He was charming. But his weakness, the air of futility I associate with him, affected me badly. And, although I know that friendship with him, if friendship is capable of just this sort of disloyalty, is unlikely to be harmful, there is no reward. He belongs to a period of my life that no longer had anything to do with anything. I am unwilling to insult him. He is unwilling to drift out of sight. Consequently we are polite, and it is all very dreary. My mood grows upon me. I like seeing some people, Kate for example, but I don't really want to see anybody . . . And that is difficult. Not so much because you are thousands of miles away . . I can be in touch with you in a few hours . . but because, I suppose, nobody in any way represents to me the things you do, nobody measures up. I go from one extreme to another: within the limits my sensibility, from gregariousness to segregation, from flesh and blood to ink and allied chemicals. Why is it I know you can be sure of me? There is so much I want to ask: to have you here, to be with you anywhere, yet to acheive something, in a measure to repay you, before we meet again. It really does mean infinitely more to me to have you sure of me, than it would to know you were wholly, wholly in part, mine. Yet I enclose the photograph. I think I love you differently. I have not changed; there is nothing I have loved about you, needed from you, that I no longer love and need, but there is a new element. This solitude is doing something to me, giving me something. And every thought of you is lustrous. I want the flesh and blood, this afternoon in particular I feel that I would give years for it, but what's the use. I could laugh or weep if you were here. I cannot always

gpl

October sixteenth, 1929.

Dearest Glen . . You and (accidentally) yours occupied most of my thought and time yesterday and the night before. So imagine my delight when, upon returning from town, I found your wire. Obviously I should want to know for whom the songs are intended, but will not insist. Those I mean to send (Who Cares What You Have Been, Mean to Me, and all the Sweet Adeline things) mostly are out of stock at the local dealer's, but he has promised them for the day after tomorrow when I shall send them. Miss Morgan has just made a "talkie", and when I find out what songs she introduces I shall send those too. But, having said "you and yours", and mistrusting Lloyd's willingness to write the things he says, I should tell you that Ruth is once more at hand. She telephoned him, saying that she had been in town more than a month and that she wanted to give him the money she borrowed last winter. Their interview was, apparently, far from satisfactory. They cannot merely sit and talk. And he, with tears in his eyes, has the ingenuousness to sit and tell me that never was there a love affair so violent, so abandoned, so incredibly special, until I, embete, insist upon limiting the conversation to my own questions and observations. Yet why should I take upon myself to tell him, in a dozen disguises, that "it seems to me that true love is a discipline, and that it needs so much wisdom that the love of Solomon and Sheba must have lasted for all the silence of the scriptures. Etc.." Of course, he asks for it, and I might send him the quotation entire, but he wouldn't like it. All that, in general; the details are so dreary: his half-subconscious terror of your disapproval, his half-fictitious terror of his desires. The letter he wrote her, after that first meeting, must have

been impressive. So far as I could find out he expressed his willingness to see her,
but under conditions and with reservations that would make her something less in-
timate than a private whore. I said as much. And it is all such a pity. Before he
knew she was in town, he delighted in his room, spent at least half his evenings
there, and thought he had forever got rid of the notion he was wholly a gregarious
animal. All that is upset. I am sure that only the echoes of your advice keep him, at
the moment, from doing it all over again, perhaps, ultimately, from marriage. Natural-
ly, with her passion at his disposal, he is only too likely to forget his previous
discontentment, and, perhaps unjustly, I feel he is going back, hoping beyond hope
that God may not be looking. I'll be curious to know what he writes you. He is so
tyrannically cock-sure of himself, and so miserably at sea. I remember that last
winter he did not write at all. I do not mean this intelligence, if only it is in-
telligent, to worry you. I feel that, whatever he may do, neither you nor any of
those you have interested in him can be particularly concerned. I would like so
much better to be writing about you, and Monie, and myself. I suppose, now, that
I do not need to. All this about Lloyd, meant kindly, gives me a sort of confidence,
by contrast, in myself. And I am thankful for my training! I have wanted to write
you about the letters, and have hesitated. I do not, by any chance, want you to
think I am urging you to "get on with it." On the contrary I want you to take your
time, and do it not as a task but as something tender and true. But I do want to
ask that you really make a book of it, a book with a title. I dare
not inquire too closely into my motives, but someday I would like to publish it:
three copies for ourselves and several for the public libraries. What do you think?
I had a charming note from Jacques. "Votre bonheur et le mien sont en contradiction
ce qui me peine beaucoup . . . etc." I do hope you are really happy, that things
are possible. I am not unhappy; though it sometimes seems that the lonliness cannot
be borne, I find it can. I do miss you so dreadfully, but there are things in me
which do not change, which sustain. I will write again soon.

Love,

gpl

Sunday,

October twentieth, 1929.

Dearest heart . . I am restless this morning, and lonelier than usual. It is easy to explain. The night before last I missed, by not more than a quarter of an inch, being in what would have been a really horrible automobile accident. I didn't mind much at the time, but yesterday I was all nerves. And, when Adelaide asked to be taken out, I was terrified: not because I had lost confidence in my driving, but because I felt that something serious and inevitable was in store for me. Then that passed off, and my worry became centered on you. I was sure something was happening to you, that you had been hurt or were very unhappy, and it was hard to keep from wiring you. Early this morning I dreamt of you, sweetly and in extremes. That is all. Silly of me, I suppose, to write it down, but that helps. I will be feeling myself, sure of myself, presently. Just now I wish you were here. It would do so much good to be able to talk to you. I have need of you every day. And at night . . It is the old story. I want so badly to know if you are happy, or could be. My life here is so simple, and it is not often that I allow my emotions, or my sentiment, to make me unhappy. I have the solitude of my attic room to thank for that. But I hate to think that you may be dissatisfied, or your life tragic. I wish, for my own sake, that I could watch over you, that I could join forces with Glenway, and at close range, to make you happy. At this distance, I feel another sort of impotence. And I dare not doubt that it is to be able to live the free life that I am going through all this now. That is, to have money of my own and you in the neighborhood. If I do not believe that there is a chance that you will again be with me, hand in hand, and with never a separation so long

or melancholy as this one, I may not be able to go through with it. This may be stupid
or unadmirable, but I do love you so much and, in a measure, am willing to risk such
utterances I have little to do with the past. Memories are so fragile, and I don't want
them destroyed. I do not dream, even of you, in terms of what "has happened". Do you
understand? I am the past, the best of it, and the future is yours. I will write the
news another day. I do not want to say more now. Father and Adelaide are at church, and
I am going for a walk.

Ever your
Eugene

THE AS STABLE PUBLICATIONS

THE AS STABLE PUBLICATIONS

October thirtieth, 1929.

Beloved . . It seems that a year has passed since I sent my letter yesterday. Everything has happened so quickly. So many things. And I have had to rise to the occasion, as it were; to put on my calm-in-a-crisis; to soothe and support. There has been, of course, the blessing of Elly's recital. She played magnificently to a fullish and enthusiastic house. The Bach and Beethoven, somehow, more than made up for the rest. And the women all were beautiful. Hope and Kate Lawson and Kate Harbeck and Namara (in Max's box) were looking their best. Elly one could hardly see; there were no lights on the stage. Clem was to have been with me, but had to stay home to watch Anna who is ill and apparently quite insane. She (Clem) is definitely pregnant; so much so; I suppose she is happy. Lloyd is having an affair with Marion Morehouse; so much to the good; Ruth is less of a problem. But that is gossip, and in passing. I was awakened this morning by weeping Adelaide. A telegram had come from father's broker demanding $12,000, which the poor man was quite unable to supply. It seemed for an hour or so as if all the furies of hell had broken loose. But I think the crisis is past. Father has gone to town with one of his richer friends who has promised to pull him through. Walter, it appears, is so upset by the crash that he can only moan, and will not go anywhere. But, in the same breath in which she told me of the telegram, Adelaide informed me that Robert Smyth, of whom I spoke in yesterday's letter, had gotten quite beyond control and that Bess Millard refused to keep him in the house. I was to have motored his mother to the Berkshires this morning, and take them both to a sanatarium in Trenton this afternoon: altogether a trip of about 300 miles. But luck was with me there; someone else offered to go. It is raining, a final touch, which would have made such a trip ghastly. Now we are waiting for father to get back from the city, to hear the worst. Have you been hard hit? I know that DuPont went down 40 points yesterday. What can I, what can anyone do? I love you.

CIRCUIT

GGE-1033

ENGLEWOODNJ 16

Signification des principales indications éventuelles pouvant figurer en tête de l'adresse.

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PC. = Accusé de Réception.

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NUIT ... = Remettre même pendant la nuit.

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Via WESTERN UNION

EVERYONE HERE FRANTIC CAN YOU SURVIVE MARKET CAN I DO ANYTHING

gpl

November fifth, 1929.

Dearest Glen . . Our summer child is wayward. Ours and Monroe's and Hope's. Someday I shall have to have explained to me her interest and benevolence, though I shall be afraid. I can think of only one interpretation that is not even remotely flattering, and that does seem unlikely. Will you tell me? I called for the camera Friday midnight, and stayed until nearly three. I've thought I ought to apologize, but have not and really do not know. I should have liked to sit out the night, talk and have been talked to, though it seems so long since I have "said anything" that I became confused . . wanting to be coherent. I appreciate the advantages of this shut-away existence, but it is lonely and robs one of means of communication. If only I could put more on paper, it would not be so bad; though I should continue to mistrust the truth of half of all I write, even to your address. I want to know her, or somebody, better. The only other possibility is Kate. Yet I do not want to intrude, and doubt if I should be permitted to. I am not unhappy; it is something infinitely subtler. Neither am I dissatisfied. The work in interesting. I have taken a dozen pictures of which three were printable, one above the average. I dislike the acid under my finger-nails enough to be unwilling to go on doing shop work forever, but hope for better days still is/strong in me to doubt the end of it all. You are lacking, and there is no human experience that quite measures up. My thoughts and my desires, when I permit myself to have them or am too tired to shut them out, are of you and your home and our collections. I am, at least, faithful to our past and all our projects. We shall meet again, as it were, beyond the grave . . to dig new ones. I need the clearness and the tenderness, and believe in the Adonis-like cycle of events.

Your
Glen

gpl

December sixth, 1929.

My dearest Monie . . It seems to me I have so much to tell you, and there is no ad-
equate beginning to it. I have been so happy these last two days. After days and days
of confusion, of not getting everything done, two letters and a wire from you. I was
ripe for the tenderest messages. And, instead of making me want frantically to see
you, with all the misery that involves, I was overtaken by the deepest, most comfort-
ing peace and I thanked God for you and you for love. I am rather beyond the point of
accepting domestic and professional difficulties light-heartedly . . one couldn't for
long . . but I have something in place of light-heartedness, something finer and calmer.
I want you to go on being proud of and happy about me; I really believe I am working
more for the perfection of our relationship than for any other single thing, and that
in itself makes me glad for the opportunities of this separation. I have taken dozens
of pictures; I am proud of some. Now I am going to have certain ones enlarged which I
shall send you. I have three orders. Gert, of whom we can afford to be fond, at least
part of the time, is my first customer. A couple of weeks ago I spent the afternoon
at her house taking pictures, and she liked two of them enough to order a half dozen
prints of each. Next week I am to take the Brinton children and Mrs Kent. Soonish I
am to take Mrs Walker, Mrs Congdon, Mrs Earle, etc. Names only, but good ones. And I
have a house to do. Dan Fellows Platt, of whom you have undoubtedly heard Zena speak,
has hundreds of Italian primitives, not to mention marble mantlepieces and uncomfort-
able looking furniture, scattered through a dozen or more rooms; and I am to take them.
This week I have taken Max, Zena, Demetrios Vilan (a dancer), and Paul Meeres (also a
dancer). Meeres, as you probably know, is negro, a cafe-au-lait-ish one, and the most

beautiful man I have ever seen. Slighter than Sansone, but finer, subtler, and more
plastic. Those were nudes and near-nudes. Later I am going to do him in costume. In
any case, a set for you. And that is nearly all about myself. Last night I dined with
Kate and both went afterwards to Hope's. The first time I have seen either of them
in several weeks. But there seems to be more to comment upon about you. I was terribly
disappointed for you that the trip to Sicily fell through. You would have enjoyed it
even in pseudo-single-mindedness. Besides I regret it because of your health. Perhaps
we can go there together one day, though perhaps the famously romantic places are not
the best. We shall see. Of course, I am terribly excited and pleased about the ap-
partment and can hardly wait to see it. A sorry blow to Lloyd, who now expects never
to see you again. He has been comforted, though I fancy he shouldn't be. Hope, of
course, thinks he should be hurt, disappointed in love or something of the sort, but
I'm of the opinion that he is too lazy emotionally, or too cautious, for such things
to have much effect. It doesn't interest me to write about him. His affectionateness
is appealing, and the miracle of being Glen's brother, despite resemblances, never
ceases to astonish me. To go back, I wish I could make you a present for the appart-
ment. Perhaps, by the time I get to Europe, I will be able to. In the meantime put
the little vase in a conspicuous place and consider it as a promise. Be looking for
a studio for me, and keep a sharp lookout for prospective clients. I'll be over just
as soon as I can pay my passage, buy the equipment I need, and pay the first few
months rent etc. I am a little afraid sometimes that I may ruin everything by trying
to go too fast, but so far everything is splendid . . the clients flattered, the
technique improving. My Jewish blood shows itself in a new kind of intensity . . you
must learn to like us, nous autres Juifs. I shall write Miss C. Stuart at quarantine
as the France approaches. I cannot let a gift from you go astray, especially one I
want so much. Father's profession has done much to prevent my being sentimental about
Christmas . . he is so busy and never home on Christmas day . . but I shall do as you
ask about opening the gift. I sent your and Glen's presents suggestively wrapped, and
expect you to take the hint. I wish with all my heart that I could be with you in the

room from which, I hope, all the fake books have been
removed. I will be thinking of you with so much love,
wishing for you and Glen and Bernardine, even for the
enfant terrible. I remember everything about last Christ-
mas, from the cold echoing mass to Clem's orchid satin
and the butterfly on her hand. As I sit here now I am
wearing both the scarf and the rug you gave me . . not
for local colour, but because I always do. Memories are
so sweet and plans so much sweeter. Not having you I
have so much, having you again will be having everything,
will be heaven. God bless you, dearest, and bless our
plans. I love you.

gpl

December fifteenth, 1929.

Sweetheart. Before I begin my letter, let me make an explanation and a plea. I am working so hard. intensely and from eight to ten hours a day. and when I am through it is usually because I am so tired I cannot go on. I want you to understand why it is that I write less often and why your letters, providing as they do the minutes between, are so terribly important to me. I have much to do. The shop takes my afternoons, at least until Christmas, and I am aware of not doing slowly enough the thousand other things. And it is perfectly true that the only reason I have the time and the freshness to write this Sunday morning is that I can do nothing further until my last batch of plates shall have dried. So please continue to write often, oftener if you can, and never never forget, though I may be silent from time to time, that I am working for our happiness. I said each batch of plates was better than the batch before. In a measure that is still true, though less apparent. I have learned to overcome the major difficulties, what I suppose to be the major ones, and now am working on the little things. It all requires so much patience, and I have not a patient nature.

I am sure, if ever I am a successful photographer, that exuberance and fantasy, qualities of that order, will be the making of me, rather than calculation and impassivity. And I despair of accumulating the money I need to take me to Europe. You see I will have to have a studio. The equipment one needs, especially dark-room things, are cumbersome and impossible to transport often. I am buying nothing that I cannot take with me to Paris, but that means inferior mechanism. at least, far from the best. Hope might let me take the things of hers I have now; that would help enormously. But I have been counting on making enough with the equipment I have to go over, take a studio, and buy the necessaries there. German photographic materials are the best anyway. But I want $3000.

gpl

December twenty-ninth, 1929.

My Monie . .

I was ashamed of the abrupt and childish ending to my last letter. It was the first time, in writing to you, since your departure so many months ago, that I have permitted myself to 'give way'. I can generally tell when fits of depression, of feeling abandoned, are coming on, and can take steps to avoid them. But that time it all happened so suddenly, and I was bewildered, not having the time or the wit to run to cover. That is all. I am calm again, except for the myriad emotions of having just tried to tell Glen what his story means to me, a sweet melancholy confusion.

Good news, of sorts, is that I have just sold all but five of the remaining Hemingway pamphlets, some seventy-five of them, at two dollars a piece. Not enough to go to Europe on, but a lucky beginning. And I think I will start a savings account, a hope chest (not like Wesson's which is full of curtains and cushions) of cold bright dollars. Are you glad?

December thirtieth. Other letters have been interrupted; not often for so good cause. There was a meal to be prepared. Then Russell hurried me off to a Christmas carol service at the cathedral; half was cheap and theatrical, half was so pure and so old that I was thankful I went. Later Kate and I went to hear Iturbi, a program principally of Bach, Schubert and Stravinsky, which we adored. Then Lloyd joined us (something happened to Adlai) and we read The Babe's Bed. Kate was tremendously moved, and with a dexterity and charm that was admirable calmed Lloyd's re-awakened anxiety about Betty. At that first and rather public audition it was his only appreciable reaction, which seems quite natural. This paragraph, at least, is to you both. He was also dis-

turbed by the fact that Beulah and her husband and child are moving back to New York. Amusingly enough, L was filled with resentment because there has been a decline in the anti-Catholic feeling in this country, that is: because nobody wants to subscribe to the paper on which Clair was employed. You may know all this, but everybody seems distracted enough not to find time to write and I send the news along just in case they haven't. Apparently they have five hundred dollars to carry them over into the next job.

gpl

I stayed the night in town, because I had a photographic job to do there this morning. A perfect subject. An old French priest, too beautiful for words. White hair and beard, a largish nose, small brilliant eyes. I pray I may have done him justice. In any case, I will include him in the next batch I send you. On the schedule are: a house, a debutante, and a couple of middle-aged women. I am busy enough, though there are problems. How, for example, could I have suspected that pyro (pyrogallic acid), when heated, would become brown dye and, of course, quite useless as developer? But I learn a thing or two a week, though I will probably never know it all.

This afternoon came a long and chaotic letter from Rosemary C. A week ago I received from her a photograph, as fabulous as unlike, making her look like a well-preserved actress of uncertain age, unbecoming to the point of patriotism. I suppose you have one too.

That is all the news; enough for one day. A part of yours is enough to put the fear of God into one. Three Marys and a Clem in Villefranche. By all means go to Monton, if you must go at all. I did have a note from the Barnwell a few weeks ago threatening to turn up here next month, but that remains to be seen. I should like to go with you to the Midi, though I will always love Paris best. I scheme and scheme, wanting to turn air into banknotes. The alchemy of love. But you may trust me, for a while longer, not to fret, not to fail.

And so, to attend to the development of Rev. Gaston Septier (Société des Prêtres de la Miséricorde), I shall leave you. Sweet dreams, my beauty. I love you.

gpl

December twenty-ninth, 1929.

Dearest Glen . .

I want to say the most flattering things about your story. A thousand thanks for sending it. It arrived a week ago, and ever since the first reading (I have read it a half-dozen times or more) I have wanted to write or wire. Yours is the privilege. You might want to complain of my tardiness, which is not for want of appreciation, not, at any rate, equivocal. You must have known when you sent the manuscript that it would awaken in me a thousand memories, and make triply poignant my affection.

I so love and admire the accuracy of your emotion, the wisdom of your pain . . every expression of yourself. The flesh and blood paragraphs. And I pray that this revelation may be suspected by few as possible, and that all others, in their individual air-pockets, may know you unknowingly. Time and distance seem unimportant to me this morning; you are very near. My troubles, so often oppressive, seem puerile, and moderation a sort of saving. I remember, 'The trouble is always where the joy is', and wonder if this is really only a sort of nightmare in which each day is prolonged into the next, fatigue being stronger than sleep. At any rate, you have made many things clear to me. My heart aches for you all, for you above all. I often think that you, the beloved alien, for all your riches, are the most deserving of love. You ask the most of life and even now, I suspect, are not quite happy. What you give to life, above all to the life of the few, is inestimable. There can be no catalogue of either. God bless you for works that are past and for works to come.

This evening Kate and I are going to Iturbi's second recital. Afterwards we'll be joined by Lloyd and Adlai, and Kate or I will read the story aloud. I cannot

but wonder how each one of them will feel about it. I wonder if Lloyd's blood is stronger
than my instinct, his sensitiveness to your temperament greater or less than my own. I
am curious although not uncertain, and would not, in any case, be envious. Each member of
my family was moved, unsuspecting that the story is what I would once have called, pseudo-
technically, subjective. That word doesn't mean much to me any more; H. Ellis might call
it literarily decadent. But I am afraid such stuff is a poor attempt at praise.

Finally the Courbet. I am so happy for your sake, and appreciative of B..
How I wish I could know the state of all your relationships, for I have wondered and been
surprised. But I will probably have to wait a while longer, and content myself with a
summary account. Downstairs the phonograph is playing Mozart. I miss you abominably. Do
write if you can make writing 'fit in'. Each week is a pearl for the future.

All love,

gpl

January first, 1930.

My darling . .

Last year it was my privilege and joy to be the first to wish you a happy New Year. I offer now the first written, very nearly the first spoken, word of this year. I wanted terribly to answer your wire which came yesterday afternoon . . the blessedness of it . . but knew I could not reach you in time. Minor frustration, I know, but it made an hour of ping-pong and four hours of Flaubert doubly poignant. And, before I went to sleep, I re-read all the excerpts I had taken from Yeats' "Estrangement" which, you will remember, we read together in Moret and on the train. Asleep and awake I dream, and have dreamed, of you. There have been moments when the lack of you has been physical pain, even that, and I have been glad. The old towers, the icy Loing a game of billiards (which I have never attempted since that day), are symbols, and, as such, inexplicably, an incarnation of flesh. I love you, and am never far.

gpl

January seventh, 1930.

My Monie . .

It is a week since I last wrote; where the time has gone it is hard to remem-
ber. The last days of Russell's vacation, the growth of some other vacuum. To my sorrow
I have found that time and distance are no inconsiderable symbols for irksomeness. I want.
I want. But what's the good?

Not that life is wholly unpleasant. I take my fun where I can find it. Don
Giovanni, adequately done, twice in one week. Other lonely pursuits. I am amazed at my
directness and by my hunger for these things.

Photography continues to be profitable and amusing. This last week's problems
were a family of four (plus two dogs), Kate and Alan. This week I am doing houses; the
risk to my clients is enormous, but they don't know that. It is messy work, but agreeable.
How long it will take to save enough, how long it will be before I find gold, cannot be
predicted. I have made a saving start, but, oh, it is small.

My sweet, I want to say the most intimate things. All your beauty in my arms,
your breath against my cheek and in my throat, your mouth, your eyes. You will never know,
I imagine, all these things are to me . . . even in absence, how sweet desire can be, and
how bitter. And I have moments of not believing in any of it, of wondering if you, or any
one, is worth all the ~~trouble~~; then, invariably, I am afraid for hours. It is
pitiful perhaps, but I do need you. I can imagine nothing worse than a projection of this
life of abc rules, no geography, no gravitation, no vision, no tranquility. I might be
cleverer.

I will get in touch with Ralph about your books. I am so happy that you are

going to be able to do it. I am mildly jealous of Barbara, wishing I could do these things
for you, but certainly do not complain. It might not be a bad idea to use Ralph himself as
distributor. He has worked miracles with those pamphlets of mine. I have never heard of
Walter McKeegan but I shall ask. What else can I do?

spl

Tonight I am dining with Beulah, Lloyd and Paul (Wescott), or rather they are
dining with me. I met Paul only last evening, but thought him tremendously attractive . .
I have never learned to take Lloyd very seriously; I wonder if I ever will. Beulah gets
a niche or a pedestal. So much for that.

And that for that. I am tired and headachish, though it is only midmorning.
I was late getting home from the opera last evening. The weather today is left over from
june. The temperature is above seventy, the air so thick and muggy. I should prefer it
cold and clear, though it is seldom if ever clear.

What a fool I am! But I do love you, and that makes me happy and unhappy, strong
and languishing. Foolishness is incidental. But what, oh what, has the future in store
for us? My immediate future is upsetting. Just this moment I have had handed to me a
radio from the Barnwell who is arriving the day after tomorrow on the Olympic. God help
me. But perhaps the Olympic will also bring a letter from you.

Sweet Monie, wait for me. It may be a long time yet, but the hour of our meet-
ing is an increasing privilege and treasure. God bless you.

THE AS STABLE PUBLICATIONS

January eleventh, 1930.

My own darling . .

Last evening I heard the American Opera Company do Figaro. It was so charming and I loved it so. Why weren't you with me? There were moments when I actually felt you were. Kate asserts that the company has improved immeasurably in the last two years. I had nothing to complain of beyond the eye-strain caused by the too-black-and-silver décor. The voices were so fresh and the singers so personable. You would have loved it too.

But, in retrospect, it seems that the opera was only a prelude to your letter from the Meurice. It is such a beautiful letter. And you must always have known that I love you more for this secret and immutable sorrow than for all your smiles. I wish I could write a poem for you. I wish I could explain to you how the sorrow of our separation strengthens me; perhaps I place too great a value upon it. I do know that we are privileged. There is nobility enough in love. We both must wait, and I must work.

In a sense the advantage is mine. The singleness of purpose. Your life may be well filled, yet something is lacking. My life, moment for moment, is very full, yet everything is lacking. Given the choice, I might want to change places with you though I know this solitude, this austerity, these contrasts are really for the best. All but the occasional moments of despair when I doubt my power to overcome. Yet I believe in my power. And, no matter how long it may take, I shall find independence. Brave words, but they are true.

Three thousand dollars is a lot of money at the rate I am making it. About a hundred dollars a week for the past several weeks. If I save twenty-five or fifty I am doing well, and, of course, have no way of predicting what work I may be able to get to do. If I could get my $1500 from the Case estate, how that would simplify matters. But that is a remote chance. I dare not make plans. I know it is possible that I may make the money I need

THE AS STABLE PUBLICATIONS

I am appalled by the thought that you have been rereading letters of mine of
two and three years ago. I feel that I have changed so much. Do you find any essential change
and improvement? Everything in my life has revolved around loving you, and I must be the better for it. But I cannot understand, from vanity perhaps, how you could have liked that boy
well enough to love me now. The thought that you do brings tears to my eyes, and makes me
infinitely happy.

I still have no word from you as to whether or not you received the package of
photos I sent you weeks and weeks ago. If it never arrived, I'll duplicate it as nearly as
possible. Though, to be sure, the work I have done since that time, and of which I will send
examples soon, is far better. In fact I am immodest enough to think one or two extraordinary.
I had a great success with those of Pauline Cabot, one of which may be lucky enough to break
into print via Conde Nast. And the one of Russell on the ladder is fine.

The Berards in "Formes" excite me almost physically. Now, true to form, I suppose I will be wanting to be painted by him. Give him my regards etc when you see him.

The play you saw called "Rust" is the best thing the Guild has done this winter

their offers. I am, of course, still chaste, but then I have not been seriously tempted.
If I were, I do not think it would make much difference in my behaviour. The thought of
belonging only to you is very dear to me, dearer than any ephemeral pleasure. And, from
the physical point of view, I know that I am right. Charm for charm, quality for quality,
I know the world holds for me no finer lover. I have no need to test that belief. I doubt
my ability to explain. But infinitely more precious to me is the thought that you are
continent. I do not know why. I think I should be jealous if you were not. I think my
hopes would be affected. . . might disintegrate a little . . and that I should have less
joy in my work, less peace in my sorrow. But I do not ask it of you. I want not to ask
it of you. Men and women are always going to want to sleep with you, and you are not al-
ways going to be indifferent. And I am far away. Perhaps some one will fall in love with
you before we meet, feel the things I have and do. I hope such an one will learn to value
his or her love for itself, and to consider you and your favours as the gifts of God. If
this is sentimental it is inadequate but not untrue. I love you.

I have been social moderately. Last week Hope gave a big party which Kate and
Lloyd and I all attended, and enjoyed. Last evening I took Lloyd to see Fannie Brice; the
first time I have seen her since you and I went to the Palace together. She wasn't in
particularly good form. But, of course, the outstanding events of the past two weeks are
Elly's recital which was too lovely for words: all Bach and Brahms and Mozart and Schubert;
and Fidelio at the opera. I had never been told about it, or that I should love it. I wish
I wish you had been there. If they do it again I am going to take Hope. By the way, I sent
Elly a wire to her boat. I did not get to see her after you left. But her recital was so
heavenly, and I only had a word with her afterwards, and I wished so much I could see you
as soon as she, that I thought it only natural. It doesn't seem likely that she should
think it strange.

I have only one new friend you might like (none, may I add, you would dislike) and that is Pauline Cabot. I am sending you another batch of photos soon, including one or two of her. But that is another story and unsuited to the end of the page. She just may be awfully useful to me by getting photos published etc. You must have taken some in Villefranche. Do send them to me. You and your friends. I live for the future which is ours.

THE AS STABLE PUBLICATIONS

February seventeenth, 1930.

My beauty . .

When do you move into your apartment? Idle speculation. Though Hope did telephone the other day to ask where you are living. Will you still be in the rue de Vaugirard upon your return from London? That, at any rate, is what I told her, and where she is sending some or other friend of hers. I hope it isn't the lady-like pianist.

Yesterday I drove to Great Neck, all the way over sheet ice, to photograph a particularly odious woman and her rather amiable husband. Their eighteen-year-old son, in whose honour they summoned me, never turned up, and I will have to make another trip (though only to New York) to take him. Thus am I treated by strangers. Even more so. Someday, perhaps, I shall rebel at being treated like an upper-class servant. This work is infinitely more agreeable than shop-keeping, but often more humiliating. And I am not the least resentful of mortals. I need power, the power of prestige, in my profession or I'll never want to keep on with it. Money and respect and you. I do not want much, do I? All are human attainments.

Wesson writes that Mary Butts' story "The Houseparty" has appeared "in a terrible little new magazine called, of all things, Pagany". I must try to get hold of it. The fact that you and Glen are in it arouses my curiosity.

Mei Lan-Fang has finally arrived, and has his opening to-night. I shall go to see him tomorrow or Wednesday, depending upon what the box office has to offer. I have heard of him for so long and have admired his photographs; I would not miss him for anything. Have you seen him. The advertisements say he has just arrived from Pekin, but perhaps he came via

GEORGE PLATT LYNES. ENGLEWOOD. NEW JERSEY.

March thirteenth, 1930.

My wonderful Monie.

I'll have to find a way. And soon. I mistrust the way I feel. The conflict is seven months old, and grows more difficult. I have been living on the part of myself that has become hard, fighting down the rest. Now it seems that the other part of me, the part that is sensual, that needs guidance and nourishment, the part that is immutable, but that needs intimacy for its fulfilment, must be recognized and dealt with. These seven months I have dreamed of you, I have believed in you; you have been ubiquitous and you have been far. You were to be the reward, the future, the joy; and I have been content to deny myself an actual, moment-for-moment, desire.

It is not that I no longer believe in our future. I do intensely. I have a vision of it before me every hour of the day. Forgive me if I am weak. I have needed the future. Now I need to have that future become the present. My existence here is too immediate, and yet too distant, for judgement. At times I feel that it is in no way futile; at times I feel that it serves no purpose other than to humble and chasten me. I have wanted human experience, and I have been afraid of it. And, although I should be the first to maintain that this isolation has been good, I dread the probable effects of its continuance. I'll have to explain without complaining, without recrimination, without histrionics. Have I the power?

I am filled with disgust by the thought that I could make life suf-

ficiently unpleasant for those about me to gain my ends. It is what Glen once called
rioting (in contradistinction to revolution). And I am, in a sense, thankful that I no
longer know how to go about doing so. There must be some other way. The fact that I mean
to live in Paris is known to many people, that I want to live there chiefly because of
you is known to two or three, but nobody knows, and only I suspect, the dangers incidental
to, and issuing from, the present state of affairs. For my life here is not normal.

I cannot believe that the flesh and the spirit are capable of vicarious
satisfaction, or can thrive on an invalid's diet. And, God knows, I have not the ascetic
instinct. I want to, and with all my heart do, give you all credit in the world. You have
taught me to sweeten despair with music, and sorrow with poetry. Without that lesson I
might not have lasted as long, or have the desire to see things through to a definite con-
clusion. I have a horror of wanting to snatch at any straw that will take me to you, hav-
ing set my standard according to reason. And yet the natural thing within me gives me no
peace.

It isn't a physical thing; at least it cannot be characterized so simply
as that. If it were that alone, inspite of my pleasure in being yours and in wanting only
you, I should do something about it. I have written before what I feel about New York and
what it has to offer; there is no wholeness; only an occasional human contact is reward-
ing. And I am sure, not only if I am to discover life on an ideal basis, but if I am to do
consistently creditable work, that I must have balance. The solution, an immediate one, is
so simple in appearance, yet how, in this stock-and-bond-stricken world, is it to be at-
tained. I am trying desperately to be calm. I do not weep. But I am very silent, and you
are asked to share, at any rate to inspect, the burden.

My parents, finding me melancholy at times, try to blame it on hypothetical
bad news or hypothetical illness. I cannot explain; consequently I avoid them as much as
possible. I hope, to some extent, I have made myself clear. All is not in order in my own
mind, and I have probably hopelessly confused the issue. Yet, if I did not love you, I
wonder for what I would work, or if I should somehow cease to exist. Writing to you is
useful to me, but to touch your mouth . . .

Beloved.

This week has been curious. It seems to have carried me to the most sublime heights, and to have led me into and out of states of despair and self-pity. Yet, of course, as I look back upon it, I find I have still something of a whole skin. For all of which, in spirit and in absence, I have you to thank.

Sunday afternoon, in spite of rain and crowds, I had the inestimable good fortune to see the Havemeyer collection. I cannot doubt that it is the finest in the world, and praise the old lady and her advisors. So much opulence rather makes the muscles of the heart contract, and breath come hard. I loved it so. The Rubens and El Greco are the lovliest I have seen; there are dozens of Courbet and of those delightful little Corot; There are Manet which made me wonder why I had never particularly liked him; several fine Cézanne; a Bronzino portrait which Adelaide fancies resembles me; a half dozen glorious Rembrandt; a charming little Monet of an early period, that is before he went gaga over water-lilies and cathedrals; and many many others. Catalogues haven't much descriptive quality, and this is inadequate. But you would love it too, and I want terribly to have you see it. It is to be kept intact until the beginning of November, when everything is to be distributed among the various departments of the museum. I shall see it many times again before then, and will know to what spot each picture will have been removed.

Eugene is in town. He telephoned me one day last week and three days later we dined together. There isn't much to tell about that. We dined at Marie's where Lloyd joined us later. Later still we went to the Basques where we ran into Kate and three of her friends. That made a party and we stayed there talking and dancing until quite late. The next day

I photographed Marie (rather successfully I think), and afterwards we collected Kate and Raymond Sovey and went to Eugene's vernissage. It was a dismal affair. A lot of Tchelitchew-mud-coloured pictures of, so far as I could see, negligible merit. E was, of course, in a state: a feverish excitement, quite unlike his excitement as a host, which made him seem incredibly old and of an insecurity that shocked me. He seems lost in New York. But really all I got out of my evening with him was the old sense of badness, his badness. Yet I wonder if I should have seen through his factitious sympathy and affection, had I not been warned. Lloyd, having been warned, quite simply is disinterested; Kate actively dislikes him. I fancy that sooner or later I become aware of disadvantageous people, though I don't always know how to get rid of them. For example: Maratier. But I am learning.

Tuesday evening Kate took me to see Alice Brady's new play, the third she has done and the third I have seen her do this season. It was very amusing. And afterwards we went to the Guild where Vandam was photographing their new show, "A Month in the Country". I was introduced to Miss Vandam as a photographer, whereupon she became furious and tried to have me thrown out. She did not succeed. If I were not quite new to the game I probably would not have been flattered by her vindictiveness, the occasional look of fury. How childish a thing professional jealousy (or suspicion) can be! As it was I sat there until three o'clock in the morning watching the proceedings, surrounded by a number of rather charming people. Have you ever met Alexander Kirkland? You mustn't. He is far too beautiful, boyish, and charming. I should be jealous. And have you ever met Nazimova? I didn't. But to watch her was a delight. She is very beautiful in spite of her age, and has a balance, a poise, a grace of movement, and is of an amiability, that are a wonder to behold. There is just a chance that Kate can get her to pose for me. I should like that.

I want now to photograph as many well-known and conspicuously beautiful people as possible. I think I will write to Wilder; he is nice and would perhaps try to remember me. And Kate can arrange sittings with Dod Passos, and the man who wrote "Look Homeward, Angel" (which has had an enormous success, though I didn't like it very well); and she will probably put me in touch with theatre people. I have only to find a place in New York where I can take them. I obviously cannot afford a studio and wouldn't in any case want to me tied up to one. There is the Camera Club, the most practical solution; I am now trying to

find out what the membership requirements are. They supply everything from cameras and arc-
lights to dark-rooms, or so I am told. And one pays by the hour and for materials used. It
sounds perfect.

The only other news I can think of is that the weekend of April eleventh, which
is Glen's birthday, and the second anniversary of my last sailing to Europe, I am giving a
little houseparty in North Egremont. Hope, Walter, Kate, Lloyd, and a young and passionate
girl-friend of Hope's, have agreed to come. I think it will be fun. But I'll write you about
that later.

This is rather different from my last letter, but that is just as well. I don't
make myself any happier by being volubly unhappy, though it is a comfort. I happen to have
worked hard enough yesterday and the day before to be so tired physically that I haven't any
emotional disturbances, but I suspect such are in abeyance. I am rather disappointed that
four boats, two of them big ones, brought postcards from Capri and Rome (from the Barnwell)
but no letters from you. But I will prize your next all the more. I suppose, by the time
this reaches you, you will have had the photographs and the records and the explanatory
postcards. I hope so. The only other thing I must tell you is that Ralph Allan asked about
your publishing the other day. I told him you would have two books ready in July, whereupon
he said it was time you were getting out announcements to the trade. I suppose, if you wait
until July to find an agent, you will not get your books into circulation much before Dec-
ember. Do let me know all you are doing about it, and I don't forget that I want a copy, an
extra-luxe copy, of each thing that you do.

I am hungry for you. I love you. In what ways has your manner of living, every-
day living, changed from what I remember so well. I want to know everything. Even more than
there is. I am yours.

March twentieth, 1930.

gpl

April third, 1930.

Dearest.

Your letter of the twenty-fifth has just arrived, and I feel I must write you . . but only a word. This is my third letter to you this week. The others I could not send; they would make you unhappy and we both need all our strength. Some day, when we are together and have no reason to think fate unkind, we may read them together. I am writing as fast as I can. I want not to think, to brood. I would fall into error. Your letter does me good. Thank you for it. I am trying to make, to save, money. I must see you as soon as I can. It sometimes seems as if all the years to come, as well as the present, are incapable of plenitude. Hope is a sort of crying-out, a sort of madness. I wish I could describe, even to myself, the sensations of my body, the effort and sickness. But

gpl

I cannot. I pray you may be less susceptible to need.
I want to go on writing forever, to write myself into
a sort of stupor. But this is enough. I love you. I
love you.

North Egremont.

April tenth, 1930.

My tender Monroe.

The Berkshires are cold and rainy, altogether desolate. Yet that seems
not to matter. One night's dream is like the next next night's, day follows day, and all
places, wrong one's, are the same. Sleep is not always welcome. It has x astonished me
to discover how few my dreaming moods are, and how subtly awful. But there will be an
end to all that, I hope.

This morning I motored Russell to New Haven for the opening of his term.
One hundred and seventy-five miles altogether. The early morning air was stimulating. We
started at six-thirty and I was back by noon. I am always a bit moved by so much careless,
self-conscious and self-confident, beauty; I am perhaps more sensitive to it now than when
I was a student there myself. I, the sentimental abstainer. I wander for a bit around
the campus and senior quadrangle, looked at everybody, found out the telegraph office from
which I sent Glen birthday greetings, and started back. There is no beauty within miles
of this place; certainly not at Berkshire School. Which is just as well, which does not
displease me. My life now: One photograph, one perte blanche, after another. All too rarely is either enjoyable.

A wire from Kate announcing that she cannot come for the weekend. Too
much work. The others are arriving tomorrow evening. I am, of course, disappointed though
it may be just as well. I fancy Walter finds her a bit too attentive. It is a pity that
she throws herself at people, so many people, most of whom really like her. Only Lloyd

appears to be exempt, and he would be glad enough to oblige. I have sometimes amused myself with the idea that Glen's relations with women are such that any one of them would consider an affair with Lloyd in the realm of incest, but it is a private amusement. Certainly it would not occur to him.

Now I must go into town after provisions. Adelaide left this morning. So I am alone with father until tomorrow. I'll try to write a long long letter when I get back to Englewood. Lately, when I have tried to write at length, I have become confused or I have wept . . . once I had to stop because of vertigo and nausea. But I hope all that sort of thing is done with and that I can sensibly "keep up" until this summer when you may expect to see me. I have a mailing list of five hundred names to prepare, for the exposition announcements, this evening and tomorrow.

I love and trust you.

Monsieur Monroe Wheeler

Guaranty Trust Company

4, Place de la Concorde

Paris

France

Thursday evening.

April seventeenth, 1930.

My precious Monie . .

The pearl arrived this morning just as I was leaving for town. I
love it. Now I shall have to contrive to live up to it, for wear it I will. I fancy
such an ornament imposes dignity and a modest demeanour upon the wearer who dislikes
ostentation. I can think of several needed reforms: my own waistcoats and Hope's finger-
nails, which, when last seen, were a vicious magenta and incredibly long. The former,
the more easily accomplished of the two, is neglected out of amorous avarice. I did, how-
ever, purchase three new ties, dark ones and quite plain. I shall wear the pin on Easter,
the next time, so far as I can see, that I shall be out of bed-room or dark-room garb, the
first time I shall have been to church since you left.

I have definite good news for you. My trip to Europe this summer is
practically assured, and in so odd a fashion. Last weekend Walter found, among the books
the family had gathered at random to fill the shelves in the little house, a copy of
Huckleberry Finn which had belonged to Charlie Case. Thinking it might be a first edition
he called my attention to it. I brought it back with me, verified the fact, and found I
could sell it for $300 to $350. Isn't it amazing. I am trying now to find out who will
pay the most for it; if I could sell it retail I could get $450 to $500, the copy being in
extraordinarily fine condition, but doubt if that can be done. I have already saved $100,
but I owe most of it to father who has given me dabs of money from time to time this winter.
(The $50 a month he agreed to give me for, I think, six months is mythical. He gave me

fifty October first; then came the crash and the end of that revenue.) I want to go over
for three months, the middle of June to the middle of September, and fancy I will need
$100 to $150 a month, plus passage. Say $600 in all. Do you consider that a fair estimate?
My exposition is costing a bit, but one good order will pay for it twice over and I hope to
get many more than one. I shall take the camera over with me in any case. Do you think I
can get any work to do in Paris this summer?

The definite prospect of seeing you, even if it is not to be for another
two months, is doing me a world of good. How simple, how unemphatic, it is to say that to
see you is needful, yet that is what I have been trying to say, what I have not been able
to say at all really, this past month and more. I hardly dare imagine, or recall, the pleas-
ure of lying in your arms, the poignant sweetness and the more poignant sorrow. The
intimacy with your pleasure and your thought is the most dear. Yet, when I think of your
mouth and hands, your warmth and fragrance, I can think of nothing better the world has to
offer. I am, in a sense, in love with lovers' weakness and limitation; more particularly my
own which induces me to enjoy through your senses, rather than independently, the beauties
of the world at large. I think that doctrine, your didactic idealism, has sustained me, at
this distance, the better part of the winter. How much finer to hear it all from your lips
again, and to see the light and tenderness in your eyes.

I regret not having had commerce with Glenway this winter. His letters
have always had a particular and really great significance. And, in the past as well as in
the future, there is good in my letters to him. I have not, perhaps, an infinite capacity
for sorrow. . . sometimes it seems that more would be too much and destructive. . . but I
have the love and the desire for understanding. Beyond appreciation, almost esoteric, my
feeling for him grows. I want him to know that without being told and, if I can behave this
summer without too much capriciousness, I know he will. It is too late in the season to start
a correspondence now, even if he were in the mood, but I do not think that important. I wait
for many things. Give him my dearest love.

I will keep you informed as to the health of the exchequer, let you know
when I am ready to take passage. The gala day is near now. I feel it has been, still is,
worth waiting for because I love you. Your adoring

May seventh, 1930.

The hottest May day in
fifty-nine years. 90-odd.

My darling.

This is a day good for nothing but indolence; no day for work
or love-making. The heat is insufferable. How I should adore to see you,
naked in the garden, shining with perspiration, absorbing the sunlight;
or to see you, dressed all in white, looking unbelievably cool, wandering
through the house. Then as it grows cooler, for we are promised a thunder
storm, to take you in my arms.

Instead, I must go into New York this afternoon to take pictures.
And after that I am dining, against my inclination, with Lowenhaupt. I have
done some copying for him which I must deliver. It may be to my discredit,
though in a measure to my advantage, that I refrain from "putting him off"
until after he has paid his bill. Every twenty-five dollars counts. I am a
rotten business man.

I was terribly disappointed in the Bach Mass. The conductor (I
have forgotten his name) seemed afraid that the situation was going to get
out of hand, and played it so slowly that even the most ecstatic parts were
dreary. The soloists, except for the tenor, were mediocre. And the chorus
so little inspired that I could have wept. I am glad you missed it. Hope is
going to Bethlehem to hear it; but that, I understand, will be a performance
of another sort.

Lloyd feels quite sure he will be able to go to Wisconsin for two weeks this summer. I am very glad. He wants to go. And he is uncertain whether or not he is going to enjoy living with Beulah (in Nutley, N.J.) the rest of June, July, and August. She wants him, and he wants to save money. I've found him rather apathetic lately, but do not think it a mood that will last. He is ripe for a love affair, but I think he wants much more to be mothered than amused. What a worried and persecuted husband he will make.

Yesterday I spent seven hours in the dark-room, with only a half-hour intermission. The longest time I have ever spent there at a stretch. I got fifty prints made. Unfortunately only twelve are on order. All the rest are for Marie (about fifteen of them) and for my collection and for yours. I have done some good nudes lately, but I'll not entrust them to the mails. My trunk is a far safer place for them.

Wesson has written to ask if he might come with me on the Homeric. I shall discourage him gently. I am a bit afraid that I will find Eugene on the boat; he plans to sail, so Max Ewing tells me, just about that time. What a calamity that would be. I am telling everyone he is likely to see that I am sailing on the Leviathan after all, in order (perhaps) to tempt him to take it. I am apparently still on the seduction list, and do not want to be bothered. Visions of awkwardness.

I was so happy to have your last letter. I needed some sort of eulogy. I think some of my pictures are good, on, to put it differently, the more pictures I take the less I am impressed by those taken by others. I am often aware of the fact that I am the only photographer (I know anything about) who has no method, no style or pretense of one. I've certainly no doctrine about it. I should like to develope a style, or rather about six styles a year, but think it unlikely that I will at present. Principally that I have been and will be taking pictures professionally with amateurish equipment . . an unreliable lens and inadequate lights. The camera I am devoted to, and might in time pur-

chase its duplicate. I would give a lot to have a properly equipped dark-room
this summer, but if I had that I should have no reason probably for returning
here this fall. I have prospects for about six sittings before Xmas. I am
greedy. I want to establish myself in Paris this summer and perhaps come back
here for a couple of months (October to December) for the "rush". It might be
arranged, and yet . . . I wonder how much recrimination there would be at home.

I have very little of Atala done beyond what I sent you . . perhaps
ten pages of text. Inspite of your praise I am still dubious about my ability.
Thank God I will have an opportunity to discuss everything with you. But I
ought to be able to finish the book this summer. Would you really consider pub-
lishing it?

You have not mentioned Clem in months. I am curious about her and
her progeny. I've vaguely heard that the second has been born, and weighed a
ton. But nobody seems to know where or when it happened, or the child's sex
and disposition. What of the Marys?

Plenty of questions and no time, fortunately, for written answers.
Two more. Did you like Toscanini? Do you want me to bring the Mozart symphony?
You might wire (in two words) for the latter if you want it.

When this reaches you I will be almost upon the point of sailing.
My love to Glenway and to Jacques. God bless you.

Your loving,

May ninth, 1930.

Dearest.

The Olympic does not sail until tomorrow, and will bear this as well yesterday's letter. I feel that it is important that I get this ~~off~~ to you at once.

As you have probably gathered, I have been considerably distressed about doing photography this summer. And your letter this morning, in which you said you want me to take a lot of celebrities etc., served to make me infinitely more so. That is, of course, exactly what I want to do, but could see no way (except by definitely setting up shop, and that would cost about $1000 I should think) of arranging for it. It all resolves itself to the fact that I will have to have a dark room. I'll take the pictures where and however I can.

To that end I am taking with me everything (almost) that I will need: the enlarger, developing tanks, left-over chemicals, etc indefinitely. All in all about two crates full of things. I will have to register everything before I leave here (to avoid duty upon my return), and probably take them into France in bond. I think father will lend me the money for that, considering he is sure to get it back. All we have to do is to find me a room to work in. The duplicate of my room in the rue de Poilu would be ideal. Not that I need a room actually as

large as that, but something on that order . . something with running water and
from which light may be absolutely excluded. Neighborhood is unimportant; I should
never be taking a client there. Will you look about for me. That will save a lot
of time.

As for living quarters, I will leave that entirely to you. As I have
written all the first expenses are met (ticket and passport, etc.) and I will have
at least $500 when I arrive. I have no desire whatever for the gay life, for wine
and dancing and expensive food, so the trip should not cost more than that. I
perfectly realize what a financial strain the appartment has been, and if I can
pay my trip I shall be only too pleased. Photographic plates and papers will be
my principal expenses, but I should be able to manage even that.

These last unsentimental details fill me with delight. How perfect a
satisfaction to fuss and plan and arrange for the things one wants the most. How
unlike the long hours and days of wanting and hoping and uncertainty. I shall
take you toothbrushes and shirts and records. I hope Glen's list arrives soon, for
there isn't much time left. Two weeks from tomorrow and I will be on my way. A
million things to do in the meantime; too many in fact; I hope I get them all done.

I am sorry you saw the Hardys again. I had arranged matters to my own
satisfaction (and with the consent and approval of my family) not to let them know
I would be in Paris, not to see them. But, since you have let the cat out of the
bag, I suppose I will have to. As for photographing Jacqueline Henriette; we shall
see. I think it like that I dislike the old woman more than you do, for the
reason that I once respected her and completely lost that respect. So far as I
can see she is in no position to either help or harm me. So what are the odds?

Infinite love. I am excited as a ten-year-old.

May fourteenth, 1930.

Dearest Glen.

Thank you so much for your letter. I needed it. Perhaps because my winter has been spent, remorsefully, in attainments. Perhaps because I have missed you so much. I am glad it need not matter now, any of it. I am glad for the old responsibilities, and your inestimable problems. I have learned a lot about my feeling for you this winter, by learning in your absence (as, I fancy, one best does) the feelings of others.

To what extent will your inventiveness and my knowledge of geometry serve to make me an important photographer? I want revenge on all the people who have tried to pull me down with unflattering prophecies.

I spent two hours trying to select a half dozen records to take Monie. You cannot imagine what tripe the song writers are manufacturing. In the end I gave it up and wired Russell, who was coming home for the weekend, to bring me New Haven's best. He did, and you shall hear them. For Jacques I shall get the noisiest, though crooning is still in vogue. A lot of Duke Ellington's up-town harmonies. I cannot but wash my hands of them, artistically and morally. Do you mind?

Poor Wesson. I wonder if he knows with how little effort in the wrong direction he will put an end to patience. Poor Lloyd. I had not realized until just the other day how much he depends on me. Poor Beulah. Poor everybody in fact . . except me. I am very happy now.

Hope has called out her cohorts, and tonight they assemble, some before

and a lot more after dinner, to enjoy themselves under the pretext of saying farewell
to me. Of course, I am flattered. Will write more of that later.

And now I must write a note to Mr Ray Stover who arrives this week from
London, bearing credentials from Mr Rafael Nieto who inhabits Mexico City. All in all,
I think it very odd.

The time is so short now. A week from the day after tomorrow I sail. Perhaps
this will reach you while I am on my way. A thought that makes me hold my breath.

Infinite love.

Sunday morning.

May eighteenth, 1930.

Ineffable Monroe.

This is my last letter. It seems incredible that the Bremen, which
sails Tuesday, is the only fast boat that leaves before I do. I wish I were taking
it instead of the Homeric. I am so impatient and these five days hold so much for me
that is unpleasant or tiresome. Yet five-sevenths of a week is not eternity, however
long it may seem to me.

Tomorrow morning I go to New York to take gas and have a wisdom
tooth extracted. Then three or four farewell engagements. A tremendous amount of
packing. I couldn't be taking more luggage if I were to stay in France the rest of my
life, and yet I am taking the minimum. My equipment is bulky and fragile. And I am
fervently praying that I'll have no duty complications at Cherbourg. I should hate to
miss the first train or to have to take a several-hundred-dollar bond on my things.
The lenses are, of course, registered at the N.Y. customs; that may help, should at
any rate prove that I intend to bring them back to this country. In any case do not
be surprised if I have to wire you that I'll be appearing on a later train, or the
next day, or something equally abominable.

Do you remember the enchanting Buster West, and that, the first even-

ing I spent with Glen, before you and I met, you were seeing him in the Scandlands? I've
a good memory, yet it is doubtful if my taste for omens and symbols does me credit. I
took Lloyd to see him Friday evening, after an exhausting hour or two selecting records
for Jacques. (Concerning those records: I got as many good tunes as possible, and an
assortment of oddities . . you shall see and hear what actually happens when negroes go
Nordic and the limit, not to mention the current craze which is for baby-talk.)

Homeric passengers, it is advertised, reach Paris and London by daylight. That must mean that I will arrive at Cherbourg at the break of day. I want to be fresh and bright-eyed when you meet me, though I can see no chance for rest for the next number of years. I shall never forget Jean Bourgoint's eyes the evening we returned from Saint Cloud (where we had gone to see Cocteau) . . the colour of star-sapphires, and as brilliant and lifeless. Fatigue, salt air, and excitement, might affect me similarly. Yet I am sure that whatever either of us has, of accumulated ills, need to be cured of, is to be the work and the pleasure of the other. Now I prefer to think of the simpler and ecstatic promise.

I am happy, though my instinct is to complicate and try to extend that
happiness to cover a multitude of little sins. I believe that my instinct is good, and
pray it may not in the end be futile. This, my last word to you, should be more nearly
perfect . . full-blooded and joyous and faithful. But I am hopeful, and have confidence
in your love. The thought of your beauty fills me with a sort of sickness of desire. I
cannot doubt but that the summer holds for us only the greatest benefit, lovers' pleasure
and effort and ideal. Because I loved you first and know I shall never love you less.

A hymn to the future, a sigh for the past. All of experience through
you. "The precious intermediary."

gpl

Hotel Christol-Bristol,
Boulogne-s/ Mer.

August twenty-second.

My darling.

The trip, after the train left Amiens, was wonderful. Wheat and sunlight on the right. On the left dark scrubby things and then the sand dunes. And I was happy.

I arrived about six-thirty, having chosen an hotel from the guide book. After dinner, which was neither very good nor very cheap, I set out to see the town. And decided not to stay.

I have a room overlooking the port, attractive by night, but very noisy and smoky. The other part of the town, not so far away, boasts an enormous casino, several Negresco-like hotels, and innumerable bars and tea-rooms. In the morning I shall look about again, but shall probably not change my mind. The natives are hideous; everybody else, including an army of boy scouts, is English.

And I am still happy. I don't like the town, but I am not disturbed. The tufted dunes I saw were so white; tomorrow I'll start out in that direction. I will go first to Hardelot and, if I do not like it, then to Etaples. Nearer Paris. And, perhaps, next week, you will join me there or in Amiens. I am missing you, but not sadly as I suspected I might. I'll wire my next address when I know it. All my heart.

gpl

October twenty-ninth, 1930.

Dearest Glen.

Forgive me for not writing. I started a letter the evening of the oper-
ation, a week ago, but I was too anxious, too uncertain and exhausted, to write more
than a few lines . . . none of them very useful. And now there is no need for letters.
Monroe was writing to you when I went to see him yesterday, at least an indication
of his condition; what can I say except that he is doing and looking far better than
one could have hoped. And I have been errand-boy and, with the exception of Mr. Got-
tenet, the only visitor. Now, of course, Mr C is on his way around the world; M has
put everybody off until the end of this week, for he tires easily and cannot laugh.
And, now that the first days are over, I am so happy that he had it done. I took him
to the Berkshires the weekend before the operation so that he couldn't wear himself
out with errands; that was good because he was very tired. And, although he is still
very weak, and the headache from the anaesthetic lingers, he appears to be satisfied.
I wish I could describe him to you: already he looks better than he has in over a
year. Perhaps two weeks more and he will be about again. I expect that he will come
here for a few days before going to Chicago. And then Europe, my loss and your gain.
But I haven't been thinking much about myself lately, and expect to be equal to the
winter. Father, bless him, is giving me a lot of new equipment: lens, enlarger, etc..
The confusion of installation has prevented me from doing much so far, but I have
several clients, and a couple of compliant actresses. And you, dearest? I have

thought so much about you, your solitude and troubles. And recently with shame. For
I have done so little to make the week's events intelligible . . when there was need
for consolation. If only I knew the healing words, and could see your eyes. My love
to everybody, particularly Barbara and Jacques, and tell J that I'll be able to send
his pictures in a week or two. Darty's postcards have been mailed. Writing makes me
feel so much less alone . . waiting. Thank you for that. I am only bright by fits and
starts, and I haven't much to boast about, haven't done much to deserve your love.
But I love you, and you understand me. And I am always ready.

Your devoted

A letter from you for Monroe has just arrived. I'll deliver it this afternoon. This is
a safer address than the Lafayette, although I call there for mail every other day.

gpl

November eighteenth, 1930.

to Einstein

My dearest.

It occurs to me that I must write to you today, for I can see
little free time tomorrow or Thursday. Tomorrow I am to deliver Hope's
pictures, attend a tea Max Ewing is giving for Zena and the Rocky Twins,
and dine with Lloyd and Beulah. Thursday I am lunching with, and photo-
graphing, Bernard Fay, and will probably dine with Kate. I haven't been
near New York since I took you to your train; I haven't missed it, being
incredibly busy.

Packages of the Mann continue to arrive. I unpack them and put
them away in my closet. There are already twenty of the ordinary, and five
de luxe. Not including the three I sent to you. Let me know when you want
me to do something about them.

I got the films of Frances Robbins back from the retoucher, and
this morning made three big proof-prints of her and three of Betsy. I am
rather pleased with them. I hope you and she will be too. There has been
no sun for five days, and I cannot devote all my time to making proofs. I
loathe this sort of uncontrollable delay.

Friday is Lloyd's birthday. You might send him a wire (58 W. 51).

I wanted my wire to say all I felt about your convalescence. I
hope you understood. I want you to be so careful, to indulge your feelings,
to trust completely in my love. I want you well and happy, even though it
means that I must lose you again. So long as I know that you are improving,
I'll not complain if you do not write.

Now I will go after the prints of your books, which I will en-
close with this letter, and further publicity from the Limited Editions Club.
I might not have gotten them done for days and days, so I farmed them out.
I hope they will please you. If you want more, or larger ones, or more
prints of you and Glenway, let me know. I cast such envious eyes upon the
letters from G which I send on to you.

More on Friday. I love you.

gpl

November twenty-third, 1930.

My darling.

Four long and preoccupied days. Nor is today any less so. All morning I have been making proofs and mounting prints. And I sat through dinner twice. Truckloads of flowers have been arriving for a funeral which takes place this afternoon, and father or Adelaide has had to be on hand every minute to direct the arrangement, and took turns at eating. Presently I am going to town to see Hope and to dine with Max Ewing.

Max's party last Wednesday was more amusing than his parties usually are. Zena was there, tired and old-looking, rather subdued and rather nice, a few world-weary males, and a Rocky twin. . . what became of the other one I never heard. I was not much impressed by his beauty. It is too delicate, too well-cared-for, and, in full face, too badly out of drawing. But it is easy to see why people like him. He has a certain, quite equivocal charm. . . the sort that works well enough, but cannot be described. You'll remember John Rox's enthusiasm and how dreadful he made this Rocky, the smaller Rocky, sound. I ventured to mention Mr Rox, but the name was not well received and so I did not mention Mr Brooke. A lot of too obvious friendliness toward myself, however.

Thursday I delivered proofs to Frances Robbins, and very pleased she ap-

peared to be. Then I lunched with Bernard Fay, and spent the afternoon photographing and making conversation. I dropped in on Zena at the Ritz, where she is working for a picture dealer (she lives in a servants room in the Crillon Building), and stayed a half-hour, a rather agreeable half-hour. Then I went on to dine with Kate and Ray Sovey. Kate did recitations, and was very amusing, but I think I like her best when contemplative and a little sad. Ray was either very affectionate or mildly amorous, probably both. Worked all day both Friday and Saturday. Friday evening dined at Beulah's in honour of Lloyd's birthday. The pictures of Bernard are the best I've done since my return.

I send you the enclosed photo because I suddenly realized that it is one of the loveliest pictures of you I have ever seen. I am glad it is too intimate to be shown about. May I take some more of that sort when you return? It makes me catch my breath whenever I look at it, makes me so happy and so proud. I want pictures of every part of your body, of all your expressions. I am thankful for such things when you are not here.

May I definitely expect you Monday, December first? Let me know when you are going to Kentucky so I'll know when to stop forwarding mail. There have been no more packages of the Mann. Did you receive the package of eight? I am sending the book reviews, though I can find nothing that concerns you in either. The Theatre Guild Magazing is using the sleeping Kirkland.

Good-bye, dearest. I love you.

gpl

Monday evening.

November twenty-fourth.

Lover.

The urge for a New York studio is upon me again. And more intensely
than ever, for I have found a perfect one. Facing on Washington Mews, near
University Place, with entrances both upon the Mews and upon Washington Sq..
One very large room with quantities of light, a smaller room, and a bath.
Just above the street level. Two-storey buildings opposite. And 'abordable'
as to price, if I take it with Lloyd. A hundred a month, and, according to
last winter's standards, worth half again as much. My particular problem is
that they want to rent it until next October, or until a year from October.
I wish that you could see it now, although, considering the extent to which
I have been seduced by it, you may better advise me from your distance. In
a few days I can argue myself out of it, partly on the grounds that it will
take an extra two hundred dollars to go to Europe for the summer, but my in-
stinct is so strong that it may very well persist, and it may be good.

Marie read my palm this afternoon, after I had seen the studio, of her
own volition and with a power and insight that moved me more than I can ex-
press. I have more or less forgotten the virtues she ascribed to me; you have
trained me to care about correcting my faults. She said that I am stubborn

and wasteful, that something has happened to dull my imagination, the imagination
I had as a child, (I think this may be true, but can judge only on a basis of
feeling a certain lack or loss), that my nature is perfectly simple for those
whom I love sensually (you and, I expect, Glenway) to understand, and is rather
a mystery to everybody else, that my instinct is to obey my (sensually)-loved-ones
blindly, and to resist all other influences. And many more things which I can
remember but which would make too long and complicated a text. The telling of it
was so brave and direct, so simple and understanding. She finished by kissing me
with great affection, and left me rather bewildered and very humble. Perhaps my
risk is to fall in love with somebody who might abuse that naive devotion, but
I feel your image so deep within me that I cannot fear losing it or accepting
something poorer. Perhaps I am over-impressed. All evening I have been remembering what you told me of her reading of R.H. and how he might have been nearly perfect if he had followed her advice. As I think back again, it seems to me
that she gave me very little advice. I am glad for that. I shall remember better.
And I can think of her now as a friend.

It is after midnight. The family has come home from their party. And now
we shall all go to bed. I to my bed with my heart full of you, and wondering
what is the best thing for me to do. I expect to hear your plans before
long now. I wish you were here tonight.

Lloyd's birthday letter from his mother was so wonderful, full of love
and wisdom, and of so many beautiful things about you, that I wanted to cry.
How much we all love you.

1201-S

CLASS OF SERVICE

WESTERN
UNION

NEWCOMB CARLTON, PRESIDENT

SIGNS

DL = Day Letter

NM = Night Message

NL = Night Letter

LCO = Deferred Cable

CLT = Cable Letter

WLT = Week-End Letter

Received at 841 Chicago Ave., Evanston, Ill. Telephone Greenleaf 3188-3189

1930 NOV 29 AM 10 18

C23 49 DL XU=ENGLEWOOD NJ 29 1030A

MONROE WHEELER=

DONT FONE 639 FOREST AVE EVANSTON ILL=

SO THANKFUL FOR WORD FROM YOU AND TO KNOW YOUR PLANS STOP
FAMILY WANT ME TO EXPRESS THEIR PLEASURE AT YOUR RETURN STOP
WILL MEET YOUR TRAIN STOP ADVISE REST THE DAY AFTER YOUR
JOURNEY AND WANT TO BRING YOU DIRECTLY HERE STOP I WAIT SO
BADLY STOP YOUR=

GEORGE.

gpl

December twenty-first, 1930.

My beloved.

This week has been as much of a hiatus to me as it must have been to you, though differently. For you have had a week of quiet and solitude and are ready to be active again, and this Sunday morning is the first time I have found an hour to write. I have bitterly regretted my silence for all the things I might have said, and have instead been pleasantly sociable and hard-worked. Occupation in a measure deadens the ache of separation from you, and I am happy thinking of you in your lovely home and with our adored friend. I often wonder "how long? how long?" and remember that time passes.

Monday, after a silent ride from Brooklyn, Lloyd and I stopped at Marie's for an hour. She and Hartley ate and drank hot lemonade with us, and I was glad I had gone. Her vitality and benevolence are inspiring to me. Tuesday evening I went with Lloyd to call upon Mrs Van Rensselaer, which I loved. Speaking of Glenway, I told her the title of his book. And she was disturbed, thinking at once of the real Mrs Cleveland. But all that is set down in a letter to Lloyd which I have asked him to send on. She apparently liked me, and has asked me to tea Christmas afternoon. An incredible and marvellous old lady. I seem to remember that you do not know her. Am I mistaken? Wednesday morning Miss Cottenet telephoned to offer me her seats to the opera, which of course I accepted with alacrity. I took Kate and although the opera, Africana, was not what I should like to have heard, the spectacle of Miss Ponselle in blackface and

Kate's persistant charm made the evening very enjoyable. The white dress certainly attracted attention, but, so far as I could see, no particular admiration. Perhaps it was the gardenia. Thursday I dined at Eleanor Wolff's. Yesterday I dined at Marie's. And all the mornings and afternoons and other evenings have been devoted to photography and to the apartment, which is only half done but which begins to look like something.

I have bought no Christmas presents. A chair for father, which Adelaide has bought, a slip-case for Russell (for The Apple) yet to be ordered, and something for Adelaide. Sofa cushions for Lloyd. So tomorrow I must shop. I do not look forward to that. This afternoon I am going to the Spanish museum.

Thank you for the wire, my dearest. It was not until yesterday that I could bear to play the Gluck record, and then I cried. I cannot sleep enough. I am too tired, and dream the wildest of sweet dreams. I take bad pictures . . although the client was really pleased . . I'll get over that. And my winter, if, in other respects, it continues as auspiciously as it has begun, will be happy and novel, rich though lacking in sumptuousness. For I believe with all my heart that each year, with each meeting and separation, is more desirable than the last, and that each year our multiplications are finer. And, unstudious as I am, I believe I have an unlimited instinct for learning. The process is slow, but there are rewards of excellence and understanding. I want the best things to give to you. And, perversely enough, I cannot help believing that our future, all our futures, have to do with America, at least more to do with America than with Europe, although I could not explain.

I wish I could have kept you from getting so tired the week or so before you sailed, but I am confident that Glenway and Barbara will take you in hand, make you sleep and sport and give you the sun. Half the year in Europe. Of course, if I do not have to help pay Russell's college, I will be with you in May or June. Perhaps I can accomplish both. Nobody has found fault with my new prices . . yet. And I can do better and better work.

There is no fast boat until the end of the week, so I shall not mark this
letter for one. And I address it to the Guaranty, hoping that you will be in Switzerland
when it arrives.

Love to Max and Vera, special love to dear Barbara, and all my love to Glen
and to your perfect self.

I love you because I know how perfect you really are.

Your

gpl

Tuesday evening.

My dearest.

My part in your illness is over. To me the last three weeks
have been dreamlike, a scenario of my love for you. The first sad days,
the getting-better days, and your visit here . . the beginning of con-
valescence. Our next days together will be short and busy and joyous.
Just now you are on a train, somewhere in the night. And I am grateful
for the privilege of having watched over you, of having twice held you
in my arms. I am perhaps wiser, and you will soon be well.

I came home to a fine dinner, and an exhibition of Adelaide's
nerves. She and I have so many of the same weaknesses, though few of the
same faults or virtues. And I am half sympathy and half disgust, knowing
what she feels and hating it. This evening she frightened John and ter-
ribly distressed father with the vehemence of her fault-finding. A simple
thing, brought on by fatigue, relieved by sleep. But somehow I feel that
she has no right not to go off by herself and rest until it is over. I
generally want to. Of course the worst of such a mood is that it is con-
tagious. I have spent most of the evening in the dark-room.

I have looked everywhere for your watch, but have not found it.
If it turns up, I'll send it along at once. You might let me know where you

think it is, or if you found it in your pocket. The packages I will mail
tomorrow after I get through with Frances Hall, the other books as soon
as I have found wrappings.

I wish that you were still here, but have no regret at your
going. I will appreciate your improvement now more after a separation of
a few weeks than I might if you had stayed. You must be so quiet, sleep
and eat so much, come back so strong to your adoring

gpl

January third, 1931.

My beautiful Monroe.

How I wish I knew where you are and how you are. In Paris,
or in Switzerland? And did your seasickness cause complications? Your lovely
letter, your first, has just arrived, and brings you so close, makes my sol-
itude wider and deeper, makes me want to cry again. And yet I know that this
is no time for tears. I know my life is enviable, a thousand times purer and
sweeter than ever before; I love the destiny that keeps us together, even
when it keeps us apart. I am proud and stubborn, and have a way of thinking
the lives of others vain. These contrasts are useful, but may not be good.
And some things that even a month ago irritated me, now weary me to death.
The enchantments are good as gold, and ought to last. For I am happily sad,
thinking of you, and for me that is the surest sort of happiness.

I have had a miserable week of sinus, but that seems on
the mend. The new year has commenced. Christmas did not amount to much, but
that/ix to be expected. We opened our gifts Christmas eve. I put yours aside
and opened them later when I was alone, and took the lovely book of poems to
bed with me. Thank you, my dearest. Christmas afternoon I went to tea at
Mrs Van Rensselaer's (where Lloyd almost failed to appear), and we both dined
with Kate and Alan. And the next day, as I believe I wrote, we both went to

the opera with Miss Cottenet. It seems that the Colony Club isn't interested
in exhibitions that cannot be insured for hundreds of thousands of dollars,
and she recommends me to the Art Center, the president of which is a friend of
hers, and where presumably she can get me a special rate. She continues to be
very charming to me, and is determined upon making a book of Charleston tombs.
And one day, when I saw her for about ten minutes, she insisted upon talking
about Ruth Lowe. Why in the name of God was Lloyd ever fool enough to take her
there? He is vague and drifty, and goes anywhere and does anything anybody asks
him. But it really isn't any of my business, and I expect that the sooner I
learn to remember that the happier we both will be. And it takes such a lot of
time. Sometimes I wish I had not grown fond of him, and then regret the wish.
A sort of heresy. Glenway is the God. I am only a minor angel who has to be
respected and put up with. And anyway I am not the person to teach him ag-
gressiveness. And I'm disappointed in the apartment, so far as he is concerned.
It is perfect for me. Taking it together may have been a mistake, for that
reason. He seems incapable of "creating an atmosphere" to stay at home in,
and mine probably doesn't suit him at all. Oh, I could go on forever, but it
isn't going to do any good. I wish I had character enough myself to believe
in independence, in clinging to nothing and nobody. People who make a point or
pose of it look so lonely, even more so than those who cannot help it. But all
this started because Miss Cottenet thought Ruth "extremely common and not pretty
at all". And your friend Mrs Alexander, who shares the box we sat in at the
opera with the person who loaned it to Miss C., was characterized (with a snort)
as "rather common and quite dotty". And she said incredible things about poor
pathetic Jeritza. Her conversation seems more like prejudice than like style,
more witty than malicious, and delightfully like her brother's. Thank you for
that too.

And now I must tell you about the suit. I had several fittings and it was delivered. A more deplorable and hopeless garment I have never seen, quite as deplorable and quite as hopeless as the first one you selected. So I took it back and asked them to credit it, which they very insolently refused to do. So I walked out with it and into the Phoenix where, after five minutes, I sold it to Ralph Allan. It didn't fit him at all badly, and I have bought one share of C.I.T. with the money, and two shares with what I had in the savings bank. To take me to Europe I hope. I had a number of bad moments over the transaction, considered as your gift, but finally decided that it was the best thing to do. For nothing has been lost, and I can manage to get through the winter on the clothes I have. What do you think?

Poor Russell has been congié by his little sweetheart, and he is very sad. Poor father discovered that his curate is a poison-pen artist, and he is sad and angry. I feel like the rock of ages. I wonder how long that will last. I go on wishing that I were with you, wherever you are, but feel strong enough, sure of myself and of you, and expect to benefit at least as much by this period as by the others. Our last week was perfect. I shall never never forget it. And I am only worried about how I am going to manage an exhibition, and trips to Charleston and to Europe. I'll have to have more business, and scarcely know where it is coming from. Of course, there are always prospects.

Please write me everything that happens, everything you know and feel. I never have enough of you. Why then am I so satisfied? Dearest love to Glenway.

Your own,

gpl

January eighth, 1931.

Dearest.

I am off to town in about ten minutes, so there is no time
for a letter. I hope to write tomorrow. I want to, and will try.
Just now I am between seasons, and between moods. I haven't much
heart for work, and there is a lot I must do. And Dorothée's letter,
which I enclose, seems so desperate. I have written her, will try
to see her; her situation seems too bad for me to hope to be help-
ful or cheering. I will make her prints tomorrow along with some
others, and deliver them the first of the week. Other troubles are
paler but quite real. Father, Adelaide, Russell, even I. This even-
ing I am supposed to go to a concert and then swimming with John and
Philip and Lloyd and Rafael, but I don't want to particularly and
may come home for dinner. It is so important that I love you. Thank
you for letting me.

gpl

January ninth, 1931.

Beloved.

Here is the photograph you like. I had it copied for you. I have
been meaning to for ages, and have been afraid of losing the only original.
The most intimate, and my favourite, of all my pictures. For you and for
me and, if she insists, for Adelaide. But for nobody else.

Rosemary telephoned the last day of her vacation, but I was not at
home. And last night I had a letter from her, explaining that, because I
had not answered one of her letters, or perhaps it was two, she would and
could not thrust herself upon me . . etc. Silly of her, I thought, though
I am not complaining. She appears to be quite furious because you wrote
Bernardine that her school could not be much good because she liked it so
much. And I wrote that I suspected you were right but, since she was not
going to let it worry her, that it did not matter. I cannot imagine want-
ing to see her, but at Eastertime I expect that I shall.

Tomorrow evening Lloyd and Helen R. and I are going to the Aviator's
Ball (courtesy of Miss Cottenet) . . Lloyd already had an engagement with
Helen and I decided she was well-behaved enough to appear. I'll ask her about
young Rothschild. He may be very nice, although my impression of him was not

favourable and she always speaks of him slightly. I have had no reason to suppose that they might be cousins, which is odd, in case they are. What particularly interests me is knowing if he admits having calumniated me.

Miss Cottenet seems to take it for granted that I am going to have an exhibition, and I cannot see how I can do it for less than $100 or $150. One decent order, to be sure, would pay for it. Perhaps I am unreasonably timid, having no bank balance at the moment. And, although charmingly friendly, she is most awfully slow about getting her friends, the Boris and the Zimbalists, to pose. Tomorrow I will try to look and behave particularly well, and see if I cannot make something happen. Frances Ives begins, I fancy, to look upon me with disfavour, because I have disregarded a number of invitations to tea. Should I care?

New York is dry-cold or wet-cold, pleasant often but never friendly, sometimes dismal and always exhausting. Philip is attractive, as you know, but sometimes so stupid and in general seems so mistaken that it is almost unbelievable to me that he can exist. John, who is better looking but less attractive, is much the nicer of the two; he is always intensely enthusiastic about something (music or pictures or travel or architecture, for he is an architect) which of course I like, and isn't unintelligent. I have agreed to go to Mexico with him next winter (although I cannot) for the 400th anniversary of the last appearance of the Virgin, which is going to be celebrated with considerable ceremony. He wants to see that and the Baroque churches. Rafael, who is here, rather troubles me. He has been charming and affectionate, and people, to whom I have introduced him, like him very well; but he looks at me sometimes so coldly, so passionately, that I suspect he really hates me. This morning I reread some of the letters he has sent me over a period of five

years, and wonder if he does not think I have done him some irreparable in-
jury. He isn't lazy and may be revengeful. I imagine the worst and think myself
very silly. Lloyd has apparently written to say that I was wrong about him
and the appartment. Last week I spent the better part of a night talking to him
about it, and at present he is staying at home as much as possible more or
less by way of defending himself. I am interested in seeing, when this at-
titude wears off, which of us is really right. I hope that he is, for
his sake, though I am still skeptical. In general he seems very happy, pleased
with himself and with me, even with Paul. And I am feeling benevolent.

Give Max my love and tell him I hope he is better now. Or will you
still be in Caux when this arrives? My love to Barbara in all events. I
think of her so often and tenderly. Why Munchausen? which I have never read.
And why Carmen? which I read a long long time ago and which seems to be pub-
lished by somebody every other minute. Will there be no contemporary text?

I'd give anything to see you this evening. I miss you so very much.
And I am forever wanting to know just where you are and what you are doing,
whom you see and whom you like. Write me dozens more letters like the three
I have had since your return. Give Glenway a special kiss for me. I love him
better every year. And think of me when you are happy, and when you are sad
or alone at night.

Your adoring,

gpl

January fourteenth.

Toward midnight.

My darling.

I cannot understand why it took my first letter so long to reach
you, if, indeed, it ever did reach you. I wrote on December twenty-second;
I remember the date because our separation was just a week old, and because
I had not wanted to be silent. And I have addressed everything to the bank.
Your letter is dated January fourth. You must have received mine soon after.
And now, realizing what my next few days are going to be and that the Aqui-
tania sails the day after tomorrow, I am sitting at my desk writing what will
probably turn out to be a very sleepy letter. I have so much to tell you,
and mistrust both my memory and my judgement. I know that if I do not write,
whatever I may find to tell you, the rest of my week will seem unsatisfactory.
Enough is brewing.

Miss Cottenet continues to spoil me, deliciously. Two invitations
for this week. A box at the opera tomorrow evening, to hear Bori, and to meet
her cousin, Miss Cadwalader (inspired name). And a tea Saturday to meet a
prospective client or two. Bori is apparently too busy rehearsing Peter Ib-
betson to pose for me just now. (The newspapers have it that seventeen of
the Metropolitan singers have the flu.) But seems quite willing. Zimbalist

has just had a recital and will probably be available soon. The aviator's ball
was a frost, and we left shortly after she did. But she doesn't know that.
Regardless of favours, I like her better and better.

I have taken Stefanson, courtesy of Marie, and am not displeased
with the results. I'll send you some pictures when I have more; there aren't
enough new ones to make a showing.

What pleases me most at the moment is a letter from Bernard, saying that he has recommended me to Charles Peignot (who is bringing out another issue of his Photographie), and demanding that I send pictures at once. How I wish you were here to advise me. I have looked at all my pictures until I can hardly tell them apart, and wonder sorrowfully if they are any good at all. It is so hard to make a selection. All afternoon I spent with Van Wulven making, or directing the making of, glossy prints. Here is a tentative list . . . I must make the final selection in the morning. The smiling Kirkland, Buck, Russell on the ladder, the reclining Jacques, the strong serious one of you, three or four recent nudes (mostly female), and three or four "views" taken in the neighborhood of 418. Bernard recommended variety, especially "plein air". But I have so few. And no horses. Pray for me. Pray that Monsieur Peignot will like them, and, above all, print them. Am I wise in not sending celebrities? Being a publication of photographs, rather than a magazine, it seems to me that this is an opportunity to get published photographs that otherwise might never be. For the moment, one of the street scenes is my pet.

Yesterday morning at the Metropolitan, having spent some time
finding the print room, I lingered long and admiringly over the Steiglitz's
(he looks misspelled). And I went away profoundly impressed by photography,
discouraged and encouraged. He has done some glorious things. Perhaps, some

day, I shall too. But that day seems far. There is so much to accomplish. Soon
I am going there to photograph some of the sculpture; that will be fun. Per-
mission is startlingly easy to get.

The only other news . . . I am becoming most dreadfully sleepy . . . is
that the day after tomorrow Lloyd and I are giving a housewarming of sorts. I
cannot remember whom I have invited, everybody and nobody. The way I feel at
the moment I hope nobody comes. But I shall probably enjoy it. Everybody has
been advised that, if they wish to drink, they must bring their own "stuff".
I'll not buy gin for New Yorkers. I'll send a list of the guests when I write
again, probably Saturday or Sunday, and an account of the event. I wish it
were over.

Your letters are so beautiful, and you have been so good about
writing. Thank you, dearest. Write me as often as you can, and I shall do the
same. I hope that by this time your cold is better. I cannot bear to think
of you, especially now so soon after your operation, in pain. Are you still
in distress from the operation itself? It means so much to me to write you,
however inadequately; you will never know how much. And I wonder why you "hoped"
my silence was due to Rafael. Why did you? And what did you mean? I wrote all
there was to say about him in a fancy-stricken line or two. Remember always
how much I love you.

Your own,

P.S. Dorothée comes out of her hospital on Monday. Zena is in another one, ill with scarlet fever.

gpl

January twentieth, 1931.

My darling.

This letter will be interrupted many times, six at least. Perhaps you
will be able to tell where the breaks come. I have thirty plates to develop, ten
at a time, and am going to try to write between batches. I spent most of the
afternoon today at the Metropolitan photographing Greek and Roman sculpture. It
was fun. And came home to discover that the Bremen sails tomorrow night, and that
there is no other fast boat for days and days. So I have no choice but to divide
my time between you and the dark-room, loving both.

Last Thursday I heard the same two operas that you heard with Kate,
and found them tiresome. I hardly saw Miss Cottenet and Miss Cadwalader, who
came late and left early, but enjoyed a promenade with Mr. Leggett, a pleasant
middle-aged man-about-town, who is being helpful and who is going to be photo-
graphed. Do you know him? Miss Cottenet's tea, which took place Friday thereby
vastly complicating that day, was a delight. There were about a dozen people,
all very prosperous-looking and excessively nice, who were attentive to me and
my pictures. Haidee Wright is posing this week. Some day you must meet her. An
adorable old lady, rather sentimental and rather witty, certainly not good-
looking. It is a bit difficult for me to decide just where lies her charm, but

she has more than her share. And so the list of exhibition subjects grows. I wish I were able to describe my pleasure in being there, a sort of fever, a happy dream. Strange how talkative I can be, and strange that I never for a moment felt self-conscious.

And on Friday evening my party. (Perhaps I should say "our" party, though I cannot remember that Lloyd did very much about it.) I bought firewood, brought sandwiches from home, etc., and bought nothing to drink but ginger ale. Five people brought gin, and one whisky; and there was quite a lot left when the party ended. From my point of view, and, I think, from that of most of my guests, the evening was very successful. Out of more than twenty-five people only two drank too much, and they did not behave badly. Let me see if I can remember who was there. Ralph Allan, Philip Claflin, John McAndrew, Betty Gurney, Marie and Marsden Hartley, Kate, Ray Sovey, Russell, Dick Crowe and a friend, Rafael and two Mexicans, Eleanor Wolff, Julius Rauzin, Constance Hope, Helen Riesenfeld, Raymond Stover and an Englishman, Max Ewing, and of course Lloyd. I may have forgotten somebody. At one moment during the evening I counted twenty-two and more came after that. Hope and Walter couldn't come and Warren wouldn't (which didn't disappoint me). The first guest came at nine; Kate and Ray Sovey stayed latest, leaving about three. I rarely enjoy going to parties, big parties, but I love giving them and fancy that on such (rare) occasions I appear to advantage. Perhaps it is only a fancy. The latest young man is Dick Crowe, a class mate of Russell's, and by far the most attractive of the lot. A photo of him among others which I plan to send soon. I would like to write more connectedly; this business of watching the clock is beginning to wear on me. But it was a nice party. Kate and Marie held court at one end of the room, the Mexican girl at the other. And very well they managed. I played host and overseer, and to such an ex-

tent that I got hardly anything to eat and nothing at all to drink. I thought Rus-
sell particularly charming, and was very proud of him. But that is enough.

Downstairs the radio is playing a tango which reminds me pleasantly
of several evenings in Paris.

This week started out quietly enough, but things seem to be turning
up. Miss Wright and young Brinckerhoff to be photographed, two operas, and a din-
ner at Hope's. Tomorrow evening I am taking Lloyd to hear Handel's "Julius Caesar"
which the Juilliard School is giving. I have never heard a Handel opera, they are
so rarely given, and am looking forward it with the greatest pleasure. Friday
I am going with John to hear Figaro, way up-town somewhere; I'll like that too.

Your advertisement in the Hound and Horn is, I think, particularly
well placed. Have you seen a copy? Or shall I send one? Perhaps I shall send them
some of my Tenth Avenue pictures, if Monsieur Peignot decides not to use them. The
statues seem to be under-exposed, but I like the idea and will take more. And more
New York. And more nudes. I don't know what good it does to take all these pictures.
They aren't profitable. Perhaps I am hoping to be particularly amused, to be lucky
about it. I remember a speech on love-making that Glen delivered to me one day
years ago, more or less apropos. It is a grand game, and a good profession. Thank
you for choosing it for me.

Please write me all the news. I want to know about Glen, and about
Jacques . . and Barbara, and Max, and Jennings.

I don't write to anybody but you, although I should. Edith deserves
the best and longest sort of letter; she wrote at length from Cairo. And there are
others. And I don't write to you often enough. I am happy . . in my fashion. Which
means that I am restless and that I do things about it. I want my lover. Instead

I work (my capacity for work increases) and see people. There seems to be no question of being tired and going to bed, but rather of being too tired to stop. I cannot approve, but am not displeased. I hope that summer will come soon and that I will have made some money. I want to sleep in your arms. And afterwards to lie awake in my dream. I imagine that I can smell your flesh.

Now the work is done, and I am free. I have written a poor and too
apparently interrupted x letter. Now I will go to bed. There are always dreams. I
never sleep quite soundly, or
oblivious to desire. But that seems natural, because I
have loved you, because I want you. Good night.

gpl

January twenty-seventh, 1931.

My angel.

How I wish you were here today, especially today. Last night I slept
long and well, and now, having bathed and breakfasted, and for no other reasons,
I am as excited, as gay and as lubricious, as I am ever. It is a splendid feel-
ing. And you are not here to enjoy it. All morning I have wished for you, not
as I sometimes do because I am sad. I want you to have all my best. And I think
longingly of your lips and your fragrance, of your virility and your sublime
tenderness, and dare not look at our photographs, remembering them too well. I
have been here alone for six weeks; they seem a moment and an age. I hope that
the months may not seem long, for I love you increasingly and with absolute
faith, mindful of past blessings. My eyes would tell you all this and infinitely
more, if only they could look into yours. Perhaps you can remember. I can
neither see nor dream enough. My days are short and my nights are wondrously
long. Today is exceptional, unprepared and dedicated to you. How I would love
to know what you are doing at this moment, and all the day.

In general my life seems pointless. I have no doubt about earning en-
ough to take me to Europe this summer, but there are so few customers that I
cannot help feeling that I should do as well in Vienna or Singapore, and far
better in Paris. I will probably not be content to settle in New York, and there
you have the old problem all over again. At the moment I am tempted to risk

a winter in Paris. But we shall see. Almost anything may happen, and I am in-
corrigible enough to believe that something will. If Charles Peignot publishes
me, how good an advertisement will it be? I find myself thinking too often about
those pictures, and will be disappointed if he uses none of them. There isn't
anybody here in whose judgment of my pictures I have any faith, and that often
leaves me confused. Yet there wasn't enough time to ask you.

Every now and again the Bremen or the Europa puts into Brooklyn. What
has become of all the other boats? The Europa arrives today. Will it bring let-
ters from you?

I wish you could have heard Handel's "Julius Caesar". It was inadequate
as to performance, but the music is so lovely and to me so new that I was thrilled
with it. Innumerable and glorious arias and duets, and a sublime chorus at the
end. And to think that the Metropolitan bothers with Africana. The uptown pro-
duction of Figaro was pretty bad, too awfully bad. But we sat it out. I have been
consoling myself with Schumann's records.

Thank you for Cocteau's "Opium". I read it in one sitting, or rather in
bed, and enjoyed some of it very much. What an amazing fellow he is. I very nearly
didn't recognize the stories I told him about Mexico, but enjoyed them and will
pass them on to Rafael from whom they came originally. Let him make of them what
he will and can. I go on with Balzac, and may decide he is my favourite author.
At the moment I am reading The Nigger of the Narcissus, by way of variety.

I cannot quarrel with your selection of books for the fall, but wish
you were doing a contemporary text. Have you abandoned Gide? And Elizabeth Roberts?
And please tell me about your broadsheet. The last I heard of it, it was to be a
quarterly magazine, elaborate and varied both as to typography and—to texts. Of
course I will do all I can here, but you had better let me know soon. Spring,

thank God, isn't so far away. And what about Francis Rose's drawings? You mentioned
in a recent letter that he wanted his drawings back. Is he making others? Please
answer my questions, and tell me anything and everything about your books. I miss
the publishing company, the discussions and achievements, and just now wish par-
ticularly that I could listen in on the translating heap. Will Carmen be illustrated?

There must be something to write you, but I don't know what it is. Except
for . . . but you know all about that. You know our landscape; it is snowless and
barren. Just now we are having April weather, and I think of Villefranche. If only
there were flowers.

I was surprised that the Times gave so much space and such a good position
to such a small book, but was pleased. America is still waiting, still saying the
same things about Glen. And I, with childish delight in surprises, am waiting for
discussions that will take place when Mrs. Cleveland, if she is still and in spite
of Mrs. Van Rensselaer called Mrs. Cleveland, bursts upon the public. Mrs. Patterson
has it that the new book is to be a two-volume novel; can it be true and that I
have never heard of it?

Now I must write to Jacques. I don't want to. Having kept silence, invol-
untarily enough, for three months and aware of my tendency to become sad, wistful,
or complaining, when I try to write French, I should like to leave well enough
alone. But I am fond of him, and don't want him to feel neglected, and besides I
have his pictures ready (at last! at last!) and must send them. Having a bad con-
science about him, I will not mention price. If he asks about them, please say
they are a gift. Actually I have just acquired the machinery necessary to make
such small pictures, and so the delay really exists only from his point of view.

I keep myself, all of myself, for you, and am not unhappy often. The
spring air is in my lungs. More of winter and spring. And then you whom I love.

gpl

January twenty-eighth, 1931.

Beloved.

A post script to my letter of yesterday, because the Europa did bring
a lovely letter from you, and because you must have misunderstood several
things, at least one thing, in one of my letters.

I am not dissatisfied with Lloyd. Aside from his own beatific gentleness and devotion, I have many reasons to be very fond of him, and am as you know. And lately he has seemed rather less vague, less vacillating. I decided several weeks ago that his trouble lies chiefly in having no friends of his own, and have been encouraging him to see people he might like. For lots of reasons it is impossible, or seems impossible, for him to be friends with your and Glen's friends, however friendly they may feel toward him. Even I, who am very close to him, can never feel absolutely free and natural when he is around. For I more or less unconsciously assume a fatherly or tyrannical attitude, which doesn't particularly suit me and which sometimes must be unjust. And so you see he is really more of a problem to my conscience than in any other way. Why he has never resented my bullying is a wonder. He feels, I think, that he will profit by it, and I pray that he may. I shudder at the thought of doing him harm. And yet this attitude that I assume seems to me inevitable. I do not think he can ever be intimate with me, for, although

I can be as benevolent toward him as you please, I cannot take him to my heart, make him a master of my house, as I have you and Glen and nobody else. It is a pity that I must love him with reservations. But, who knows, he might like me less if he knew me better, and if there were less glamour and mystery concerning me and the Rue de Condé. I often think Marie was right when she said my nature is exceedingly simple to those to whom I give my heart, and a mass of contradictions and complications to others. Perhaps it is a state of affairs that I cultivate without particularly meaning to. In any case I agree that knowing him is good discipline for me, for I allow little things to irritate me decreasingly often. And he is sensible and happy enough. I only hope he isn't going to fall in love again, unless he is clever about it and makes a good marriage; I don't think last summer's mess has changed him much, but perhaps I am again being unjust. He is an exceptionally nice boy, and his failings are none of my business. I wish I could remember that.

I must have misled you about the apartment. It is, and has been, ideal for me. I remember writing that Lloyd did not seem to feel at home there, but the strangeness, or the size, of it seems to have worn off and I think he now feels happy about it.

Dearest, your paragraph about having no friends in Paris makes me sad. New York may be the best place for all of us, but I do not believe that the time has come yet. Not for Glen or for me, perhaps not even for you. You have Glen and Barbara, and I will be there soon. I want you to be happy. I am delighted with the snapshots, delighted to see you looking so well. Keep well and busy because I love you. I have ordered my passage, having been assured that I can change boat or line at the last moment without losing my deposit. De Grasse, sailing May seventh. I am trying to get an outside single for the minimum rate, $157. And, of course, by sailing before May fifteenth I get win-

ter rates and may reach Paris before all the spring music is over. The Lafayette
is more expensive and doesn't sail until the twenty-first. Try to arrange your
work so that we can go away somewhere for the month of August, when all the res-
taurants and laundrys and theatres are closed.

This is a long post script, longer than I have time for. Dozens of prints
to mount, not all unfortunately for sale. Tomorrow evening Kate and I are going
to hear the London Quartet play Mozart and Beethoven; we heard them together twice
last winter, so this excursion seems fitting and proper.

Be gay and be contented. I envy everybody you see.

Your adoring.

P.P.S. Next week I am going to invite Frances Robbins and the
Heartts to tea. I hope they will come.

gpl

February fifth, 1931.

My own.

I want to cry, for happiness and for gratitude. I have waited until
Barbara's cheque should arrive before writing, and now it seems that all
the boats are slipping away from me. It has been such a busy week, and to-
day seems the worst day of all. But I must get some word on the Aquitania
and this seems the only moment in which to write it. For I am free for
twelve minutes, while my electric press is heating. I will write at length
tomorrow, and perhaps get letters to you and to her on the Ile de France.
She is a lovely creature, and I am glad, tremendously glad, I realized it
before I had such a happy occasion to. Her graciousness and impetuous
generosity are splendid and beautiful. I hope I will know how to thank her.

Yesterday I made more than a hundred prints. Lots of Haidee Wright,
sets for her and for you and for me, and snowy landscapes, and other things.
And this morning I must get them mounted and ready for delivery. Because this
afternoon early I am meeting H.T. Leggett and we are going afterwards to
see F.M.C.. All about the show. And at five thirty I am having the Heartts to
tea; Frances Robbins, who was coming, has the flu. And tomorrow afternoon or
Saturday morning I go to Long Island to spend the weekend with the Gurneys.
You remember the pictures of Betty. I have become quite fond of her. All the
news tomorrow.

Your adoring and faithful,

gpl

February sixth, 1931.

My fragrant Monroe.

Three beautiful letters in one day, and the first written was
the last to arrive. It does not seem strange to me that your letters are more
perfectly yourself than mere messages of news and tenderness. And these expres-
sions of your stylized and sensitive nature are the lovliest things I know. How
fortunate I am. Even your elegant note to Adelaide seemed to contain something
so intimate that she could never understand or appreciate it, but which to me
was heart-breaking and rare. My love for you feeds upon these things and upon
my memories and my plans, and is so elusive and so enduring. And I want, somehow,
to thank you.

There are reasons why I have not written for a week. Russell
brought a college friend home last Saturday, and stayed five days. And I was
supposed to entertain them. Monday I had ten or twelve people to tea in their
honour. And I have motored father to the Berkshires, returning by train the next
day; he is still there, resting. Yesterday I had John and Philip, Philip Heartt,
and H.T. Leggett to tea; Mrs. Heartt and Frances Robbins both are illish and
couldn't come. This afternoon I am going to the Philharmonic and afterwards
going to Long Island for the weekend with Betty; Lloyd and John are motoring out
with other members of the family (her family) tomorrow night after the theatre.

This is the third time I have been invited, and the first that I am able to go.
Luxury in the Spanish manner, whatever that may mean, and an eccentric household.
And I shall be excessively idle and mean to enjoy myself. But I shall never under-
stand some of these people. Why are they so bright? And of what are they afraid?
The New York disease, a system of growing up too quickly and of early deaths. Per-
haps this is a mild form of the horrors. I, at any rate, want to take my time and
mean to.

About the exhibition. F.M.C. wants me to wait until April, and perhaps that would be the best time. But having decided to get to Europe if humanly possible by the middle of May, and wanting time after the show, I am trying to arrange it as soon as possible. Consequently it will probably take place the last week of February and the first week of March, which she agrees is the next best time; I could not be ready sooner. The Anderson Galleries, which seems the swankest place to have it, is run by a friend of Mr. Leggett's who has agreed to let me have a $250 gallery for $100. Not a big room but central and well-lighted. I will know about it the first of the week. In any case it is a choice between that and the Art Center; I prefer the former. Don't you? The incidental expenses, in the Anderson Galleries manner, run to about $150: advertising, etc.. But I think I will do it some other way, and try to keep within my $150. I will have my printing done in Jersey City, and do my own addressing. They want $50 for addressing their own list of 3000 names, and $60 for postage, etc.. But 3000 names seems a lot, and I'll get a list elsewhere. Incidentally I think, upon advice, that I will exhibit other things than portraits, say a dozen of my slum scenes and snow scenes. Because these things are salable, and because they will lend variety to the show. What do you think? There will be lots more to write about this; I hope I make myself clear. Of course, I will write you everything.

As for having letter paper made for me, don't you think *that*, since
the winter is nearly over and since I never know where I am going to be (I am hope-
ful still), that it would be best to wait until next summer before doing anything
about it? Please keep the design. I love it and want it made up some time; I am not
at all sure that Englewood is the best address to put on reams and reams of paper.

Going back to exhibitions. Would it be a good idea for me to have one
in Paris the end of May? How much would that cost? I must say that I think well of
the idea.

I should enjoy Mexico with John principally because he is so enthusi-
iastic and because he would read all the books and tell me things. But his company
would become irksome I expect (I cannot stand anybody but you and Glen for long),
and besides I feel so practical. Did you think I was seriously considering it?
Charleston, of course, is definitely off.

Rafael is or isn't in love with me. And that is painfully true. I
really don't know which. He is so polite and sometimes looks at me so venomously.
And actually I don't remember well enough what he was like in Paris (I only knew
him two days) to know if he has changed. But I am certainly not going to worry
about him. My own indifference is colossal. I have not seen him more than five
times, and only twice alone. I will send a picture of him if I can find one; I
have not taken any myself. As for what he does: he is vice-consul, or a vice-
consul, at the Mexican consulate in New York. I have no idea what the job entails.
I am a little surprised that you should ask so many questions about him. But I
am not interested *in* him or in anybody else I see here, that is, among the young
men.

How right you are about my childhood. I think now that it was not

until I met you that I found anything I really wanted to live for. My temper,
insolence, defiance, indifference, and my mannerisms, must have made me insupport-
able. Particularly during the Berkshire period which was long enough after the
picture was taken. The joys were fleeting enough, and of course I am still in-
clined to be wistful. And I thank and bless you for whatever improvement there has
been.

I am sending your birthday present today, and have little hope that it
will arrive on time. I could not find a book I wanted to give you, and finally sel-
ected this "art object". It will go well with white, and seems to me flagrant enough
not to be merely vulgar. I will undervalue it, and hope there is little or no duty.
How I wanted to get you something really nice.

I am still under the spell of Barbara's gift, and will write her at
once. Yours is the best address for her that I know. Please forward my letter
promptly.

All my heart and all my devotion.

I love you.

gpl

February eleventh, 1931.

My exquisite friend.

Two letters and an Italian postcard to answer. How wonderful it is that, in spite of the distance between us, we can keep so intimately in touch with each other. And I am not even unhappy when I want most to cry. Other lovers' dreams must be less sweet than mine; surely no lover receives more beautiful letters than I. If we were not separated you would not write, yet how ardently I wish we were together, never to be parted again. And I dare not hope that such a time will come.

Yesterday I spent hours with F.M.C.. Luncheon at the appartment with Miss Benjamin, whom I believe you know, and Mr. Leggett. Then three one-act plays and tea at the Colony Club where we were joined by Miss Brice. Then F.M.C. and I dropped Mr. Leggett at his club, and drove for a while in the park before we each went home. A delightful afternoon, except for the plays which were rather tiresome. I loved watching all the old ladies, nearly all of them were old, and nearly all were dowdy. Frances Ives was there looking every bit as haggard and ugly as the old flower woman in front of the Hotel Madison. She refused to sit anywhere near us; F.M.C. calls it diffidence.

It is a pity that you missed R.L.C., as you must have. Because

he is due in New York on Saturday, having sailed from Gibraltar. I suppose you have heard from him. I cannot help wondering if I will still be welcome at 1150, or as welcome. I hope so. I am quite devoted to his sister, and would hate to lose her. And, of course, I have always found him enchanting. I wonder if I cannot do something about it. I will probably never be amusing, although I can be attentive. If you have any ideas on the subject, and I imagine you have many, please write them to me.

About the exhibition. I have lots to say and only hope I can say it all and intelligently. To begin with we, that is F.M.C. and Mr. Leggett and I, decided yesterday that it would be folly to try to have it as soon as I thought I might be ready. The last week in February is only ten days off and the preparations to be made, as I have discovered, are colossal. I believe that they are the best people who could advise me: F.M.C. because of her social connections, and Mr. Leggett because he is a painter and has exhibitions himself and chiefly because for a number of years he has run art galleries. We went further and decided that it would be folly to have an exhibition at all until I am ready, really ready, for one. A first show is likely to be more important than subsequent ones and ought to be planned and perfected to the utmost. First of all it seems important that I should exhibit the right people, or enough of them to make an immediate impression. Of course I realize that Darty, Stefansson, and Hartley wouldn't do much to create such an impression, although Glenway, Bernard, and Haidee Wright would help enormously. And it seems expendient to await upon the leisure of Bori and Zimbalist and Kreisler and others who have a big social and public reputation. Secondly it seems that I ought to choose a time when the right people are going to be in town. February and March, from that point of view, are apparently bad; April would be good, October even better. It was Mr. L who suggested that I have a show in Paris the last two weeks in May, and one in New York for two weeks in October. Of course I am still anxious to be known on both sides of the Atlantic, and if this is possible it seems ideal. I cannot have a

show here before April and I might not be "ready" then. Moreover it seems rather un-
wise to have a show here and leave immediately afterwards for Europe. If I had the
show here in October, I should have all winter to profit by it, and of course it would
be a better show. I do not want to rush into anything, I want to keep my wits about
me, and to do as well for myself as possible. And I have no idea that you want me to
do anything else. As I have said, I believe the advice I have received is good, but I
want yours and Glen's and Barbara's too. About a show in Paris. It would mean lots of
work for you: finding me a gallery, a studio, getting lists, attending to printing, etc.
It would all have to be done before I arrived. Most galleries have lists, I suppose.
I would not want a large room, but there is no reason why I should send specifications;
you probably know better than I what would be suitable. It should be less expensive
than New York, and I think should be arranged for immediately. The galleries must be
in great demand in May. I could take an earlier boat, say a week earlier, than the
De Grasse. But I am going to make no plans about that until I hear from you. There
should still be people in Paris in June and July, and there may be tourists this year.
I wish you would read this paragraph to Barbara and discuss it with her. I have
started a separate savings account with the $150, and it will be safe enough until
the time comes to use it. And _if_ you think it advisable to have a show here in April
instead of in October, and _if_ you think a Paris show a good idea, please wire me. I
will need all the time I can have and probably a lot more.

Dearest, I am going to mail you some photographs this afternoon.
Most of those I am sending you have seen, or I imagine you have. I have no particular
sense of time this winter, and cannot remember when things were taken. But Glen has
not seen them, and I want him to. The Haidee Wright set I am sending separately. But
they should arrive together. The pictures of Stefansson were fine in proof, but they
are very contrasty and I have not as yet been able to make satisfactory prints of them.
Hartly, strange and pathetic creature, I took only two days ago and have only proofs;

three or four are good, and one is flattering. Two paying sittings this week, but I
owe about $200 and have set aside in banks and stocks only $100. When am I ever going
to have enough money so that I will not have to beg or borrow. How I am ever going to
pay father in part and get to Europe this spring I cannot know, but I mean to do both
and may God be with me. Always and forever, problems of this sort. And you are very
patient . . much more so than I shall ever be.

These silhouettes were made by Willy, the funny fat waitress at
Marie's, and may amuse you. I see my profile so seldom, but Russell says they are like
me.

What a time you had on your return from Milan. I should have
hated the perilous automobile ride, but I should have enjoyed helping pull Barbara
up the hill. And now you are in Paris again. Your letter this morning sounded sad,
and I wonder if Paris is really an unsuitable place for you, much as I love it, or
if you still have some sort of prejudice left over from that momentous month in 1928.
I want you to be happy. Why am I not there to help?

My week end on Long Island was incredible, and I can home ex-
hausted. You can imagine the house from the address: Villa del Ganto, Setauket. All
Italian (I thought it was going to be Spanish, and almost didn't know the difference),
and with the same atmosphere, and with as conspicuous lack of taste, as the
Roxy theatre. A very large house, flanked by innumerable garages and greenhouses, over-
looking the sound. New Haven in the distance. And I felt so sorry for Betty who is really
a charming girl. Her parents have not spoken for years I am told: her father invented
some sort of ball-bearing and made a fortune and looks like Abraham Lincoln minus the
beard and has a terrific temper, her mother is rather meek and decidedly "foolish".
And it is only the housekeeper, a smart though uneducated spinster named Hesta, who
keeps the family together at all. I went out with Betty Friday afternoon, and that

evening was rather pleasant. But Saturday at dinner nobody spoke a word; I tried two or three times to start something, but met with no success. It was dismal, and rather a strain. Lloyd and John arrived by a 1:30 A.M. train. Sunday was not so bad. We took a long walk through the rain, got quite wet, but came back to hot showers and an enormous meal. We had planned to stay until Monday morning, but I couldn't stand it so long and insisted upon returning Sunday evening which we did for seventy-five miles through snow and fog. Never again.

This is already a long letter and luncheon is about to be announced.

I wish I could write as much more about you, and about loving you. Everyday is a revelation. And spring is not far. I will write again as soon as I have a moment.

Tomorrow being Lincoln's birthday, Lloyd is coming for the night. He invited himself.

Since we have had 418 he has hardly been out here at all, but that is my fault and not his at all. I must do something more about him. Next week I may go to New Haven to see Russell and a swimming meet, but haven't decided. I am never at home, and want to be. I like my solitude. It is the next best thing to having you.

Please consider carefully my problem of the exhibitions and communicate with me as soon as possible. I shall do nothing before hearing from you.

I love you with all my heart, and sometimes just a little heavy-heartedly. My love to Glen. I miss him always.

Your
Gio
---

gpl

February eighteenth, 1931.

My lover.

I thought of you on your birthday, and wished so ardently that I were
with you. Perhaps I do not know what I have missed, for the only year we were
on the same continent in February you were freezing in Germany and I in the
Rue des Eaux. Nor have we ever been together on my birthday. These festivals,
so soberly celebrated in my own case, have for me a special significance. An-
other year I may be luckier. May is a lovely month, but I think I prefer yours
and mine, which is also Glenway's.

My life is so full and so fantastic, rich and suggestive. Yesterday,
for example, was not an average day, but will serve very well as a specimen. An
hour with my retoucher, discussing the face and figure of Barbara Douglas, a
very rich and silly girl whom John procured for me; she ordered $100 worth, and
has to be beautified. Luncheon at Frances Ives'. I met F.M.C. in the foyer, burst-
ing with news. We were early and sat ten minutes before going up. She gave me a
box for the opera for this evening (Siegfried . . I am taking Adelaide, Anne Porter,
Betty, Lloyd, and John), and announced that she had arranged for me to take the
Zimbalists, both of them and the Titian Stradavarius, tomorrow afternoon. I could
not have been more pleased and excited than she herself was, which touched me

more deeply than you can imagine. In fact she was so happy about it that she scarcely paid attention to my thanks. What a lovely person she is. The luncheon was rather pleasant, followed by two hours at the Colony Club where Mrs. August Belmont read innumerable picturesque, and many petty, poems (to the vast delight of her audience) in honour of the Red Cross. After that I joined Lloyd and John at the Levy's for tea, and had the pleasure of looking at a couple of hundred Atgets . . . he and Berenice Abbott own an enormous collection jointly . . . a remarkably fine photographer I think, although in quantities he becomes a little tedious. John is giving me one. I stopped for a moment at the Weil's; Hope was out but I had a little chat with Walter, whom I still feel is a very superior person. And then went to the Riesenfeld's for dinner (Helen's parents have apparently taken a great fancy to me . . . her father, in particular, is very nice), played ping-pong for a while and then rejoined John at the Town Hall to hear four thoroughly incompetent musicians play two glorious Beethoven quartets. All this time it was pouring; I have never seen such rain, even in Paris. Then Helen took us both to a very fancy speakeasy, on the thirtieth floor of the Delmonico building, which we had all to ourselves. The view of the drenched city was glorious. I got home at two.

Julian Levy, whom I met at a party at Betty's last week, is a very handsome, lazily ambitious, and prosperous young man, who is going to open a gallery exclusively devoted to photography. (He is married to a daughter of Mina Loy's, which may interest Glen.) Betty had on display some fifteen or twenty pictures I had given her (nudes, fancies, landscapes, etc.), and apparently he decided at once that I was a "white and burning hope" for he quite disarranged several people in order to meet me and was very charming. He wants to give me a show next winter for art's, rather than advertising's, sake. Sounds pleasant, doesn't it? Of course, this has nothing to do with my other, and more important, show. And he wants to finance a movie, in a modest way, which I am to make. And I agreed on

the condition that Glen and I make it together, an idea which rather pleased and impressed him. What he plans to do with the movie I have no idea. All I need now to make my life ideal are you and a bank account. I seem still far from this perfect existence, but everything seems to be looking up.

The records arrived this morning, and are too lovely. Thank you, dearest.

I had tried a number of times to get the Supervia but without success, and had purchased the duet sung by Adele Kern and Elfriede Marherr. But that is in every way inferior to the one you sent, and I think that Supervia's opening inch is as exciting as anything I have heard. The Schumann record I had not heard about, but am delighted with it. I hear Handel so seldom, and love him better every time. Of course there was Julius Caesar, a rare enough treat in this day. And Schumann is always so . . I hate gush, and you know very well what I mean. Thank you again.

A letter from Gertrude Stein has just arrived. "My dearest George", and "well anyway I love you very much and I tell you so." Which looks as if I were a favourite.

And thank you for the Colette. I have at last started The Magic Mountain, which, in spite of a lively prejudice against Mrs. Lowe-Porter, is being very en-grossing. La Fin de Cheri comes next. Eleanor Wolff wants to make a movie of Cheri, which might not be uneffective. But I seem to remember you did not like it. I got a 50¢ translation for Lloyd who adored it.

I have taken some pictures which might be suitable for illustrations. A stag being born out of a glass sea-shell, an elephant's head among china apple-blossoms, and double exposures of objects and waxed-paper, giving an under-water effect. They might be suitable for Aesop, but I am always too late. The only other book I can think of at the moment is Natives of Rock, and I believe Glen is not

interested in reprinting it. If you think of anything fanciful, or with Glen's sort
imagery, do let me know. I want to try. There does not seem to be much point in
sending dozens of pictures. I will send the portraits; another set will be ready for
you soon. Of the others I am making a large collection for myself which I shall take
to Europe with me. There are forty-five pictures in it already, and I go on taking
more. I expect there will be a hundred or more by the time I see you. Sounds formidable, doesn't it?

Next day.

I was interrupted by the arrival of Anne Porter, a friend of ours from Jersey City, and had to entertain her because Adelaide was out. That was at four o'clock yesterday. It is now after ten. So much seems to have happened in the interval.

Last evening was one of the worst. Siegfried you know, or know about; it lasted four hours, and because of Anne we had to sit it out. Lloyd was unintentionally rude to Adelaide. I developed a headache. And, by way of climax, when we got back to the car we found that it had been broken open and that a new pair of my gloves had been stolen. A photograph and a box of cakes were not touched; neither were the lap robes, which must have been too bulky to carry away. But everything was in great confusion.

But my visit to the Zimbalists this afternoon was different. They were both charming to me, and posed cheerfully and well; I liked him particularly. She, of course, is going to need lots of retouching, but I think her pictures will be effective although rather pretty-pretty. I have just developed the plates. His will be strong and ugly. F.M.C. insisted on my taking close-ups of his hands on his violin. R.L.C. was there, looking wonderfully well. He seemed glad to see me, and we chatted

between pictures. Just before he left he invited the Zimbalists <u>and me</u> to luncheon
next Monday. I was very surprised and pleased. So perhaps I haven't anything serious
to overcome after all.

Oh, but I am tired. It seems to me that I am never still, never idle. I
should enjoy having nothing to do for a day or two. I should like to find time to
go on with my book; a half hour is never enough. Tomorrow, for example, I shall
have to work all day on Barbara Douglas's prints, and on a free set for Hartley. In
the evening I am going to Kate's. Saturday I shall have to mount and mail tomorrow's
prints, and then go away for the weekend. Out of fondness for Betty, I have promised
to brave the terrors of her Italian palace again. This time Lloyd and John will be
there all the time, and we will amuse ourselves out of doors. If only I were week-
ending with you somewhere along the Loing, or in the Berkshires. Or if I could talk
to you while Glen plays his piano, and to him while you sleep. You cannot imagine
how often I think of your flat, of every bit of furniture, of the pictures and the
books and the records. And there are moments when I suffer because I cannot touch you,
moments out of hours when I dream or force myself to work, or when I am tired. I
am not blue often, but I want you. I want you now. There are times when May seems
incalculably far. When it doesn't seem far, I am harassed by the money I haven't
from
and wonder whom I can get it, whom I can make pose. I expect everything will work out,
and we will be happy together soon. Paris is such a lovely place. I wish that you were
happy there now. I hope that you went to the Riviera, or that you will go. And that
you will enjoy London. Perhaps you are there now. You know how I think of you and
all the ways I love you. Give Eardly my love if this arrives in time, a con-
cession to you rather than to him. I cannot see that it matters. In a way I wish the
summer were not going to be complicated by Bernardine (I get fantastic letters from
Rosemary), but cannot seriously begrudge her this much desired visit to her darlings.
When does she arrive and how long is she staying? . . . Remember that I love you,
and you only, and wait for me happily. What is enough to ask now. Your

gpl

March sixth, 1931.

Dearest Glenway.

I am glad that I was patient, that I did not fret too often because I could not find time to write. Eventually there would have to be time . . . my note really did not count . . . and I could not believe that you or Monie would misunderstand. Even today there are jobs which must be done, but I am more or less free. An order to mail to Iowa, a set of proofs to deliver, three dozen plates to develop, eye-lashes to draw in for Alma Zimbalist. All the wrinkles have been obliterated, as you will see. A little artifice is never enough, it inevitably gets multiplied by itself. Rather disgusting, but it was commanded, and who cares. Zimbalist, of course, has not been touched. There is still an hour before luncheon.

I was so glad to have letters from you. After so many months of silence, which was not like silence at all, and months otherwise silent and lonely and breathlessly enchanted, I was grateful. Perhaps it is characteristic of me, of my growing up, that I can learn not to need or even want some things which are mine and which I cannot always have. At least I can learn to think so. I believe so implicitly in your friendship, in your affection, that I am not in any way unhappy when you do not write. The discipline is good, though surely never intended as such. And when you do write I have such sensations of love, of well-being, of comfort, as to provide me with the extra strength and faith I always need. Strange how complete and religious, how human and

mystical, have been the benefits to me of our intercourse. It does not seem very
strange that when I have you and Monie, I want nobody and nothing else in the world.

I appreciated your comments on the photographs. At the moment I hate
every picture I have ever taken, and, although I do not want to be assured that they
are good, I would like to be assured that some day I am going to improve. Nothing that
I have done this winter is better than those I did last summer, if, indeed, as good.
And I scarcely know what it is I lack. Either I have not enough leisure and try to do
too much too quickly, or I have not, within myself, all the talent or inspiration that
I need to do really good work, and rely upon yours, upon the stimulation you always
have for me. Whatever is the case, I am not going to decide now, but wait to see what
happens next summer, when I have you, and next winter, when I have not. I might even be
in favour of chucking it altogether, though I know of nothing † could do better.

As for Bernard and Peignot. I do not believe B. is more than half right.
Whatever the truth is, I am willing to bet against publication.

The young man whose face you like is Bunny Crowe, a class mate of my
brother's. But I cannot recommend that you go further than the photograph. A nice
young man and rather wonderfully attractive, but sex-conscious to an extraordinary
degree, because he has had too much success. At my first party he flirted with one man
so adroitly and so heartlessly, throwing him over at the last minute, that he was per-
sonally much applauded, but the man was made so ridiculous that he had to leave. I am
afraid he will always be like that. If you want to meet him, I dare say that some day
it can be arranged. I, of course, wanted him too. Monie's choice is much better than
yours, though, I am sure, not for all the right reasons. I do not believe that Betty
would really suit him, but she would make me an ideal wife. I am very fond of her.

My party night before last was and was not successful. I had thirty nine
people, though not more than twenty seven at a time. Kate and Marie and the Levys and

a few others could not come at the last moment; Hope, Walter, Dorothee, Peg and Phil
Heartt, and Zena, who were not at the first party, did come as well as the dozens of
others. From nine to midnight it was as nice a party as one could wish for, but then
all the nicest people went home and those who stayed on until three-thirty became rather
rowdy. I just missed the four o'clock boat, the last one, and went back to the appart-
ment where I found Lloyd entertaining in bed (Bunny's mistress to be specific). So I
had to wake John up and spend the rest of the night in his extra bed. I am still rather
tired, and will give no more parties for a long long time. What a life I lead. Today is
Friday and I have business or social engagements in New York every day for the next
eight days, and three more for the week following. Beginning with Iris tonight, Reth-
berg singing, as the guest of Mrs. Meeker (or Meekers) in Miss Brice's box. Last even-
ing I went with John and Betty to hear the Boston Symphony play a magnificent Handel
Concerto Grosso and Strawinsky's Symphonie de Psaumes which I liked enormously. Tomor-
row I have two business engagements, and am having the Levys to tea. So it goes.

I am not going to send you nudes. There are too many and too many other
non-portrait subjects. I want you to see them all, but will wait until May to take them
to you. I am, however, sending another batch of portraits next week: the Zimbalists,
Hartley, Marie, Stefansson, Kirkland, etc.. Besides, so far as the nudes are concerned,
too much shows in many of them and they might be stopped and confiscated. Peignot has
some glossy ones.

Here is something I have to write you, I promised Dorothee that I would,
although I almost forgot it, and although I expect you will not much care. Either Arthur
or Freddie, and I cannot remember which, has been telling a number of people, mostly
ex-friends of yours I gathered, that you have been making gossip about Fanny Cottenet,
though God knows what you are supposed to be saying about her. It will be a pity if
R.L.C. hears about it, though I imagine it was invented for his benefit. It is unlikely
that I should know whether or not he has or will. But Dorothee was determined that you

should be warned. Poor girl, she is determined that you and Arthur are going to be
friends again; at least that is all she talks to me about, and, although I try mildly
to dissuade her, I cannot tell her outright that it is useless. She is the picture of
health and is hard at work at her night school.

I gathered from your letters that things were going relatively well
with you. I am so happy. I have never understood J. or his ways, and I think that, if
it were not for your greater feeling for him (which has preserved in my mind, and re-
served in my affections, a more or less definite place for him . . . I do not think
that I have ever been seriously swayed by Monie's prejudice), I should never forgive
him the anguish you had to go through last summer. But I do not think it necessary,
or particularly desirable, that I should understand him. Thank him for the books you
sent. I have not heard whether he liked, or even received, the photos I sent. Monie's
melancholy, of which I have of course been receiving echoes, troubles me often, though
I try not to think about it. There is nothing I can do at this distance, and I think
I know the limits of what I could do if I were with you. Summer is a happier season.
And, although I imagine that all your causes are in order, I cannot see whom or what
we can blame. I sometimes think I have profited by your discomfort, profited luxur-
iously, but I hope it is not true. I should be ashamed. In any case, in certain event-
ualities I think I know the course I should take. Nothing dramatic, and I expect I
could learn to like that too. And I sometimes wonder if you would not be better off
if you did not try to make things easier for other people, for me for example. Between
ourselves, do you think that it would be a good idea to chuck the Publishing business,
in another year or so; I sometimes think of it, but really cannot see the point. Per-
haps when I arrange my life so that I can spend half the year in Europe, you will have
decided to do the same.

Write to me again some day. I will be with you soon; I wish that for
love's and for Photography's sake xxxxx it would be sooner. I love you dearly.

Your
Gioio

gpl

March eleventh, 1931.

My lover.

The afternoon of the first of two days I do not have to go to New York at all. And what a blessing that is, although I have many prints to make. They can wait until tomorrow. I spent all.morning doing odd jobs, some of which were very pleasant. I mailed you a batch of pictures. Hartley, Stefansson, and Barbara Douglas. Later in the week I will send the Zimbalists, Kirkland, Marie, etc.. It seems not to matter what I do, or to matter much when I do it. The results are about the same. General fatigue, enough money to pay my bills and not much besides, pleasant evenings, and occasional pleasant days; other things may not be included in the schedule, other pleasures which exist in proportion to and in spite of my desires and which must be deferred. I hardly dare to count my pennies, even the extra-commercial and intimate ones, for fear of disappointment. I will be happy enough to live by expedients, another summer at least, and my faith in the kindness of fate remains unshaken. I have always been an unreasoning schemer, and have not gotten on badly. I expect that some day all this gallant idiocy will have to come to an end, although in a world inhabited by you and enchanted by your beauty I can see no more reason why it should than why it should not. I cannot, in any case, think why I should ever stop loving you.

How curious that you should have run into Hugh Brooke. Did he have his mother

along? I cannot understand why he should have been with Wesson who, when last heard from, appeared to dislike him. Wesson is, of course, "of the past". I can hardly believe I ever knew Hugh, so completely had I forgotten him. How cheerful it would be if Barbara took him up. Were there painful echoes of the summer of 1928?

Your three short but lovely letters arrived this morning. They reminded me again of the weeks you must be spending without word from me. And yet I do not know how I could have written. My note and letter to Glen contained as much of my news as I could manage or remember. And you must have realized that I would not have let so many days go by without writing if I could have helped it. Between jobs I get to hear a lot of music, of which only the opera is bad, and I see lots of people whom I like or who may be useful. I need some of it, and you would agree that the rest is mostly good.

I am enclosing Onegin's program for next Sunday. Monday I am going to The Art of the Fugue, Friday Myra Hess is playing in Englewood. A good week. Last night I went with Helen Riesenfeld to the Philadelphia Symphony; half the program was excellent and she was really charming. . . a lovely person when she makes a point of being agreeable. The night before that Lloyd and I went to a party at Hope's which was ghastly. And the afternoon before that I heard the St. John Passion, which for the most part was poorly done; I particularly liked the bass, Schorr, do you know him? The night before that, which was Saturday, John spent here. The night before that I went to Iris with Helen Brice. And the night before that was the night of our party. Between times I print and develop and have sittings. I have not been to bed before one-thirty in two months, but keep going. I wish I could summer without working, but I might not be happy. Perhaps I can rest a little anyway.

I am troubled about Lloyd again. And this time I am going to ask that Glenway write him, a long letter that is all point and instruction and as little poetic as possible. Frankly I have been paying very little attention to him lately. I have seen quite

a lot of him, but have been so busy and have had all my conscious moments occupied
with the million things I try to do and remember that I have not noticed what seems to
be obvious to others. He has been getting practically no sleep, at least not nearly
enough. John spoke to me last week, before we had the party, of how tired he was look-
ing, but I did not think of it again until last evening when Helen said the same thing.
She seemed genuinely concerned rather than critical, and if what she said is true I
think the situation is rather serious. Her parents who have only known Lloyd a few
months and who liked him extremely now like him much less _because he looks dissipated_
and _because he never looks at the person to whom he is talking_ which makes him appear
shifty. Easy enough to coach him to look one in the eye, but I am afraid it is impos-
sible for me to make him go to bed early. He is really such a baby. . . anybody can in-
fluence him. . . and under pressure of fatigue or alcohol he completely disintegrates,
his face seems to fall apart. I know that this must sound harsh, but you and Glen both
know that I care about him and that even if I did not I would be concerned. He thinks
that he is strong, but he wilts so. And I am sure I could not convince him that I can
talk or work later than he can (oddly enough my work invariably keeps me up later than
my sociable activities), being able to sleep in the morning. He would feel that there
was some injustice to him involved. He would compare himself to John who has tremendous
nervous vitality and seems not to suffer from even later hours. I will make my little
speech, but mildly. He either does not trust me as he formerly did, or he fears my
censure. I seldom hear what he has been doing unless I question him, and I do not see
him alone enough for much of that. I think that this is important, more important than
any sort of misbehaviour he is likely to have a taste for, and nobody but his brother
can make him remember, can impress him enough. I hate writing these bulletins.

In your letters you never mentioned how Barbara took the news of the post-
ponement of the exhibition. I wish you would. I want terribly for her to be happy about
it, and if she is not and if there is anything I can do about it you must let me know

at once.

Betty is John's cousin, the subject of the photographs that are all hair and fur rug which you liked, and the daughter of the interior-decorator's-paradise-of-an-Italian-Renaissance-House-of-Usher. Do I make myself clear? I like her extremely and probably you would too.

I love my Balzac. This evening and tomorrow I hope to be able to read some.

How lovely it must have been on the Riviera. Did you show Barbara the Cabane and the Welcome? Did you see the moon in Villefranche harbour? I am sorry you had to stay in Cannes. Where will you stay with Eardly? Or aren't you going to? And who is running the publishing business during your remarkably frequent absences? Do you think that we can go south, or perhaps to Germany, in August?

R.L.C. is having me to luncheon on Wednesday and afterwards I am to take pictures of four or five "beautiful women" whom he is inviting for my benefit. I have even become his bootlegger, and am negociating, through father, for a large keg of applejack. Fanny leaves tomorrow for Charleston, and will be away two or three weeks. Both send love to you both.

I wish I could go on writing forever. There is never time enough. I never know enough. I can never be quite articulate. But you know something of what is in my heart, and probably that is all that matters. I want to know about your health. Crohn demands a report. so please write at length. Are you fatter? How do you feel? I want to see and to touch you. Seven weeks more or less. The time seems so short when I think of all I have to do. But how lovely you and Paris will be. Please start now to find me a studio: a big room with quantities of light, and a little dark one. I will arrive about May fifteenth. Surely there will be something for Frs. 1000 a month. I would not dare to undertake one for more than Frs. 1500. I will have to make expenses all summer. I can hardly wait.

gpl

March sixteenth, 1931.

My sweet Monie.

Thank you so much for the neckties. Father in particular was touched; I
in particular was appreciative. Perhaps it is not fair to say that, for Russell has not
received his yet. But you know how we all love you . . it is very wonderful, though not
surprising, that you were able to win the hearts of my parents . . and any inclusive
gesture on your part is bound to meet with the greatest success.

If you want me to collect subscriptions to your magazine, or whatever
it is to be, please be quick about it. I can probably get a dozen or so from people you
do not know, and a half-dozen or so from people you do. My time here is growing shorter
and, although I am still of two minds as to its exact shortness, it does take time to
receive answers to letters.

Another thing about which I have been meaning to write all winter. You
left your pearl stud here, and I have been wearing and loving it. Every time I put it
on I resolve to write you about it . . . I even made a note of it once . . and every time
I have written I have forgotten about it. I suppose there is no point in sending it now.
But be assured that it is undamaged and in safe keeping, and that I will take it to you.

I have another batch of photos for you, and will mail them this after-
noon. The Zimbalists, Kirkland, Marie, Harry Leggett, and Julian Levy. I like those of

Zimbalist, especially two of them. I wish I could take more people as I did Kirkland, the standing one, so that the face does not show at all. I do not like Marie's at all. Julian's, according to John, looks like Moholy-Nagy's cat; it does not look much like him. The Leggett pictures I think prove that anybody can take pictures like Bachrach's, only better. But, as usual, I feel incompetent to judge.

I am now a collector. Julian has given me twelve Atgets in exchange for some of my pictures; they are very charming, and some of them really excellent. And I am, of course, being collected. Besides those Julian has, and those I have given to John and to Betty, I have sold two prints: one of a gas stove in a warehouse doorway, and one of my Amenophes. All these and more you will see this spring when we meet. Some of the work I have been doing must be good. I feel, in any case, that both Julian and Joella (Mina Loy's beautiful daughter) are very critical. And both are enthusiastic. I also value John's opinion. . . he seems to me to be more intelligent than most of the people I meet. . . although for reason or reasons unknown he seems prejudiced in my favour.

I have asked Adelaide to talk to Lloyd about his looks and his health, and will have him out here soon so that she can do it. I think he will listen to her, although a letter from Glen will probably have the best effect. How lovely it would be for him if he could be a gentleman farmer; he sometimes seems so much of the soil, so out of place in the city. Yet, in a sense, he is following XX closely in my footsteps. Just as when I am with you and Glen I have no particular desire to make other friends, or even to see other people, so when I am about to provide him with friends and amusement, he does nothing at all for himself. I suppose the moral of that is that when I am away from you, and when he is away from me (and from you too), we are better off. But perhaps I am growing up more quickly and surely than he. And there is all the difference between office routine and a tested emotion.

Next day.

I had to go to town four hours earlier than I had expected to so that I
could deliver proofs. But the subject was very pleased, so it was worth while. Did I
write you about her? This girl, Evelyn Clark, telephoned one morning when I just hap-
pened to be in Twentieth Street; she had evidently been trying to reach me there for
some time. Several days later she turned up in a large and expensive-looking car, and
I draped her on the floor and against walls. She said she had been at a dinner party
at which Cecil Beaton was present, and had told the man sitting next her how much she
would like to be taken by him. "Oh, I know somebody much better," said the man. "Is it
somebody called Lynes," said she. Etcetera. At least that is the story she told me,
and I was impressed. It appears that she met Russell somewhere and heard about me from
him. The man, an Englishman, was brought to my first party by Ray Stover; I had not seen
him before and I have not seen him since. I think this is the sort of thing that counts.

And since I was interrupted yesterday I have heard The Art of the Fugue,
which I missed last winter. I thought it very impressive and some of it incredibly
lovely, but am afraid I did not understand it. I expect the Juilliard Foundation will
give it every year, and before I hear it again I do want it all explained to me. Will
you, or will Glen? I was very disappointed in Onegin. She has such a glorious voice,
but what an offensive personality. She ruined all the Schubert and Brahms songs, ex-
cept Die Allmacht, by excessive play-acting. And you would not have believed your eyes
if you could have seen the contortions she went through when she came to the Bizet
Group. We did not stay for the folk songs.

Yesterday, in Twentieth Street, I found a letter from Elly Ney. I thought
it about time she was in this country, and several weeks ago wrote to her care of Feakins.
She arrives in town today, leaves Friday, but returns Sunday to stay until the eighth.
"I just love the picture you have made of Monroe, and I would like very much you would

try it with myself but it's not so satisfactory, I warn you - and I am very poor, came
for only 4 concerts to the states, so couldn't possibly order some pictures right away
but would like to have a really good one, probably for next season I could order some.
Shall we try it?" At least I will have her for the exhibition. What really pleases me
most is that she is giving a Beethoven recital at the Town Hall on the seventh. And I
shall see to it that all the Myra Hess enthusiasts (I have become one too) attend. What
ever possessed her to come over here for only four recitals? It sounds rather mad.

Dearest, I am really worried about my financial situation. My assets
and prospects, at the moment, amount to only six hundred dollars, and I am afraid I
will have to give most of that to father. Last fall when we returned from Europe there
was a lot of discussion about certain equipment that I needed. You may remember it. In
any case father wrote me a letter which ended, "Now when you are ready to start, plans
worked out, and business begins, you can count on us for $500. It represents the am-
ount we have saved in perquisites etc. and lies in the bank. Accept it as a loan if you
prefer". I am quoting directly from the letter. He gave me the money, as you know, and
for two or three weeks never mentioned it. For the rest of the winter he has said some-
thing at least once a week about getting it back, and these last three weeks he has
mentioned it at least once a day. He has appeared to take it perfectly for granted that
I am going to Europe in May; I have heard him tell a number of people of his own volition.
And then he makes the most unpleasant and insinuating remarks to me about what I "plan
to go on". I have no doubt but that he needs the money, or rather that he will need it,
to put Russell through his last year at college. It seems that whatever happens is going
to be bad and unfair. Obviously he has forgotten that it was to be a loan if I prefered,
which I did not. If I give him the money I am going to feel most bitterly about it, and
if I do not he is going to feel, as I have heard him express it, that "we only put up
with him for what we can get out of him". Of course I can do a little insinuating myself
and put him in a position where he would not touch the money if I insisted upon giving

it to him. But I hate that sort of thing. I feel that we are both right and both wrong, and although I can play his game of drooping eyes and quivering lips I much prefer my own of passive resistance. There has got to be a change in my life. This sort of thing wears me out in a way that too much work or too much pleasure never could. I have got to find a way to get beyond it.

But I am going to Europe, and I am going to sail on the De Grasse on May seventh. Julian has decided to go with me, and we are taking a cabin together. That way I get an outside cabin, and save about $15 on my passage. So it is worth while. I have no way of knowing how things are going to work out, but work out they must. I have been tired this winter but beautifully complacent and healthy. Now I am all nerves, and having written you about this dirty little hide-and-seek game with father I am actually trembling. I am glad that both he and Adelaide are going to be out for luncheon.

There is nothing more that I can or want to say, except that I wish you were here to cheer me on, to sooth me with your cool hands and wonderful eyes. I sometimes feel capable of the most obvious and heart-breaking expedients. I hope they will not be necessary. In any case I feel I have to have this summer. For every reason.

I love you with all my heart and all my understanding.

gpl

March twenty-third, 1931.

My darling.

How wonderful it is to receive letters from you from boats I have never even
heard of. There is a boat tomorrow, one of the big ones, I have forgotten which, and I
thought I should have to wait until Wednesday for word from you. Perhaps I will be lucky
enough to hear then too.

Today I am free. And tomorrow. And Wednesday. Except for a little developing
and a few jobs I want to do. Thursday I am taking Elly to luncheon, and afterwards to
Twentieth Street to photograph her. Friday I am having Dorothee to tea, and am dining
with the Meekers. (Have I written about the Meekers? I do not think that I will. Life
is not quite long enough. And, if I do not like them better this week than I did last,
I think I will let them go . . inspite of opera boxes, etc..) Saturday and Sunday I am
free again, unless something comes up in the meanwhile. John and Betty have gone to
Boston for the Bach festival, and will be away a week. I will miss John, of whom I
have become very fond. And Betty too, although I see her less often. Sometimes she is
so beautiful that I cannot really believe it is true, and sometimes she is just messy
and childish. I expect that she has intuition. At any rate she wants to have her photo
done again . . apparently so that I can make more money to go to Europe. And, so far as
I know, she has no idea of why I should or should want to go. She is not the only one.

This winter, for the first time in my life, people have put themselves out, or have
made a point, to be nice to me. I suppose I have changed. Needless to say I am ap-
preciative.

R.L.C. has done the nicest of all the nice things so far. And I have been
so touched by it that time after time I have wanted to cry. Last Wednesday I had lunch
with him alone. Then, between three and four, about a dozen people, whom he had invited
to be photographed, arrived. Four or five fashionable young matrons, Toscanini's wife
and daughter, and a few others. Even Arthur Lee was there, very quiet and well-behaved
and rather charming. It was a hectic time for me. I took about thirty-five pictures,
not more than five of any one person, and only two or three of some. And then there was
an elaborate tea. Saturday morning I took the proofs to show him. I was a little dis-
turbed, for the retouching on them would have amounted to fifteen dollars and there
would have been the other expenses, and I did not know if I were expected to present
to each of these people a print or two of themselves . . and take my chances on getting
orders. I did not feel I could afford to do much by way of presenting photos. But I
was not left long in any such state of suspense and worry, for, before he had even
looked at the proofs, R.L.C. told me that he wanted to order a hundred dollars worth
for himself. Could anything be more charming. I think it a lovely gesture. Especially
because I am sure he does not want the pictures at all. They are good enough, though
not extraordinary, and only Mme. Toscanini has a first-rate face. And I think that he
intends to give these pictures to the subjects, and, of course, there is a chance that
I will get other orders. It does not seem conceivable to me that he would do such a
thing if he disliked me, and perhaps that pleases me most of all. He left Sunday for
Charleston . . Fanny went there a week or ten days ago . . and will not be back for
a couple of weeks. They are both so devoted to you and Glen, although Fanny never act-
ually says so, and they have been so marvellous to me. When you write to him . . and I
know he wants to hear from you . . tell him how much I appreciate his friendliness. For,

although I have told him a half-dozen times, I am so afraid he will not realize how greatly and truly I do appreciate it.

I am not going to attempt to take my new and enormous enlarger with me this summer. And, since I should never be satisfied with the old one, I will not take an enlarger at all. I cannot, of course, afford another one this year. I have a contact printer now, as you may have guessed from the small pictures I sent, and will take that with me. It is small and can be packed easily. I think I shall specialize this summer in small prints. Any enlargements that I may need I can have done, I think, by the people who did my mounting last summer. I am under the impression that they specialize in enlargements. And I will charge according to what they charge me. Don't you think that is the best plan?

About the exhibition. I think I will definitely engage a gallery for, let us say, the first two weeks in November before I leave. At the Anderson Galleries or the Art Center. And then I can have you arrange for the printing of my announcements, which you will do better and possibly cheaper. November is undoubtedly the best time of year, and I will have all the pictures I need by that time. Also, if I wait until I return to take a gallery, I may not be able to get anything I want.

Last week's music. Myra Hess played here on Friday. I have the greatest admiration for her, although I do wish she would stick to eighteenth century music. She began with Scarlatelli and Bach (the Italian Concerto) and both were sublime. And then she drifted off into realms of Schumann and Chopin and Ravel and Debussy, etc.. I had five guests: Helen Riesenfeld, Laura Abbott, Betty, Lloyd, and John. After the recital John and I delivered the four others at the ferry and went to a party that was being given for the great lady. She was very charming and very beautiful, although rather drugged looking; in fact, as I look back, it seems that she was rather nicer to us than to most of the other guests and allowed us to monopolize her for about fifteen minutes.

Yesterday John and I went to The Friends of Music to hear Mozart's Requiem. The choruses were glorious, and so was Rethberg although she used only about a quarter of her full voice. The rest of the quartet was, unfortunately, rather unpleasant. Not really unpleasant because there are practically no solos, but somehow inadequate. I wish I could hear it again immediately.

How differently we take our pleasures this winter. I have been to dozens and dozens of concerts, and you will not go at all. On the other hand I have not seen a single play. The revues I saw with you, and one other, but no drama. And only about a dozen movies. I think Charlie Chaplin's latest is superb in parts. Has it reached Paris yet? And Marlene Dietrich becomes more beautiful in every picture. I saw part of The Great Meadow which I think extremely poor. But I hope E.M.R. is making pots of money out of it.

Thank you for the books of photos which arrived this morning. I had a bad moment, thinking that Aenne Biermann had stolen one of my piano interiors. They are remarkably alike. I want to have a good collection of books of photos, and am gradually acquiring one. Will you send or save me a copy of Peignot's book, even if I am not re-presented.

Dearest, I love you so much. And sometimes I feel that I am not at all the person who fell in love with you four or more years ago. If I am changing as much and as quickly as I want to, you may not know me. But perhaps you will not be displeased. And perhaps I only love you better, for appreciating you more. Perhaps even within another year or so I will have arranged my life to accomodate my attachments and entanglements, my pleasures and needs. I will arrange everything here somehow so that I can sail on the seventh, and perhaps I can arrange everything so that there will be no hard feeling. I hope so. In any case there are less than seven weeks before I sail. I can hardly believe it.

gpl

March twenty-ninth, 1931.

My wonderful Monie.

Palm Sunday. And such a dismal day. I wish that Spring would
assert itself. It is certainly time. But I have the house to myself, for an hour at
least, and perhaps I can lose myself . . the tired part . . in a letter to you. Lloyd
has gone to church with Adelaide, which is probably a good thing. The silence is less
pregnant. I like my own silences, the domestic or pensive or weary ones, and, if I
want music, there is the Bach flute sonata which John loaned me. I do want music most
of the time, and hours and hours of tranquility.

I opened your letter which came yesterday with such eagerness. I was
disappointed to find it contained only a card. But I should not complain. I remember
that for several weeks I could not write at all. Your letters, dearest, are the most
important things of my week. I need them to soothe and to stimulate me. So please write
whenever you can. Do not think to punish me.

I spent a lovely afternoon with Elly. First at luncheon, and then in
Twentieth Street. I think some of my pictures of her are better than any I have seen,
are more flatteringly like her, but I am not satisfied with them. None are as good as
some of the snapshots you have. But you shall judge for yourself. I am giving a small
and informal party for her next Friday. There will be only eight or ten of us al-

together: Kate, Betty, Laura Abbott, John, Lloyd, Russell, and perhaps Hope. I invited Frances Robbins, but she cannot come. Elly is bringing some young German she wants me to meet. I am giving the party at Betty's, because she has a piano and a phonograph. It appears that Beethoven and dancing are in order, which should be charming. Did I write that I went to a party for Myra Hess last week. My month of famous lady pianists.

Of course, it had to be for that same evening that Miss Brice asked me to go to the opera. I have sat in her box often enough, but this is the first time she has invited me personally. I dined with her the day before yesterday at the Meekers.

What an abrupt telegraphic sort of letter. I feel half-witted, or half-alive. And I can hear the singing from the church, a sonorous and solemn sound; it makes me conscious of people and problems I do not understand, of father's practical mysticism, and of Adelaide's recent missionary fervour. I am glad that they, particularly father, want to be useful to Lloyd. He is the lostest boy I have ever known, and perhaps they will understand each other. I came to the conclusion some time ago that I was only good for him negatively. Perhaps if I could find out what he wants . . and, sadly enough, I am not sure that he himself knows what it is . . I might do a lot. Just now I am having to pretend that I do not know that he and father were closeted yesterday for the better part of three hours. Father will tell me what happened. I wonder of Lloyd will. I haven't enough time for much of this. I haven't time really to have problems of my own. But there is always the pressure of my obvious problems. I feel it too much and haven't the courage or the mind to reason, to bear it lightly, or to try to forget it. I suppose I will sail on schedule. I suppose too much. The system usually works, but it seems like a bad one. Perhaps Julian will buy a lot of pictures of his wife. My latest orders have been pitifully small ones. If it were not for these things I might not grow. I want security. I feel old. But there will be peace in your arms. Perhaps I could always live through six months of this for a month of that. Year after year, dream after dream, always the sweetest ones. My distaste for Englewood is returning, and makes you and Paris

gpl

April tenth, 1931.

My infinitely beloved.

I wish I were more regular in my habits of writing, more con-
spicuously faithful to you. I have waited so many days for this hour at my desk . .
days I have been busy or excited or merely exhausted. Sometimes I think I waste my
time, and yet, going over my weeks hour by hour, I find that I could have omitted
nothing. For either my winter has a pattern or I am horribly deceived in it. And
perhaps I am not unprepared for a summer of work and love and no letters.

Elly sailed two days ago, and I sincerely regretted her depart-
ure. I saw her first the day I photographed her. The pictures are disappointing, but
I will send you the best. And several other times when we discussed proofs, etc.. Then
last Saturday evening I gave a party for her at Betty's . . because Betty has a piano
and one of those deep-throated phonographs. It was a lovely party, the nicest I have
ever seen. Everybody seemed to have a good time. Elly played at least three hours,
gladly I thought, certainly without being coaxed. And the rest of the time we danced
and talked. I wished so often that you were there; you would have loved it. There were
few of us . . Elly and Willy, Hope and Walter, Kate, Betty, John, Laura Abbott, Lloyd,
Russell, and myself . . and only Walter did not fit. Willy was much taken by Betty,
who was looking divine. Elly admired Kate, who was looking particularly well. And
everybody admired Elly. The party began at eight-thirty (because Elly said she wanted

to go home early), but the first person to leave was Hope and that was at two o'clock.
And last Tuesday she played Beethoven at the half-filled Town Hall; it was a sublime
recital. She was in excellent form, and I think that her first sonata (Opus 111), which
she also played at Betty's, is at present my favourite piece in the world. In the
evening I took her to Hope's for a couple of hours. As a party it was a distinct com-
down from my own, but it was pleasant. And, while I danced with her, she kissed me
behind the ear. So, all in all, I saw quite a lot of her, and loved her, and think I
understand some things about you better than I ever have. I sold her over a hundred
prints which I must send to Bonn, but she was so plaintive about being poor that I let
her have then at cost. Incidentally she is determined that we all go to Bavaria to a
festival at which she is going to play toward the end of May. And she may join us in
Salzburg, after she leaves the theosophists.

I have the lovliest new record, which Betty gave me, but which I
selected. Two arias from Gluck's Orpheus sung by Emmi Leisner. Do you know it?

And isn't it time that the Peignot book is appearing?

Four weeks from today I will be on the sea, on my way to you. Four
busy weeks between. Or rather three busy weeks because I am going to North Egremont
for the week of the twentieth. And I am sure to have enough money to go on, perhaps
even enough for a studio. For, as a last resort, I find I can borrow from Julian. Not
exactly borrowing, but rather being paid in advance for pictures I will give him next
winter. He is apparently counting quite a lot on me for his gallery. There are few
enough photographers who are both good (or promising) and unknown, and I think he
plans seriously upon launching me. In any case something happened last week which I
consider lucky, and which has reassured both of us. He had Stieglitz to dinner and
showed him some of my pictures, about which, or the majority of which, the great man
found things to praise. His criticism was abstract. He did not bother about technical

matters, but found them vital, uninfluenced, and original. And, since it appears that
he is famously difficult to please, I have been considerably encouraged. I think he
particularly liked the nudes. But it was a little difficult to understand exactly what
he did say, since both Julian and Joella insisted upon telling me about it at the same
moment. I knew, in any case, that you would be pleased.

The Cottenets are back. I sent Fanny a box of flowers and the pictures she liked best of the Zimbalists as a welcoming gift. And this morning I telephoned Rawley. I am lunching with them on Monday. On Wednesday, which is my birthday, Joella is giving a big party. Friday I am lunching with Harry Leggett and will definitely arrange for a gallery for November (for the portrait show), and am dining at Hope's to show her the collection. Presently people are going to know about me. Two exhibitions in New York next winter, and I am sending twenty-five pictures to Hartford to an exhibition which takes place there the end of this month. John arranged that. A friend of his is the director of the Wadsworth Atheneum and Morgan Memorial (sounds imposing), a sort of museum which has temporary shows also. I may even sell some. Now if I can arrange to be taken up by some of the better modern magazines . . . Perhaps I want too much. But I have worked hard this winter, and am gratified to see that something is coming of it. I mean to take thousands of pictures this summer, indoors and out of doors, in the city and in the country, as well as lots of portraits. I will send you another batch or two of portraits before I sail, and take you about a hundred of the others.

There is so little time to receive answers to letters. But I want
to know, and must know quickly, if you think it advisable for me to take with me some
of my negatives. Those of Barbara and Jacques for example, and the nudes and still-lives.
Unless I hear from you about them, I will leave them all here.

Thank you for your letter about father. I do not want you to worry

about him. I am not. If everything works out as I want I will give him $200, leave $200
in a savings account here to take care of my return passage, and have $200 to cover my
trip over and first expenses. I want another $150 for a studio, but that remains problem-
atical. In any case I want, for your sake, to be as little dependent upon you as pos-
sible, though I am afraid you will find me something of a burden. I so often wonder if
it worth while from your point of view. And I hope and pray with all my heart that my
love and my progress in some way repay you for all you have done for me.

Just now I think lovingly and wonderingly of you in Villefranche
where so many of our hardest and so many of our dearest hours occured. Everything there
was so beautiful, and even the heavy-hearted and anxious and stupid weeks were scented.
My first weeks, then Wesson and Mary and the Colline, then Hugh Brooke, then your dep-
arture, Hugh's departure, Glenway's comings and goings, R.L.C., Saint Martin, your re-
turn and illness, then Eardley and the Welcome and Cocteau, and the rain, and the
arguments, and finally the departure for Paris. Sprinklings of Clem and Mary R. and
battleships. And the harbour and the moon. I remember it all so vividly, though perhaps
inaccurately, and wish I could be there with you now. Yet it seems long ago, as if I had
known you always and not for less than five years. Someday we will go back there to-
gether. I hope it will be soon.

How few letters and how much love these next weeks will hold.
And at the end of them innumerable nights when your eyes are the stars and your breath
the wind. And I will be able to rest at last because you only can calm me. I long to
see you and to touch you. And I long to see Glen who is dearer to me every year, whom
I love unceasingly. To know that you will both be waiting for me is the greatest bless-
ing I can ask.

I am yours.

gpl

April fourteenth, 1931.

My adored Monroe.

This must be a short letter. John is coming out for dinner, and presently I will have to go to the ferry to meet him. But your letter from Villefranche has made me gay, and I want to write a line. It is such a lovely letter, full of sunshine, and humor, and love. Need I say I am envious. Even of Francis Rose and the Monteux-Guerins. (I have been hearing the most fearful things about Jean and Walter.)

Now that Desti is dead, Clem is wailing that she isn't going to have anybody to play bridge with. Marie is renting a house at Woodstock from her, and tells me that every day Clem wants to make a new lease. The latest is that she is determined to make Marie pay a deposit on the contents of the house . . . much more, apparently, than the things are worth. And I send her my love, and she sends hers back. But we have not met.

Lloyd has taken up with Zena, which perhaps is not so stupid. I haven't heard the details.

Yesterday I saw Dick Halliday. He got caught in traffic just behind

me, and for fully five minutes I watched him in my mirror. I do not think that he
saw me. He was very sunburned, and made the most awful faces. He looks so much older
than when I saw him in Villefranche. And, if my guess is correct, something unpleasant
has happened to him. Have you heard from him. He looked so neurotic . . as if he were
having a nightmare, or wanted drugs.

As for me . . unless I am able to sit in the sun all the way across
the Atlantic, I will probably look quite as pale and haggard when I arrive as I did
last year. And it will have nothing to do with drink. I have had an exhausting winter,
and, although I always get at least eight hours, I never sleep quite soundly enough.
Perhaps I will get some rest and some colour next week in North Egremont. I will
spend most of my time out of doors.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I shall begin the day brightly. I have a
sitting at ten . . a very homely woman. And luncheon with my family, and that is
about all I will see of them. I am having tea with Dorothee. And in the evening
Joella is giving a very dressed-up party, for which Russell is coming all the way
from New Haven. I will be glad to be twenty-four, but wish I were older . . felt
older.

Yesterday I lunched with the Cottenets. Wouldn't Fanny be surprised if I hugged her? I often want to. Rawley was gruff but amiable. I love going there. They enjoyed Charleston so much. I must try to go some year soon.

I will write another proper letter soon. This one sounds like a
telegram. But I had to tell you for the ten-thousandth time that I love you. I am
as excited about going to Europe as I used to be about getting out of Berkshire.
And am as full of wonder as if I had loved you for one year and not five. I too
know that this love is lengthening and that it is all good. And perhaps I shall
always wait for you.

Via New York
S.S. Aquitania
May sixth.

Monsieur Monroe Wheeler
9, rue de Condé
Paris, VIe
France

gpl

May second, 1931.

My adored Monie.

This is likely to be my last letter, and I do not know what to say
in it. You are so near to me. And all the things I have done this winter appear to
me to have been done by somebody else, somebody I have already left behind. The
realities of my winter, even the inconsiderable ones, as I look back on them, become
grotesque. I realize now that I have not been myself, except in some elusive way
that shows when I am with one or two. I have eaten fire in solitude. And I know that
I could not hang on here much longer. Judging from the way I feel, I would not be
inclined to overestimate either my strength or my patience. These New York winters,
whatever they may boast, lack freshness. And now I want to rest awhile. I want to be
myself, and I do not know how. But I shall lie in your arms, and will not be slow to
respond to your magic. How I wish I were taking more to you, more of my youth, more
of my passion. These things do not need awakening, but they have been sidetracked.
And I feel old. I do not know why I say these things, except that I do not want you
to be unprepared for me, or to be disappointed. I need you with all the hunger of a
wasted body and an impoverished spirit. I love you so truly and with every fibre of
my existence. Thank God that you are there and that I can go to you. And I know
somehow that my dream of you must be prophetic. I am yours.

October twenty-fifth. 1931.

My Monie.

I have been in town (N.Y.) or out of town (New Haven and
North Egremont) everyday since I returned . . nearly two weeks ago.
And I have wanted so much to write; there has been so much to write.
But to-night I am too tired. All day I have moved furniture or worked
in my darkroom; and I have just come upstairs from a three-hour tea,
Adelaide's annual affair, at which there were, coming and going, about
two hundred people. All tomorrow I am helping John move into our (and
Lloyd's) new flat: 425 East 51st Street, between First Avenue and Beek-
man Place. But Tuesday I will write at length, and have already made
notes. Now I only want to tell you that I miss you, and that I love
you. It is strange that I should be so busy and miss you so constantly,
so sweetly, without misery or apprehension. I want you most when I
wake up in my silvery room, but I sleep soundly and do not dream.

No image ever takes the place of yours. I love it so.

October twenty-seventh, 1931.

My lovely Monroe.

Two weeks ago I was playing a final game of rummy, while the Europa, dragging its propellors, idled into quarantine. It seems a month, or even a year. Because I have not been idle, and above all because I have not written. By this time I have probably forgotten much of what I wanted to tell you; that may be fortunate; it would make too long a letter. Everything I have done I have thought of in terms of you, of communicating with you. And you might get very tired of it. Besides, not having the habit, I might not get very far.

Landing was the worst part. My trunk was the last but one to be unloaded, and my case was not unloaded at all. . . God knows where they had hidden it. We waited and searched, searched and waited, for more than three hours before we decided to give it up and go home. The next day the baggage master of the pier telephoned to say that the case had been found. I had to go to the customs house to get back my declaration . . . for without the declaration they would not release it . . . and send the truck a second time to Brooklyn. Never again.

The first evening, of course, I spent with the family. The second Lloyd came out for dinner. I was glad to see him, and tremendously glad to see how much he had changed. He seems older and harder; there is something stronger about the line of his mouth and chin. I expect that added responsibilities

2.

at the office, and guarded frequentation of John's modern and extra-worldly friends, have done much to produce it. There are only two things about him, which I have heard, which have any news value. First, the supposed passion for Betty scarcely exists, if it exists at all. For two weeks this summer they were sentimental about each other, just before we heard of it, and there it appears to have ended. We can thank Joella for the rest. I have not seen Betty yet. Second, he met Thelma Wood at a party, took her to dinner, and went home with her to bed. I doubt if he will repeat the experiment. He had never seen her before, and had never heard of her. And he looked so solemn and surprised when I laughed. There is one other thing: he has acquired a lot of ideas about interior decoration, and is so determined about what he wants that I will be lucky if there is any room in that flat for me to take pictures. He even maintains that the kitchen table we got last year in Bloomingdale's basement has "beauty of line". My reactions so far seem to indicate that I am going to take N.Y. light-heartedly this winter. And that is not such a bad idea either.

The flat is agreeable. I think I gave you the address: 425 East 51.
We have a fair-sized room and a smaller one, five big closets, a kitchen, and bath.
The larger room Lloyd has painted grey, and I do not object, the smaller room John
has painted cinnamon, which I do not admire, but that has nothing to do with me.
They bought furniture together: the soda-fountain variety, wire and marble tables,
wire chairs with fake cane bottoms, and a garden bench. But I am not going to live
there, and these things are props. I only ask that the Edwardian cream-of-tomato
tureen is put as much as possible out of sight. You will see for yourself.

John is working for Julien. The gallery will open on the second of November, and should be very attractive. It is not large, but has an expensive location (57th and Madison), and is well decorated. They work so hard, and probably will not sell a thing. Julien said something to me about an article somebody was

3.

writing about photographic illustration, and asked if he could have one of mine to
reproduce. I do not know if it will come off; he can be so very vague. I told him
to ask your permission, and if there is question of doing it I shall make him some-
thing out of Smart's poem, probably "and one, clad in a silver globe" which will
easy and effective. But you must tell him, or tell me, if this should be copyrighted.
I am to have my show with him in March.

And my other show, which I have been *darks* determined to get out
of, will probably take place anyway. I have not seen Harry Leggett yet, but he told
me over the telephone that he wants to see me to make arrangements. He did manage
to get the directorship of the gallery in the New Waldorf. If he wants me to pay
for the gallery, I am going to give the show up. But if he wants to give it to me,
letting me pay incidental expenses (which is all I have money enough for anyway),
I shall go ahead with it, put in what few celebrities I have and fill out with my
most attractive subjects. But I will write more about that later, when I have
something definite to tell you.

The Saturday after I got back I went to New Haven to see Russell
who, because of his dish washing, is unable to get away for weekends. He is such
an adorable young man, so serious and dignified and affectionate. I loved seeing
him, and had the most flattering reception. But New Haven seemed more than even
God-forsaken, and even Yale is poor in human pulchritude. We went to see Three's
A Crowd which has changed not at all since we saw it together just a year ago.
And it was pleasant to have that sentimental bond with you amid the scenes of my
misspent youth.

Tuesday I motored Adelaide and Adam (Roosevelt Adams, the better
half of our new negro combination) to North Egremont to close the house for the
winter. I think I have never seen the Berkshires so beautiful. Everywhere the

4.

foliage, set off by the dark evergreens and cloudless skies, was of an incomparable
brilliance. The days were so warm (I even waded across Green River, with my camera
under one arm and Claus under the other); the nights were cold and made for sleep.
I wanted to stay longer, but somehow it was not possible. Adelaide had to get back
for a lecture. And I had promised to go to the opening of the new Chauve Souris
(Inferior entertainment) with Howard. I had dinner first with him and his parents,
curious couple. His father looks like the familiar Irish brick layer. But it seems
to me that I once agreed not to pester you with accounts of Howard and his doings;
so I shall stop this, and it might be a long recital, at once.

I have not received the negatives of the Harrisons and of George
Davis yet, although I left them with my retoucher three weeks ago. Perhaps it is
too soon to expect them. I will wait another week. If they have not arrived by
that time, will you get in touch with Mme. Vertut (70, rue du Rocher) and find out
about them. I will cable. Having written this paragraph I will not need to cable
at length. And will you get me some paper. The paper is called "Arvel" and it comes
from Artista, 15 rue de l'Echaudé (VIe), which is very near you. It comes in eight
colours. I want 5 pochettes of Noir, and 2 of each of the others (except Vert Foncé),
size 15 x 20. Perhaps I had better have 3 or 4 pochettes of Sanguine, which is
excellent for nudes. Sorry to ask you this. I had never used it before and brought
home just enough to try it out.

Claus is a delight. Everybody loves him, that is everybody except
Seaver Buck and Bess Millard, and somebody is always holding or petting him. I hope
he does not wear out. It is a great feather in his cap that Adelaide adores him,
because she has always disliked dogs. They are together constantly, although at the
moment he is asleep in a patch of sunlight on my window seat.

There is no business in sight at present, although father has ex-

5.

extended my credit to the amount of sixty dollars: enough for a new suit (grey and single-breasted throughout), a new pair of shoes, and a new pair of slippers. There has been talk of my photographing some jewelry for an advertising agency, and a friend of Adelaide's will want her niece done eventually. I am trying to find a couple of people who will spend hours every day on the telephone soliciting business, one for N.Y. and one for Englewood, and am offering 20 %, but have not found anybody yet.

Had tea at Fanny's yesterday. A room full of dowagers collected for the purpose of hearing a six year old Cuban girl play Chopin and Beethoven ... by ear. I hardly saw Fanny at all, although she was most friendly. She had a new dress: brown velvet powdered with gold. I spent most of the unmusical moments talking to a most imposing old lady, Miss Edith Miller. Ever meet her? Frances Ives was there, of course. R.L.C. has gone to Charleston taking most of the furniture.

I am sorry you had such a dreadful time with old Pajor. But it is lucky you found him the way you did. Eastman probably couldn't have told you about him. I discovered him through Chautard, the man who sells mounts. Above all I hope old Draper paid you.

I found an old old Italian recording from Figaro by Supervia. A strange record, so dramatic, with occasional panting for breath. Comparing it with more recent recordings, she seems to have toned down considerably. Unorthodox Mozart. Perhaps I will send it on later.

This is enough for now. I write so slowly and so awkwardly. And there must be more I want to say. I love your letters so ... do let me know the outcome of the Max thing ... and tell me that you will be able to come here this winter. Love to Glen.

November fourth, 1931.

My dearest.

I have not heard from you, and am impatient for news. It does not matter what news, a bulletin, anything. And, of course, there are no boats: none coming, few enough departing.

My news is a sort of carbon copy of everybody else's.

We managed to get Julien's gallery open on time, and very well it looks. All last Saturday I helped to frame and hang pictures, and to prepare announcements for the post. I could not get in for the opening on Monday, but dropped in yesterday for a while. I think Julien is cheered, although he does not expect to sell much. About two hundred people came in the first day, and there were lots of amiable press notices. Joella, at the reception desk, is very lovely, but looks like a girl who has never had a job before and does not care if she loses it. And the show is handsome, although there is little in it I would like to own, and less I would like to adopt. The Stieglitz seem undistinguished. And have you ever seen any early Steichen? They have a box full of my things to show on occasion. My exposition is to be in February, at the same time as a show of Walker Evans, and somehow the prospect does not terrify me. Will you be here to see it?

John decided that if we were ever to get the flat in order we would have to set a time limit. Which we did. I have not done much of the inviting, but apparent-

ly we are having twenty-five or thirty guests for cocktails tomorrow. And, of course,
'the flat is not ready. Last evening both John and Lloyd were still painting furniture,
some of which had not even arrived. And some of the stuff we have is diverting, and
some of it perfectly awful: some bought God knows where, and some �uke out of our or
the Riesenfeld's attic. There is even a life-size marble bust of Daphne, crowned in
laurel and draped . . all fluffy marble held up by marble adhesive tape, which is so
heavy that even Lloyd can hardly lift it. And everybody is rather discouraged. John,
because he fears it is going to look too Bronx. Lloyd, because he fears it is going
to look bare. (His gold carpet has turned out to be mustard colour.) I, only because
I risk losing my empty wall. But I am sure of a compromise all round; we are all
well enough behaved. I turn out to be mediator, and have to manage each for the other,
gently.

No diatribes on Lloyd this winter, if I can help it. I shall try to make
my remarks impersonal. Insofar as my meddlesome nature will permit, I shall maintain
a strictly hands-off policy.

He is obviously afraid of being bullied, by me at any rate, and not without
reason. It is too wonderful how independent he is becoming, and how opinionated, and
how secretive. I have only the vaguest idea whom he sees and what he does. Perhaps he
prefered not to have me know that he sometimes comes to Englewood to see Gert Smith;
I believe he came last week. And it appears that we are going to spend the winter
not mentioning any number of things, this for example. And he did tell me he had a
note from Thelma Wood, but I never heard the sequel. I am under the impression that
he is being cagey with everybody, and not only with me. But New York never seemed to
me to be a place where one cultivated confidence in one's neighbour, and he probably
feels that way about it too. My present position is less flattering than it was, but
I think I prefer it. He, perhaps, might like to read Montaigne on Friendship. One of the
few I have read myself.

November fourteenth, 1931.

My dearest.

For me this is very early. I was up and shaved and dressed this morn-
ing before father so much as stirred. And now, while he is shaving and dressing,
I begin this letter to you. I have not written in so long . . at least it seems
long and I can never remember exactly . . and my unusual appearance in itself
seems deserving of this special celebration. The lesser and more obvious celeb-
ration is, of course, that I shall breakfast with father; and that so rarely
happens.

I have been busy, although I expect the things I had to do would not
have kept me so long from my desk. For example, I now have Gertrude's pictures
done, all the portraits and all the landscapes, and, although the thought of send-
ing them to her fills me with a vague and professional inquietude, it is time that
I got around to it; six months I have delayed this moment. Mina Loy's pictures are
ready to mail; also those of Kate Hardy's grandchild. And I have been making pictures
for Julien. Otherwise my photographic activities have been rather limited to ex-
periments in "toning baths", new papers and new films. I appear to be learning
something: I have discovered several things that will be useful to me, so various
and diverting are the affectations of my craft, and a number of things useless to
remember. I always forget, until the end of the paragraph, the local clients; but
there have been only two, both babies, both boring.

I received the negatives from Suzanne Vertut only three days ago and
have not had a chance to do anything about them yet. But I will start, perhaps
today. Francis and Margaret Harrison, and George Davis. I will send the Harrison
pictures to Rambouillet.

Several dots to indicate a lapse of two days. The Harrison pictures are
done; I will mount and mail them today . . . to catch the Europa. One reason why I
did not make a particular effort to finish this letter Saturday; the shipping news
is not very inspiring at present, and I did not want either to send this by the
slowest of boats or to have it rot in a mail bag on some forlorn pier. And I have
not been exactly idle. Lloyd came out for the weekend, silent and vague and almost
severe, but amiable. Poor boy, I am afraid he did not have a very good time. I had
to develop Saturday evening and print Sunday afternoon, and we had several clergy
for luncheon. He left in the middle of the afternoon to keep an engagement with T.W..
That relationship appears to continue and to prosper, superficially at least. I
believe I am to meet the lady this week.

We are giving a large, I might even say enormous, party Friday evening.
Just how enormous it is hard to say. Lloyd is inviting several people: Morehouse,
Noguchi, Thelma Wood, etc.. I have run into several people I have not seen in years
(notably Lincoln Kirstein and Muriel Draper) and have invited them as well as the
people I see and some I have not seen, Adlai and even Wesson. (Note. Nelson Brinck-
erhoff and Jerome Mellquist are by way of being social successes in "our" set.) And
I am sure that John's list runs into the dozens. I will give you an account of the
party later. If you care. There seems to be a dearth of pulchritude this winter, even
in New Haven. I cannot discover where it all went. Bunny Crowe, of course, is teaching
school in Japan. But where are the others.

Oh, but I am cheerful this winter. And possibly that needs to be explain-

ed; I am rather at a loss to account for it. Not reflected glory, of that I am sure.
Nearly everybody has complaints, and everywhere there are strange or slightly strain-
ed relationships. John and Lloyd do not understand each other at all, and are so
polite about it . . perhaps each is afraid of disturbing the inertia of the other.
John and Betty are being cool. You could not imagine how much that girl has gone off
this summer. Not in looks, however; she is as beautiful as ever. The few times I have
seen her she has sulked in a corner, and in general has been as unattractive as it is
possible for her to be. Perhaps she should consult our dear famous free fortune teller.
But worst of all is the existing state of affairs between John and the Levys. What a
ghastly mistake for him to try to work for them, and yet it was the only thing he
could do. Poor John, I think I do not understand him either. I flatter myself to
the extent of thinking that a love affair with me would be the thing that would save
him. There is a young man who likes brilliance for its own sake, who *who?* is afraid
to be human. As for the brilliance, I have not noticed it. And, as for the love
affair . . well, you can draw your own conclusions . . the only thing I want that I
have not is a bank account. You can imagine the rest (I try not to), that is what all
the rest of the world is doing about itself. And, oddly enough, I am amused, not in
fits and starts, but all of the time. I like to work. I like that best, and putter
about among my things like an old man. I find to my astonishment that I try to
crowd all the things I want or have to do in New York into one or two days a week,
simply so that I can stay at home. Last winter I spread everything out, to have an
excuse to go to town whenever I had a fancy to. And about all that I feel irresist-
ably gay.

You were wrong about our appartment, alas. We are in a new building, and
have none of the brownstone charm. On the other hand, we have an electric ice-box
and all the other improvements.

You ask about your friends. I have seen the Weils astonishingly often
since I have been back, I think I wrote you about them. They are both well and
cheerful, and seem prosperous enough to buy a farm . . they spend their weekends

looking for one. Kate is in Hollywood, but that is all I know; she doesn't write to anybody. I have not seen R.L.C. but know that he is leaving the day after tomorrow for the South Seas with Mrs. Taylor; he was in Charleston the day I saw Fanny. I called her up the other day and fancied she was rather cold; I hope I imagined it. She seemed rather horrified that I should have a German dog. Dear little Claus. He sits on a chair beside me as I write, and probably sends his love.

I persuaded Muriel to pose for me, and a more remarkable subject does not exist. I enormously enjoyed taking her, would like to do it every other week. I did her as simply as possible so far as lighting as posing are concerned, considering that face eccentric enough, and got a rather fancy lot of pictures. They are all so fabulously ulgy that I cannot choose among them and there are twenty-four. With her hair drawn back she looks exactly like Mrs van Rensselaer, and that is true. She changed her dress three times, her hair twice, and for a while wore one of her hideous turbans. So there is variety. And, since Harpers is bring out another book of hers very soon, I should get some publicity out of it. In any case, we have her for posterity.

Dearest, I want somehow not to write with the "gentle and loving and desiring half" of me. I think of you so happily, miss you so tenderly, and, especially when I am going to sleep or when I am resting between labours, long for you with all the fervour of the love you have encouraged. As the years pass separation from you becomes both harder and easier to bear. Your presence is always my dearest wish, my greatest blessing. The inspiration of your heart is my principal benefit. And I think I have come to consider our separation as something between habit and probation, an interval and a test. There is so much I have to do, so much more I can do, and perhaps I am learning to make the time pass quickly. The sweets are so poignantly sweet when their turn comes, and I am so happy in the security I feel and which you permit. I am not inconstant or even tempted. God knows how much I love you, and how fortunate I am. But writing this paragraph makes me feel dreadfully lonely and blue. I want to write endless letters of adoration. I remember so

well the days when every letter from you and every letter to you filled me with uncontrollable distress . . simply because you were not there. I try now to have no lonely or fretful periods, and on the whole I succeed. You have taught me much that I have learned about that; and you, no more than I, want me to return to states of mind which, though once valuable to me in the process of growing up, would be less than unprofitable to me and to the quality of work I want to do. I am only a little ashamed that the desire to be calm, hard, and unemotional should be reflected in my letters or influence what I say in them. It seems as if it were the ocean that divided the two halves of my life, for, living the way I do, the way we do, nothing else seems possible. An equivocal existence, but perhaps an unexceptional one. And I do not often complain now that my life is divided, that my desires and my interests lie so far apart, that there seems no possibility of reconciling the two. For, in a sense, my relations with you depend upon everybody and everything except me. If you lived here, or if my working conditions (which seem chiefly to depend upon the bounty of my parents) could be transported to Paris, this problem of trying to sustain two separate attitudes, or rather of trying to sustain one without letting the other suffer (even by inference), would not exist. I could adapt myself easily as does everybody else. But the problem, I confess, does not seem a very serious one, and you understand what I mean. It may be too that the gentle and loving and desiring half of me, which is so hard to express without pain, especially in an atmosphere so material or so obscure in its immaterial values as that in which I find myself, and in which I mean to be encouraged, has all the more value because it is for you alone. And you would not doubt that it always exists and ripens.

This has been such a long letter, two letters even. Two are not enough. But I will have to stop now. It is almost three o'clock, and I must mount and wrap those pictures before the post office closes. Write me often, dearest, and tell me what you think about everything. Always love to Glen.

Your adoring, your desiring

November twenty-fifth.

Dearest.

This is not even an attempt at a letter. Your two adorable and illiterate letters (how you misspell, and what a hurry you must have been in . . . using semi-colons for capitals, etc.) from the Hague and after have just come, and since there is no chance for a letter for several days at least I want to send something. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Russell comes home this afternoon and stays until Sunday evening. And last week: Thursday I heard Don Juan with Adelaide, Friday we gave a big party, Saturday Julien gave a big party for Pierre Matisse, Sunday and Monday I worked all day, and last night (Tuesday) Howard took me to Wozzék. In between times I managed three sittings. Now I must be off to lunch with Edith Finch. This afternoon I am having the entire family to tea in 51st Street; they have not seen it yet. And this evening Lloyd and I go to Hope's. Perhaps I sound rather more social than I really feel, but probably I am. I want to say at once and a thousand times: I love you. Can you come in February? I hardly dare to hope that you can. In any case I will find out exactly when my exposition will be so that you will not miss it.

Today everything is hurried except my devotion. Fondest love to Glen.

December fourth, 1931.

My darling.

I have saved this day to write to you. There have been all the inevitable delays, and many of them have seemed stupid or purposeless. There is never more than an hour between activities, and an hour is never enough. Even today, if it were not raining, I should feel I had to make proofs. God knows I have enough to do. But I take comfort in the fact that I am writing just in time to catch the Bremen; so there will not be any delays of that sort.

Your little letter containing the bookplate proofs has just arrived, and I am all the more delighted for having been surprised. You did not say which you prefer, and I should have liked to have you choose for me. But, since you wish me to choose, I shall do it at once. I should like the Didot, I think, and on Imperial Japan. As a matter of fact the paper does not much matter, except that I do _not_ want Irridescent Japan; anything else you choose will delight me. Your description of how the Didot will finally look is enticing; it will be strong and, at a glance, simple. The other seems to me rather too delicate or precious. I have probably acquired too great a sense of respect for the negative virtues. In any case, I love looking at these proofs and will infinitely love having the bookplates. Thank you, dearest.

For my part, I have made enlargements of all the pictures of you and of Glen. Yours have not been mounted yet. I took those of Glen (except the three he wished suppressed) and sets of Muriel and of George Davis to Harper's the other

day and was surprised by the cordiality of Miss Herdman's reception. She apparently liked them all and ordered two poses each of Glen and Muriel. And while I was there Langdon Davies (isn't that his name? I, of course, being illiterate, never heard of him before) came in and was immediately dated up. He comes tomorrow at noon to pose. So that is my first official job for Harper's. Miss Herdman sent me to see the publicity director for Horace Liveright, but I doubt if anything comes of that. When I took Muriel's pictures to give them to her yesterday she was not at home. Two hours later John was giving a cocktail party and not less than six friends of hers, who had just come from her house, fell upon my neck with the wildest and most flattering enthusiasm. Even Max Ewing forgot to be the suave young man-about-town. And I, who was doubtful about the pictures, was of course delighted. And George Davis likes his. So there you are. I will send your pictures and Glen's as soon as I can get yours mounted . . within a few days. That may be all I can manage by way of Christmas presents. Each will be numbered on the back, and you can have as many more as you wish.

Had a nice note from Fanny the other day, inviting me to Zimbalist's recital and complaining she had not heard from me in a long time. So that is that, and I was foolish to be upset and not telephone.

Russell came home the day before Thanksgiving and stayed over the weekend, and I think he had a good time. Wednesday evening I took him to Hope's where we were very gay and became rather tipsy. Thursday I sent him to the Philharmonic in my place. Lloyd had two seats and we hoped to get standing-room and take turns sitting. But there have been anti-fascist demonstrations recently both at Carnegie and at the Metropolitan and very little standing-room was being sold. So I went to a film. Much to my regret because it was the best program of the year. Adolph Busch playing Bach and Beethoven concertos, and a Mozaet symphony I have never heard. But, since I heard Busch several years ago in Paris with you, and since they had not that opportunity, it seemed logical. And Sunday evening I took my parents and R.

3.

and his girl to hear Schumann who was as always lovely. Now he did back in New
Haven, but has his Christmas holidays in about two weeks.

About the people I see there does not seem to be a great deal to say.
Lloyd sees a lot of Thelma Wood and Douglas Parmentier, neither of whom I have
met, but I cannot see that it does him any harm. I go on seeing John's friends,
most of whom I like with reservations, but they are very gay, not too malicious,
and often very charming. Jack Becket, for a while, interested me most. I met him
at least a dozen times before I managed to have conversation with him, but found
him very agreeable. Everybody swears that he is not drugging, and it is probably
time. I do not see how, if he were, he could drink so much. And he has certainly
lost his looks. On the other hand, his Bavarian friend is really adorable: nice
looking, friendly, polite, with no vices or no conspicuous ones, etc. And he is
arranging to have me photograph Anna Duncan, whom I met for a moment at Schumann's
recital. And there are the Levys, the Askews, Allen Porter, Joe Brewer, A.K. Mills,
Leonard Amster, Helen Riesenfeld, Ralph Allan, Max Ewing, Tom Howard, etc. Many
of whom you at least know about. And I think I wrote that John had adopted Nelson
and Jerome.

Our big party, two weeks ago today, was a success. A few bad moments,
but in general a success. Noguchi arrived an hour early, with four people who were
not invited, while I was taking a shower and Lloyd was shaving. Eva came with Marc
and spent a lot of time avoiding Jerome. Shortly after midnight Agnes Hyde (of
Harper's) arrived bringing Mr and Mrs Saxton and Mr and Mrs Hartman, all rather
tipsy. Poor Lloyd was in a state about it, but we managed. Eva took care of Saxton,
I of Mrs Saxton (we got on beautifully on the subject of Berkshire), John and Agnes
took care of the Hartmans. But I thought it execrable taste on the part of Lloyd's
employers to go uninvited to his party. Don't you?

One party after another. Last Monday I had a half-dozen people in to

4.

say good-bye to Howard Rothschild who was going to Mexico to nurse his sinis. ( I hardly believe in sinis any more, I have heard so much about it lately. ) But Howard arrived announcing that he was not going after all. Wednesday I saw Eva and Marc and went immediately afterwards to a party at Allen Porter's.

Do you remember Sylvester? He turns out to be a friend of Philip Claflin's, got my address and telephoned me. Fortunately he was just passing through town. And I pretended I did not remember the name.

Perhaps I wrote that they are trying to make a surrealiste of me. At any rate Chick Austin put As A Wife Has A Cow on the cover/of his so-called super-realism show at the Hartford Museum, and Julien is putting me in his surrealiste show along with Ernst, Dali, even Picasso. But, like Picasso, I deny all the implications. And my own show comes later, probably in February.

Harry Leggett is having a show of Favai drawings, quite unlike all those swimming Venetian oils. And it occured to me that he might not make a bad illus-trator for you. The drawings, in monochrome, are clear and not too mysterious, mostly landscapes, and would reproduce beautifully. But, of course, it may be that he could not draw people.

What a moronic letter. Christmas is too near. There will be a mad rush until it is over. Babies. Always. And not a single nude so far this fall. But I have, by disobeying all the instruc/tions, invented, or rather discovered, a ton-ing process which has never been seen before . . at least so far as I know. And I am enclosing a tiny example. Let me know what you think. Unsuitable for people (ex-cept, perhaps, nudes . . I have not tried any yet), but for sculpture, still life, and the like, I do think it has possibilities. And you are to be the first to own one.

Missing you is a secret devotion, a passionate ritual. I love you.

December nineteenth, 1931.

My adorable Monie.

I wish this were to be a long letter, but that cannot be. It is
too near Christmas. There are prints to me made and mounted and delivered . . one
order goes as far as Minnesota . . and, of course, everything has to be done on
time, even ahead of time. And I have sittings Monday and Tuesday. Monday I am doing
the Baroness von Nostitz, Hindenburg's neice and Wesson's patroness, who is a large
and intense woman, full of strange ideas (she lectures on Hindenburg and Rodin, and
has written a book on Potsdam), but who is direct and friendly and seems intelligent.
She decided that she wanted to come to Englewood, Wesson having come out several
times, so we are having them to lunch and photographing afterwards. And on Tuesday
I am doing nudes of Wesson's latest. This is not a bad example of the tenderness-for-
the-lower-classes which seems to be his joy and cross and undoing. He is going to
give me five dollars which I am to pay to the young man, who is without a job, as
model's fee. But it is likely that I am giving an impression of greater intimacy
with Wesson than exists. That I should see him two successive days, or even two days
of the same week, is really extraordinary. It was nice of you to be amused and to
approve. Adlai, as it turned out, was not reinstated; he did not accept my invitation.
But Muriel, who liked her pictures and who shows them and talks about them, sends
messages and invitations to tea; but so far I have not had a free Thursday.

Last evening I had the Levys and John and Tonio Selwart (whom I
like) here for dinner. And, now that it is over, I console myself with the fact that

it had to be done. That is, I had sooner or later to show Julien the new collection (some forty pictures at the moment) so that he could have some idea of what my exposition will look like. But it was a dreadful evening, dismally dismal. John and Tonio did all they could, and so did I, but it was not enough. All because I served nothing to drink except white wine, which for some time father has been brewing in the cellar. And I do not care. I think I am reverting to type. I have an ever increasing horror of bad manners, and of course the Levys are very vulgar. Bad table manners, etc., but that is the least of it. Since the gallery has opened, Julien has exhibited the worst sort of Jewish instinct, the gouging sort. And Joella has been so rude. Not to me. They have a policy toward me, but even that is slightly unpleasant. It was probably unintentional, but they were both rude to Adelaide when I took her to the gallery at their invitation. And Joella in particular behaves abominably at cocktail parties, or perhaps it is only at our cocktail parties. (In parenthesis I may add that they have social aspirations.) I began to dislike them because they behave so insultingly toward John, and the thing about Adelaide was the climax. Perhaps I have known too many bohemians. This does not require an answer. Privately I put them in the Howard Rothschild class, and behave as well as possible. I will at least until the exposition is over (it begins on February sixth) and my debt is paid. And this is the last you will hear of it by letter.

George Davis, on the contrary, has been charming.

John, Lloyd, Tonio, Allen, Russell, and I are going to the Berkshires on December thirty-first. To stay four days. We are sharing expenses, and will open the house. I hope there will be lots of snow; I want to take pictures of it. It will be nice to be away from the city (especially on New Year's Eve), to walk and talk and drink milk and sleep. These are the pleasantest young people I know here. There is only one other houseparty I would prefer. Perhaps we can have that later.

For some time there has been a card on my desk asking for information about the Typographical Library in Jersey City. I have consulted all the books

and have even inquired about it from telephone information, but have been able to discover nothing. Sorry.

Yesterday I received Russell's copy of Childe Harold and Adelaides pot. The little knob on top of the pot is pushed over sideways, and I am taking it to a jeweler to have it straightened. I am certain she will be pleased. The Byron was a pleasant surprise. Frankly I hadn't much hope for it. The illustrations are infinitely more effective in monochrome that I had expected, and the extreme legibility is a delight. Didn't you change the colour of the binding? Now I am waiting to see the Maillol copy and Huser's binding. And I received all the Rives for which many thanks.

About my book. I will look into Emerson's poems which I have never read, although I like the illustrative qualities of the Smart. It seems to me, however, that the book presents far greater problems than the actual taking of the pictures. The so-called permanent processes, such as platinum or carbon, would be too expensive or too arty, and I cannot see that there is any point in making a de luxe book that will not turn out last. Unless, of course, you want something that will make a temporary impression. I should like to do a book with photographs reproduced in helio, but there again you get away from the original purpose of the book, and I can understand how you or Bobby or Glen might not be interested. Well, let me know what you think about it. We can always have Eastman coat the paper with a bromide emulsion, but eventually the pictures will fade.

Nothing short of a miracle will get me to Europe next summer, so I try not to think of it. This depression is getting me too, and yet I try to be cheerful and not think about the future. My work is getting better. I wish there were somebody to buy it. All my orders this fall have been infinitesimally small. And, if I do not go to Europe, what then?

This is a longer letter than I had time for. Perhaps that is because I love you, because I want you here.

December twenty-eighth, 1931.

My darlings.

I expect that I do not like writing joint letters; at least I should not like it often. But this time, with so perfect an excuse, I cannot resist it. Ten minute volumes of Balzac as adorable as mine are constitute something more than an excuse: a faultless gift. I love them, and I love you for having chosen them. And I shall be so happy, and so lucky, when I am able to read them.

The schedule is fullish, and my disposition deplorable. I do not seem to be able to trace the line of my fall; at least I have not had much success so far. Too many babies, probably, endless hours in my darkroom, and an increasing disgust for some people. Babies are the worst because mothers always pick out the poorest pictures when they pick any at all. The darkroom is tiring but I should not complain of that; it is about the only place I get any solitude. And those people. Not even my dear Glenway, in his darkest moments, has been more misanthropic than I am now. Even the people I like weary me nearly to death; the people I have never liked particularly are poison. This, of course, excludes the Levys whose unattractiveness is inestimable. Lloyd is always tender, John is always nice, Allen is always cheerful, Tonic is always . . well, I suppose one would call him adorable. But it does not help. Perhaps if I could have a good cry and not see anybody for a week . . . But I seem to be entertaining this week in North Egremont. And what has become of all my pollyanna-ish notions which for a while worked wonderfully well.

This evening Russell and I are going to hear Anday. I never have, except on discs. Already a cheerful note. And I am coming back from the country in time to hear Lehmann.

Did I write that father is to spend the month of January in the Berkshires? His ailments seem real enough, although periods of moaning and nobody-loves-me attitudes often make me impatient. My houseparty will last from Thursday to Monday (the fourth), and then father and Adelaide and the servants go up for the rest of the month. I obviously cannot be there all of the time, although I shall probably go back and forth. I will probably stay in 31st Street, and come to Englewood only for the darkroom. And I wonder pensively why you are not here to occupy the rectory with me.

I think I will not try to write more now. What I want to say seems inexpressible, and I what I have said seems too clumsy to be near the truth. I do feel rather abysmal, but, since I expect to get over it, there is not much use in going on and on. I would give a lot for an hour apiece of your company today. Instead I am having tea with Dorothee who never received my note but who called up the other day and sounded sad.

The moment I opened my books was the brightest moment, possibly the only one. I really love them. I wish I could have sent something nice. Photographs from me cannot have much holiday appeal.

Of course, I still have Claus. But aren't you coming in February?

January seventh, 1932.

My darling.

I returned from the country yesterday afternoon to hear Lehmann and Hess, and incidentally to have a few sittings. I planned to return on Sunday to be with father. (Did I write that he is spending the month in the Berkshires?) But the publicity woman for Horace Liveright wants pictures of their Mr. Philip Stack next week; so I am going to have to stay down a few days longer. There is hardly any money in it, but how can one resist a woman who looks like Elinor Glyn and who goes by the name of Golden Siwek. And good Miss Herdman, of Harper's, wants pictures of their John Langdon Davies. Those, however, have already been taken. To make the schedule complete, I am expecting to hear from Miss Taylor, of Harcourt Brace. In the future there are to be the children and wife of Bernarr McFadden. The arts and physical culture.

I slept last night in 51st Street, and came this morning to Englewood. There was a great pile of mail (more bills than cheques, alas) including a letter from Florence and an adorable cablegram. Thank you for both. My misanthropy seems to be on the mend; I do not think I have been precisely blue. Anyway a week in the country did me a lot of good, although the hours were odd.

As houseparties go, mine was a decided success. Everybody was happy and affectionate and wanted to stay on. Breakfast at one, luncheon at two, and then walks or coasting or skating (we borrowed sleds and skates), dinner late, and to bed between three and four. Allen and Lloyd made the most beautiful

snow man I have ever seen. And there was a heavenly snowstorm, thick and silent
as fog, through which we walked and walked until we too looked like snowmen. Two
days later the thermometer registered fifty and there was rain. But, by that time,
the party was over and the family installed . . . I motored down Monday morning
with my guests and motored back again the same afternoon with the parents and our
Bessie May.

I have not dared to count on seeing you here this winter, but, God
knows, I have wished I could. If you were here New York might not seem sterile,
and I might not care if I never saw any of the people. And yet you write of
coming. Every letter has some reference. Please come. The warm, the humanly good,
side of me seems asleep, and it needs to be awakened. And I want to lie in your
arms. It does not matter when you come. I want to be able to wait forever. But
I long for the sight of you. My show has been put ahead a week and shortened a
week, the definite dates are February first to twentieth. But it does not matter
if you miss it; you will see the pictures anyway. I am even considering not attending the opening, although I suppose I shall. But, even if you did not see the pictures, you would not be missing much. I feel sterile too, and have not much interest in the work I have done this winter, not in retrospect at any rate.
Perhaps I am not in such a bad way, but prospects seem dreary. And your presence is the solace and the cure. Of course, there is Lehmann this evening and she is singing your song.

Do write about Gertrude. Did I write that at Anday's recital Jeritza
wore two fur coats?

I love you,

George Lynes
to attend
invites you to an
an
Exhibition

of
*Portrait photographs*
by George Platt Lynes
on view at

(very bad)

at
The Leggett Gallery

Suite 32 - C

The Waldorf Towers

50th Street and Park Avenue

New York

March first to March nineteenth

1932

Dearest. This is Harry Leggett's, not mine. There is no reason why you should follow the wording. I should much prefer yours or Glen's. But it contains all the data. Julien is calling me George; use G.P. or George Platt if you prefer. It may be a good idea to put a partial list of subjects somewhere on the announcement; I haven't chosen them all yet, but there will be: Glen, Alexander Kirkland, Efrem Zimbalist, Marsden Hartley, John Langdon-Davies, Vilhjálmur Stefansson (note the spelling), Alexander Smallens, Muriel Draper, Mina Loy, Gertrude Stein, E George Davis, etc. But in a way I feel this list isn't going to mean much to Harry's mailing list. Mme. Nijinska, Gavrilov (that darling), Dorothy Gish, Anna Duncan, and a few others will probably pose during February, but I cannot be sure. Use your judgement, follow your inclination throughout. All I care about is EXTRA FANCY TYPOGRAPHY. And, as I said in my wire, I cannot spend more than $50. (I enclose $25 and will send the balance as soon as possible. Perhaps it will be less than $50.) This is Barbara's show; I will write her about it later. The $100 I will need for expenses here. This show immediately follows

NORTH EGREMONT VILLAGE
P. O. GREAT BARRINGTON
MASSACHUSETTS

Wearest - I wish I
had my typewriter
here, so that I
might write a really
good and expensed
answer to your two
lucky letters and

a most delightful
quest he is — not
every winter training,
but well behaved
and cheerful and
obliging. At the
moment he is paint-
ing chains for Adelaide.

3.

To this weekend will see only half the previous house party here. Lloyd is coming alone next week-end (I have hardly seen him alone all winter), and Russell cannot leave new Haven.

4.

has been higher
than 60°. - Yesterday
I took nucleos of Tonic
on a hillside in
the sun. - But it
seems very unhealthy.
at the moment we
call have evuls. (mine
is nearly over, thank God.)

Wearest - For Three
Weeks I have been
meaning to write
You about Fanny's
arm, and I might
never have done it
if she had not

Monsieur Monuve Wheeler,
Monsieur Glenway Weseott
9, rue de Condé
Paris, VIe
France.

February sixth, 1932.

Dearest.

Dozens of packages of envelopes have arrived and they are
lovely. 1000 thanks. Fortunately Harry Leggett's secretary is going
to do the addressing. I hope the wire I sent yesterday is not going
to put you out. Harry more or less insisted upon it, and we did not
know sooner who would pour. I suppose it would not be fatal to leave
it off.

Last week was dreadful because I had to do all the things
I had had to put off on account of my opening. A lovely opening in-
cidentally. I wish I had time to write about it. As soon as Russell
finishes shaving we must leave for town. Tonight Lloyd, John and I
are giving a party, an enormous one, a sort of mid-winter assembly.
Tomorrow afternoon we are hearing Supervia, and tomorrow evening
Lehmann. Droll of them to chose the same day. And next week I am hav-
ing five free sittings, for the portrait show. I am re-taking Copland,
and the others are Anna Duncan, Matthew Josephson, Felix Riesenberg,
and Kenneth Burke. La Duncan is a friend of Tonio. The authors are all
from Harcourt Brace. The Rousseau book has made something of a celebrity
out of Josephson. You know all these men, don't you? And, wonder of
wonders, I wrote a lovely letter the other day to Supervia asking her
to pose. I do not expect that she will, but wouldn't it be OK?
wonderful.

So if you get nothing very intelligible out of me by way of cor-
respondence you will know and understand why. And I have not had a mom-
ent to get you a birthday present, but I shall. I planned to keep it
here for you anyway, since you are coming so soon, and so that you will
not have to pay duty.

Russell has just come upstairs to hurry me. So here we go.

You know how I love you. I wish I could sit here for hours and
write you everything, everything.

St. Valentine's Day.

My darling.

As usual I have 1000 things to do, but I am not going to do them, not at least until I have written you a proper letter. It is long since I have written properly, but, if you were here, you would understand why. You have been so indulgent, so patient, and I am infinitely grateful. Every other thought is of you; those that are not of you are for you. So, you see, in whatever way I operate, I am yours. I do not expect you have doubted it. It gratifies me to put it down.

The announcements are too beautiful. I want to write that first. The type you used for "portrait photography" makes me dizzy with delight, and I want my tombstone engraved with it. I have received hundreds of envelopes (they must all be here) and one package of announcements . . . I expect the rest will arrive within a few days. I can hardly believe in the quickness and the cheapness of your management. Is it possible the whole thing cost only $25; if it is more you must let me know. Barbara's $150 seems sufficient for everything, especially since I am renting frames from Julien and will not have that expense. (My H of P bill, being personal, will have to wait a bit.) Whatever this show may become, I fancy the announcements alone will be good advertising. I feel that way about it. Isn't the one Julien did poor by comparison? Of course, George Lynes and Walker Evans do balance. But next year I will insist upon the full name. This year I was not consulted.

The show at Julien's has been all alarums and excursions. And I have had more annoyance than pleasure out of it. He opened the wire you sent, for example, and

casually put it aside; if John had not discovered it, I might not have received it at all. There were other things of that sort. And all his plans for publicity miscarried, although I got one or two pretty if short notices. On the other hand, I seem to have a distinct preference over Evans (he is good, but monotonous), and the opening was extremely well attended. There is to be one week more of it, yet it is already ancient history. One thing happened, however, which may lead to something. Dr. Agha of Conde Nast was impressed by my "new process" pictures, and had a set of them sent down to show the directors who liked them and who have asked to see a portfolio of my other things. If anything comes of it, I shall be surprised. Agha (a Turk or Armenian) was on the De Grasse last year, and I haven't a very good impression of him. But I shall do all I can. We shall see.

The show at Harry Leggett's will be different, though probably no more successful. I suppose the value of these shows depend entirely upon the people who go to see them. The critics do not pay much attention; they never do to photographs. I am appalled now by the thought that, if I am going to give myself publicity, I will have to have a "Place" and somebody to answer the telephone when I cannot be there. I have missed a number of calls this winter. And that will cost money, and I have none. I still believe I have a guardian angel, but that does not keep me from being perplexed sometimes. It does not seem strange that I have no savings this year, but it is horrid. (There is a chance, by the way, that I may sell my Juan Gris for $200.) Perhaps something will come out of the Leggett show, something by way of business. The room I am going to have there is not large. I will hang 4 or 6 or 8 of the big pictures, and 20 to 30 of the smaller ones; none so small as those I made last summer. But this is enough of shows, my waking nightmares; it is not as much fun to have them, not to mention getting ready for them, as one would suppose.

I got several good pictures of Anna Duncan. She is really very beautiful, although hard, hard, hard. Yesterday I did Blanche Yurka, and what a lot of retouching she is going to demand. She has a mad look. And I did well enough by the men. I

3.

did not care much for Matthew Josephson, and Felix Riesenberg is an unmitigated horror. But I quite fell in love with Kenneth Burke, funny little man that he is. There is something about him which I found quite irresistible. The wistful sadness of his eyes, or the sweetness of his voice, his air of pertinacity and disillusion, his humour, or even his deformed ear. I am probably romanticizing, but I did find him attractive. I should hate to be wrong about the romantic attributes. Aaron is the last, and he was very charming. He gave a party last Thursday evening to which he invited John and me, and we took Tonio and Lloyd. A very curious party; two young men arrived late and very drunk and proceeded to pass out, one on Aaron's bed and one on the living room couch. Marc was there, of course, but without Eva; there were no women at all. I do not think I like him much, although he never fails to be pleasant. And there were Carl V.V. and a young man, whose name I do not remember, who knows Supervia or friends of Supervia (who never answered my letter) and so there may be something doing about that after all. I am not counting on it. And there were half a dozen other young men whom I can do without beautifully. Carl is not drinking or smoking, so the legend goes; at least he is looking healthy, which I have never seen him look before, although I find my distaste for his appearance persists. I am taking him too. He may be useful, though his picture probably will not. He was all amiability.

Our party, a week ago last evening, was a horse of a different colour. That sounds inept. Anyway it was different. I have heard the number of guests estimated at 50 to 150; actually there were 60 or 70, and I am the only one in a position to know as I was the only one who did not drink. As a matter of fact there was one other, Baroness von Nostitz, but she did not stop talking long enough to drink or, I fancied, even to breathe. And, when you see the little home, you will wonder how we ever got so many people into it. It was a pretty party, everybody was dressed, and an exceptionally well-behaved one, and, from what I heard afterwards, was a sensational success. Nobody passed out, as the saying goes, and everybody (except Joella and Ralph Allan) appeared to be much less drunk than they actually were.

4.

This begins to sound colloquial. Mr. Burke would not approve of that.

Do let me know what attitude you mean to adopt toward the hypochondriac Howard Rothschild. For various reasons, chiefly because he really is no use to me at all and because he wearies me to death, I have more or less let him go. No open breach, although he probably feels slighted. He did not speak to me at all at my opening, and scarcely responded at all to my greeting. (Why do you suppose he came?) To recount all I have put up with, which may be less and is certainly of less importance than what some of my friends have put up with more or less on my account or because I foisted him upon an unsuspecting world, would make too long and too dreary a story. I should like, of course, to go on not seeing him. If Glen comes and does not see him he will be hurt and somebody will have to pay, that is to listen, and it is not going to be I. But it is up to you, and I wish you would decide. I really do not want him, and cannot see what use he can be to either of you. Soit. I have spoken.

I scarcely know what to say about Lloyd. Unintentionally, in adjusting our relationship and my attitudes, so that he would not be able to irritate me, and you know we both suffered from that last winter, I have cut some of the lines of communication. So far as "we" are concerned, everything is ideal, at least from an everyday and practical point of view. So far as I am aware of what passes between us, there are no harsh words, no impatience, no hurt feelings. I realize now that I have avoided being alone with him, even that I have avoided bringing him to Englewood. And that is for no other reason than that I cannot talk to him. I do not know why. When I have asked him about his "day at the office" and when he has asked me what I have heard from you, there is an end to it. Occasionally he has an amorous adventure, but I never hear about those until they are months old. This winter he has read Harper's non-fiction best-sellers, mostly political, and I have read nothing. He does not care about photography. I do not go to the theatre. I have never discovered if he likes painting. The few concerts I have attended I have attended mostly with John,

5.

although he and I have gone together three or four times. The weekend in the country was the worst; perfectly pleasant, but on the lowest plane. And, I suppose, it all comes down to the fact that I am unable to stimulate him, and that he rather pulls me down. Adelaide feels that she cannot "draw him out", he has so monosyllabic at meals, and, although she is fond enough of him, does not look forward to seeing him. What has become of the ebullient charm he brought from the west? I can see so well why you often exhorted me not to be silent, and I have improved in that respect; partly because of your exhortations and partly because of Lloyd's example. You will have the job to do over again. I recognize the possibility that he may be loquacious and charming when I am not about (Allen Porter, who had just dined with him, said some very pleasant things about him the other day); and I suspect that John's reserve may have had something to do with it, that is with his reticence. In a way that too has been unfortunate, although I am sure they like each other. Last summer, while I was away, Lloyd used to confide in John, tell him about his love affairs and his affections and his dislikes and distastes. But John is not a young man much given to confidences, and, although I know he received Lloyd's sympathetically and with friendliness, I think Lloyd resented the fact that John did not confide his intimacies. So much for "our" relations; I have probably already said too much and not enough to make myself clear. So far as "he" is concerned, there are some outward changes. He is much more of a man; in many ways he seems definitely older. It is hard to tell if he is happy. In his position I would not be happy, but he may well be. The impression I receive is negative, on that score. There are things he must be told. He should not borrow from John who makes less than half what he does. He must look out for his looks, he seems to be losing them. He must look out for his breath (I have already mentioned this six times.) He must keep his clothes pressed. He must stop pronouncing chauffeur as if it were spelled chauffuer (and this a dozen times). And a lot of other things, any of which are likely to give a bad impression. But it is not my job. My responsibility if you like, putting me in loco parentis, but I seem to be pretty powerless about it. For his own sake I wish you and Glen could have him for six months.

I seem not to have any purely personal interest in all this, and I hope that what I have written does not sound like rancour. He seems to be doing so well at Harper's, and his life away from there seems to me so aimless and unprofitable (I hope I am wrong), and fundamentally I have only affection for him. Please remember that you asked for this, and that I have mentioned only the more obvious things. I am glad enough to leave psychology to his brother, who may understand the mysterious functional ingredients of this simple being.

Tonio may still be here when you arrive. At least he has stopped talking about going. As for drugs, who knows? I doubt if Tonio takes them; they do not seem compatible with the number of icy baths he takes. As for Jack, whom I see rarely, either he is not taking them at all or his friends are too stupid, too frightened, or too loyal to know about it. I must say he looks very healthy. Apparently he is still on good terms with Douglas, how good I cannot say. I was surprised when I met Jack, after all I had heard about him, to find him not at all good-looking. And I was equally surprised to find later that he had considerable charm. I had tea with him and Tonio alone a week or so ago, and seldom have I been so simply or agreeably entertained. Usually I see Tonio with John. It was strange having him alone for nearly a week in the country, and, needless to say, there has been talk. Untrue but not entirely unflattering.

There must be lots of things I want or ought to tell you, but I cannot think what they are. I am so delighted that, for a while, there will be no more of this trying to find a moment to write, or of stealing a moment (I am now in my third hour) as I am today. Lordy, when I think of the mounting, proof making, and developing that awaits me downstairs.

Note. Please bring three bottles of Pyrethane to father.

You cannot imagine, my darling, how I long to see you, how I count the days until the seventh when at least you will be on your way. I suppose you will

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

125 ENGLE STREET • ENGLEWOOD • NEW JERSEY

March fourteenth.

Dearest Glen.

1000 thanks for my 1/3 of the dedication.
It was such a lovely surprise, the most perfect accent
to a possessiveness about that book I feel more and
more as Monroe talks about it. I had only a glimpse of
it before it was rushed off to Harper. And now I am
waiting so impatiently for the first proofs. I will read
patiently, however, and hope that my poor untrained in-
telligence will not miss too much. I already love the
text; you will know how and why. Is there need to speak
of admiration?

Our friend had an exhausting voyage, but I
expect you will have heard about that. I was rather shock
ed by his appearance, but two days on land have been en-
ough to restore him; now he is looking so much better, the
hollows are filling out. There will have to be new ad-
jectives to express my joy at having him here, after this
long, successful, impecunious winter. I welcome the new
exigences and the absence of dreams. And I look forward,
no less fondly now, to your arrival.

My two friends will be gone by the time you
get here, alas. Tonio returns to Germany early in April,
and takes John with him. I do not know whom that leaves,
but I will try to find somebody you will like. My favour-

It's my friend is Russell. The others are to be seen only in
groups. Perhaps John and Tonio will go by way of Paris,
instead of by way of Hamburg; I will suggest it. I mean
John McAndrew, of course. John Becket remains, for better
or for worse, in New York.

I photographed Lois Moran for Vanity Fair; Town and Country is publishing pictures of Anna Duncan, Gertrude Stein, Muriel Draper, and Zimbalist. So far so good. And I am about to make a mural (modern and with human interest) for a mural show at the Museum of Modern Art. A representative of the Querschnitt bought some nudes from Julien, and I have now to get in touch with a man who supplies photographs to English magazines. And I have been represented in six or seven exhibitions (Boston, Albany, Philadelphia, Brooklyn, etc.) besides by two shows in town. This is what I mean when I refer to a "successful" winter which is also poor-making.

I still hope to enrich myself to the extent
of being able to return with Monroe or with you, to fit
myself into all the jig-saw plans. The worst is, of course,
that I want to travel; I want particularly to go to Rome.
But I shall not complain, you may be sure, of working
quietly in Paris, of putting off the Borromini book I want
to make with John (are you likely to poke fun at that?).

I want so to see and hear you again. Do not
wait too long to come. Give my love to Barbara and to
Jacques. Even with Monroe here, and you on your way, I
sigh so tenderly for Paris.

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

April sixteenth, 1932.

My Monroe.

I wish you would write: anything to cheer me
a little. I have wondered why your optimism about my
accompanying you to Paris seems so taken-for-granted, so
complacent. I cannot feel very optomistic, considering
the state of my finances and of yours (especially with
Glen staying home because he cannot afford to come). Even
if I should get good orders from Hope and Nelson . . .
And I am not at all sure of my prospective client. I am
to call her Monday. Julien sailed yesterday, in a muddle
about everything. But I did not borrow from him. Perhaps
I am in a muddle too, though everything seems all too
clear.

I did, of course, adore the book. I have wanted
a Corot book ever since I began looking at Corots, which
has everything to do with you. Thank you, my lover. And
they are so exceptionally well reproduced. Mr. Faure's text,
of which I have read only the first chapter, rambles quite
a lot, but I think I shall read it all. A book of that
sort really should be written by a Glenway, in his most
inspired style, or as tersely as possible . . crammed with
biographical data. Russell gave me a Piero della Francesca
book, not so handsome as the Corot, but which I am delight-
ed to have. So, you see, this is Art Week for Giorgio.
Father, as you know, gave me the filing cabinet. Adelaide
gave me a cheque for twenty-five dollars. And, if I had
not done a really dreadful thing, if you had been here,
it would have been the lovliest of birthdays.

I invited Lloyd to dinner last evening, and
said I would call him during the afternoon. I finished

Monsieur Monroe Wheeler
9, rue de Conde
Paris, VIe
France

My darling.

I have had almost unbelievable bad luck ever
since I arrived. I would give anything in the world to
have you with me this evening, anything. But I am too
tired and too discouraged to write much now, to write of
what I feel. You will understand why.

The enclosed explains itself. It was given to
me just before we reached the pier, and I send it to you
because I do not want to write about it myself. On the
boat I bought a little mechanical mouse, like the one
Philippa had; I thought we would have so much fun with it.
And there is the little rubber ball in the bowl downstairs.
I cried a little when the news reached me. There was so
much to do and so little time. And I have wanted to cry so
many times since. Please show the enclosed to Barbara and
tell her I am heartbroken.

Today I telephoned to Mr. Patterson, B's lawyer,
about the Fifth Avenue building. He is certain that if another
photographer moves in Sarony (who pays $5400) will move out.
It appears that Sarony is the only tenant and not too well
satisfied and that it is doubtful if the lease will be renewed
anyway. So there does not seem to be anything to do about that.
Mr. P. said he had written B and suggested that I telephone
again on Wednesday, on the chance she might have cabled. But
what could she cable? Of course if Sarony were moving out
anyway, but one cannot know that. And it is a big problem to
me, as well as a great disappointment.

When I arrived I discovered a notice from the N.Y.
post office asking permission to open a dutiable-looking
package for me. What else can it be but those drawings of
Pavlik's. If the package is opened, the drawings will be con-
fiscated. So Lloyd wrote them that I was in Europe and to
forward the package to 32. Will you send them to me in a

magazine (I didn't because I would have had to fold the larger
drawing), or keep them until I return. This is the third, and
the least, of my troubles.

Everybody is well. Lloyd looks older. Russell has a
moustache. I don't know what news there is, but will write it
later.

If you were here, I could cry. I miss you desperately.
You could do me so much good.

I love you. This is the evening of the second day.
I wish I were in Paris. I do not want even to go to the Berkshires.

September twenty-sixth, 1932.

October eighth, 1932.

My Monroe.

It is ten days since I last wrote (what a poor and  
unhappy letter it must have been) and this morning brought a  
lovely letter from you. I had intended to write anyway today,  
at the risk of not getting some of my prints made, and am de-  
lighted to have so good an excuse. As it is the prints of Edith  
and of Lucy Donnelly are done, and by nightfall I will have made  
the small ones of both Glenway and Moore. (M. was so funny about  
the pictures of G.. He does not want them in quantity, but he  
does want them on a large scale.) Early in the week I will start  
on the enlargements. Tell Glen that I am making him one print  
each of the pictures I do not like (enlarging only those that  
require it), and that I am making him several prints of those I  
do like, including some I took last year, so that he will have  
some (about ten) to give away. Having put it up to me not to  
keep you waiting all winter for your prints, I am not only mak-  
ing them as soon as I can but will probably send them in in-  
stallments. It occurs to me that if I send them to the office,  
Vera can make any necessary trips to the post office. Just make  
her run her legs off. Possibly a chastening influence.

I will mail you tomorrow without fail about ten glossy
prints of Glenway. I decided to send you three poses. The N.Y.
Times insists upon exclusive rights, so you can send them the
solitary print; divide the others among the other papers. I am
making them contrasty on purpose (to reproduce better), and am
copyrighting them all. So when you send your review copies and
your letters, please say "Must be accompanied by copyright notice"
or words to that effect.

I expected that Barbara would write something (any-
thing) to Mr. Patterson, though I could not think of much she
could say. Now I have written him, saying that she would not
write and telling him to tell Sarony I am an advertising photo-
grapher (and you are to hear why), and to do his best. As a

matter of fact, I rather pride myself on that letter . . just a
little masterpiece of tact. Of course there is an alternative;
there would have to be. Lloyd moved out of the apartment we were
in last winter into another 25 ENGLE STREET in the same building. $50
a month instead of $90. ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY And John was to pay him
something for weekend rights. That was before I heard there would
be difficulty about the Fifth Avenue building. So, if necessary,
I will double up with Lloyd again, paying him $20 a month for as
long as I use the place. It is a comfort to know that I can stop
paying rent if I go away, that there is no obligation.

As for the advertising. If Adelaide had not sprained
her ankle and to be brought back to Englewood (from the Berkshires)
three days sooner than we had planned to return, I would have lost
the job. And what a job. Through the J. Levy Gallery (they get
20%, alas) I was summoned to the J. Walter Thompson Co., by way
of being (or so I am told) the biggest advertising agency in N.Y.,
and was intrusted with the task of photographing Mrs. T. Markoe
Robertson (Cordelia Biddle) for Pond's Cold Cream. That is worth
about $100 to me, and Mrs. Robertson is likely to order independent-
ly, but that is not all. They had hired Tony von Horn, celebrated
Steichen immitator, for the job, and Miss von Horn, as I can
testify, failed dismally. Not only were my pictures better but they
could not choose among them and finally ordered three more poses
than they need. So look for them in all the magazines, November or
December issues; different magazines will use different pictures.

But that job is as nothing compared to the one I may
get; photographing all the opera singers for the National Broad-
casting Company. I think there are to be ten sittings: including
Chaliapine, Lehmann, Pons, Bori, etc. And what an exhibition that
will make. Not to mention the cash. This for another agency.

And there are two portrait jobs (domestic ones) in the
offing. Everybody says business is improving, and so far I have
scarcely been able to complain. But I have bills, both old and new.

There does not seem to be much news. I have seen Hope,
but have only talked to Fanny (who wants me to take Lois there for
luncheon . . and what am I to make of that?). For the rest there
are: Russell with moustache, Lloyd in full possession of his
charm and apparently happy, Kirk Askew without moustache, Allen
Porter who impersonated me at court the other day (I got a ticket
for parking in "restricted area" and had to photograph Mrs. Robert-
son at the hour I should have appeared in court myself), Julien
and Joella alarmingly good natured, Agnes bubbling with culture

though rather in the manner of W. Winchell, John infinitely seductive though I am going to take a lot of seducing after last summer's debacle, and so on and on and on. I am going with Max Ewing to Romany Marie's "opening" 125 ENGLE STREET next Friday. That kills two birds with a stone. Lois I have not seen.

ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY

The Berkshires were glorious and I did mean to write you from there, but it was early still for the brilliant foliage and the garden was not dead enough to be prepared for the winter. So we will go up again in a few weeks; Adelaide apparently will have to go and I hope to get away.

My sweet Claus is buried in the bed beside the barn,
amid all the ferns I planted there. And there is to be a minute
tombstone for him. I do not know why I did not hear of that sooner;
father ordered it before I returned. But so it is to be. I go on
missing him. Both the vets said that he might have lived if he had
not been on a non-meat diet, that he might have had the resistance
to overcome his malady, maintaining that dogs are carniverous and
should have not only meat but raw meat. I try not to think about
it too much, but cannot help a sort of lostness.

I have read Hurt Feelings, and am so pleased with it.
My impression of it when I first read it, a year ago last summer,
was that it rather dragged. In any case, it was the chapter I liked
least. Now I am really excited by it, and wonder if Glen made a
number of changes or if my memory is merely bad; it seems shorter
and more intense. Will you pass on my congratulations and my love.
If there were time I would write two letters instead of one, and
I do not want to wait until there is time. There is so much plot,
and the portrait of the house, the atmosphere and all, seems per-
fection.

Monie dearest, why not come to New York for Christmas.
It will be infinitely nicer than Shanghai, and I want you to come.
Life is more what it is reputed to be when we are parting or apart,
but it seems so much less worth while. I try sometimes to believe
that it is good for us to be separated, but I cannot ever really
believe it. America may become a good place to live, but whether
or not you come to live you must come. I think I know the answers,
but isn't there something we can do?

October eleventh, 1932.

My darling.

I am just back from the post office where I mailed
you a large package of photographs: a couple of prints of your-
self for yourself, a couple of prints of Moore for Glen, and a
number of prints of Glen for him and for you . . though why you
want some of them I'll never understand. At the same time I sent
two prints of Glen to E.R.C. and one to Eardley (to replace a
bad one I took away from him while in London), and pictures of
themselves to Edith and Wesson. Etc. To have seen me walking
down Engle Street with my arms full of packages you might have
thought Christmas at hand.

This afternoon I start on the enlargements.

Yesterday I had one of my intuitive spells. I might
as well call it that. All day I could not help feeling that
something dreadful had happened, yet could not think what it
might be. I was in New York, very busy all morning, and had a
really delightful luncheon with the Cottenets and Miss Tiffany.
(Rawley was rather bearish, but most amiable.) It was you whom
I had on my mind, and I wanted desperately to know if all were
well with you. But when I got home I discovered that Adelaide
had been to her doctor and condemned to an operation . . for
appendix, for hernia, and for abscesses on some or other of the
female organs. She goes to the hospital as soon as she is done
with whatever it is she does, that is in ten days or two weeks.
Father is really worried, and Russell and I feel none too happy
about it. Will you write to them. They are both so devoted to
you, and it would mean a great deal to them. I cannot imagine
what life would be without her; it is frightening. But I suppose
there is no reason really for taking it as seriously as that.
I wish there were not so long to wait. It would be so much bet-
ter if she did not have time to become alarmed herself.

October twenty-second, 1932.

My darling.

I wish I were happier about your excursion to China. Not that I am afraid
anything will happen to you. And I really am glad that you will escape the mournful
Paris winter, though it is a season there I have always loved, for it is not your thing
to be lonely and idle. But I do not want you so far away: for so many reasons. Actually
there will be no change in the routine of my existence here, except for the increasing
intervals between letters. With that in mind, you must try to write oftener. But that
routine needs so many emendations, so much organization, a magical impulsion. I rather
despair of making something come of nothing, of squeezing water from stone. And I be-
lieve you could, if you were here. In one way at least you could work miracles. You know
the story. The death of Claus, or rather the news and the disappointment; I bless you
for the paragraph you wrote. Then the affair of 362 Fifth Avenue, which has dragged on
and on and which has only just come to its conclusion. Then the strain and uncertainty
attending Adelaide's operation. And there are the usual unsatisfactory relations with
nearly everybody: I am more than usually misanthropic. But almost the worst of all is
that a great deal of the time I am the prey of a really violent eroticism. Oh, I wonder
what has become of all the composure which I had and which I need for that sort of
trouble. No makeshift can still my blood, not even absolute fatigue: I work until my
head and my legs ache. Of course, if this were not a new devil, for as you know I have
never been much given to this sort of turbulence, I should know what I wanted to do about
it. I can think of lots of reasons, but no remedy. But there is no excuse for troubling
you about it. Let me say further only that it is an undirected impulse. If it were a
question of something or somebody new, I might decide the shortest way out was the way
through. It does not apply. I have seen nobody I want. I have seen nobody I would have.
Curious that I should come to write you all this. Ordinarily I would not, would not
think it important even. It comforts me to feel that you know, although you are not likely
to be able to do anything about it. The general effect is bad. I am quick to resentment,
even to anger, and feel forever on the verge of tears. Perhaps this is the principal
reason why I do not want you any farther away, It is at best difficult trying to talk
to you across a couple of thousand miles of ocean; it is going to be more difficult try-
ing to talk into the void, for everybody or for nobody to hear. But my regret at your
departure is not entirely selfish. I sympathise deeply with Glen and wish I were going
to be of some use. Or will he have decided at the last moment to go along? Is this too
febrile a paragraph? I know it is too long, but you understand.

Your cable to Adelaide arrived this morning, the most opportune moment. The
operation took place the day before yesterday, a week sooner than planned, and she is
just able to take a little interest in the world. The operation was eminently successful,
according to the doctor, and, although Adelaide is very uncomfortable and most of the
time pretty well drugged, she has a normal temperature and an almost normal pulse. There
are two incisions and she suffers from shock, but when you consider that four separate
operations were done on her it seems only too natural. Apparently there is no cause for
alarm. Even father has quieted down; he has been looking at-death's-door himself. It was
a lovely wire you sent. I know she loves it. I know I do.

I am enclosing several items. First a letter from the lawyer about 362 Fifth
Avenue, which explains itself. Will you pass it on to Barbara. For some reason he did not
want me to see Sarony myself; it probably would not have done any good anyway. And I am

none the less grateful for B's hospitality. But it does present a big problem to me. I tried the other day to take pictures in Lloyd's new flat, but it is pretty hopelessly inadequate. And I feel rather at my wits end on the subject. The floor above Julien's gallery has been vacant for years now, and I mean to investigate that. It is just possible I could get it reasonably, though I should not consider taking it for more than six months. But, although there are several good jobs in prospect, no rent would seem really reasonable to me just now. I will keep you informed. Does that mean I must wireless to the middle of the Indian Ocean? You are sending me an address?

Second enclosure. A clipping from the N.Y. Evening Post. The exhibition in question is the one to which we decided I would not contribute. I was not much interested, but was persuaded by Julien to re-label some of my old pictures and send them in. I sent four, of which they hung three, and the enclosed just goes to show. I do not know just what. . . but I feel any publicity helps. Also now on exhibition in Julien's Portrait Show, along with the Steichens etc., are Anna Duncan, Marsden Hartley, and Gertrude Stein (in profile). So I am not exactly hiding my blaze under a bushel basket.

Your letter announcing the arrival of the new Photographie came only this morning, so I suppose I will receive the book next week. I am sorry to hear that Gertrude came out too black, and am curious to see if it is bad or only seems so because you (and I) are accustomed to a paler version. I have a blackish print here which I do not dislike. I saw proofs of Lois, so I know how that will look. Looking at those proofs quickly as I did I was under the impression that this year's selection was better than last year's. At least they have us.

Last Wednesday, just before Adelaide went into the hospital, Fanny gave her tea "for Lois". It was funny. Lois, I must say, made a very good showing in spite of a peculiar Agnes hat. She behaved very simply, politely, and modestly, and was bewitchingly pretty. Fanny's friends were enchanted and beamed and buzzed about. Even Rawley seemed to take a fancy to her; he kept her in a corner for ages. And, of course, Fanny beamed most of all. So I think I can pronounce the party a success, although, as I think of it, it does seem rather incongruous.

Lois is different. That can mean anything. It principally means that she has nothing whatsoever to do with what Lloyd so brightly calls "the Askew's saloon". And you can be as uppish (not in Oxford Dictionary) as you please about it. Lloyd does not think her different; neither does Russell. So it all depends upon the point of view.

I wrote Pavlik just the other day, and just cannot write again so soon. So if you see him do tell him his drawings are being exhibited at Vassar next month, and probably at Julien's in February. Also that it is costing ten dollars to get mats for *ix* all those drawings and that I intend to deduct said sum from the price of the first picture sold. I hope you have sent the pornography.

I am nearly done with my European photographic obligations. You will have received your small pictures by now. And all the enlargements are made and mounted and most of them mailed, that is all except Glen's and Moore's and they go off on Monday when I can get more wrapping materials. Pavlik's, Edith's, Nathalie Lelong's, and Gide's have already gone. And you were wrong. I sent glossies of Gide to Random House, who did not want them, and to Vanity Fair, who toyed with them and sent them back . . but with an excess of politeness. Maybe I will get a job with Vogue. No news of that yet.

Russell did get his job with Harpers and seems to like it, though he manifests no great enthusiasm. He hates commuting, and usually is too tired to enjoy his evenings much. I have not seen a lot of Lloyd, but, thanks to my general misanthropy, when I have seen him I have paid particular attention. And I have paid attention to Russell too. They are both worth it. Gone is most of Lloyd's boyish charm, but he has something in place of it which I like better, and he is wonderfully independent. He still has Strozzi but says he is tiring of her. Russell is still virgin.

October twenty-seventh, 1932.

My Monroe.

If you sail, as apparently you will, from Venice on
November tenth, this is my last chance to write you. There has
been no boat to Europe for days and days, and there will be
only the boat that takes this. It is miserable to feel that I
am to be cut off from you, so soon, almost irrevocably. Though
I suppose a letter addressed to you care of Bernardine will
reach Shanghai about the same time that you do.

I did not send the enclosed photos with those I sent
Glen the day before yesterday because I wanted to make sure
they would reach you. And, if they do not . . . And because I
wanted you to have them to take with you, if you like. Parcel
post to and from Europe is so unconscionably slow.

A letter from Dorothee. "I am in New York, but it is
a secret. I see no one and go nowhere, but . . ." etc.. So I
am cheaply dining her this evening, and taking her to Of Thee I
Sing, in seats supplied by Lois. Do you suppose she is pregnant
again? Why on earth should she be hiding? I will let you know,
all in good time.

Monie, my darling, there is not time enough for a
decent letter. And perhaps that is just as well, for I am not
very happy and would want to write at length about myself. All
day yesterday, and the day before, I wandered the streets look-
ing for a studio. And I found a perfect place, but it costs too
much ($150 a month, and it would cost $500 to install). I do not
know what I am to do. All the desirable places are too expensive.
All the other places are in more or less squalid neighborhoods,
and I feel would be bad. If I am to have a career in N.Y., I will
have to have some capital, or backing, and settle here. Then
what becomes of us? This is a sample; there are ramifications.
And I remember that my last letter was a complaining one. Please
do not be impatient with me.

I saw a copy of Photographie. The picture of G. Stein

is a blow. I do not understand. Usually reproductions of photos
are paler than the originals. These are darker. Even the one
of Lois, though that one does not seem to lose by it. I am dis-
appointed. Aren't you?

ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY

There is nothing for me to do at this time, but wish
you luck and the best of exciting adventures. I know you will
have a good time; you will see to that. But, my darling, if you
knew how much I want you in my arms.

I will try to be patient, though I scarcely know
what I look forward to. Why am I obsessed with the idea that I
may lose you? Even through no fault of ours.

Please write to me as often as you can.

November twelfth, 1932.

My lover.

I have a note from you, written in a taxi, and a brief
wire from Venice. Both are poignant. Both made me cry, internal-
ly, hopefully. And the letter which you promised: I have nothing
but that for which to wait. I long for it hour after hour.

It would be folly to pretend that I am happy, that any-
thing at all goes well here. Three "pertes blanches" in as many
nights; that is how much I want your arms around me. And that,
of course, seems terribly important. Anger and boredom, tears of
restlessness; my heart is not in my work. If I had any sort of
absorbing social or professional life, our separation would mat-
ter less. But nothing works. I did enjoy Fanny's tea for Lois,
which would have been funny and enjoyable even if it had been un-
successful. But nothing else. The night before last I spent with
Lois and John and Max Ewing; I got to bed at five-thirty. It was
a good evening. Last year I would have loved it; this year it
seems so stale and futile. I really like only Lloyd and Russell,
and God knows they do not amuse me. Perhaps all that will right
itself in due time; that is not the fundamental disorder. And
yet I can scarcely bear to be alone.

I think my passion for you was somewhat enhanced and
stimulated by all that nonsense about Eardley's friend last sum-
mer, but of course do not consider it important enough to ex-
plain the way I feel now. I know that my situation here is in-
finitely to blame.

Do you realize, my lover, that I am not in a position to
make up my mind about anything. But to such an extent that I feel
that not being able to move into B's building is to be one of the
decisive events of my life. Certainly it has distorted everything
for me this winter. And nobody is to blame for that. I have not

been able to take a studio. Lloyd's place is hopelessly inadequate; I long since gave up the idea of doing anything about that. And I have searched in vain. I found a place on Lexington Avenue in the early fifties, excellent as a studio, and I could and would have continued to do all my darkroom work in Englewood; I can have it for $75 a month and by the month, but the neighborhood is so cheap and the entrance is so dirty that I have given up all idea of taking it. And there is a place on 55th Street, between Fifth and Madison, which I can get for $100 a month, but would probably have to take it until October; that is out because it requires too much decoration and too many partitions. And then, of course, there is the ideal place. On 56th Street, between Madison and Park, ideally located, ideally partitioned (for dark room, work room, reception room, and studio), and for that the proprietor is asking $150 a month and it is worth it. But there would be no point in taking that unless I were going to keep it several years at least. I am convinced that one would do more than enough extra business in each of these places to make up the difference in rent, but that does not seem to be the problem.

If some enterprising concern should give me a job (and there has been talk of it, though so vaguely), even one that would require my presence here the year around, I would take it, trying not to think too much about some of the consequences, taking comfort in others. You could be persuaded to come to me. In such a case I should certainly take the 56th Street place, but so far as I can see it is not going to happen. And there is nothing. I am only too sensible to the disadvantages of being in out-of-the-way places; after a winter at 10th Avenue and one at 1st. And the disadvantages of being in an apartment house are considerable too. If I am going to have any success here, I will have to have a place where I can always be reached. The only jobs I have had this winter have come from Julien (to whom I have to pay a commission) and in people's houses (which is detestable). And I am more than ever convinced that people here have got to feel that they are getting more for their money than just pictures. I think it goes without saying that many people would go to some accessible photographer rather than telephone me to Englewood. If I have a place of business in New York and one in Paris, and conduct my life on business lines, I probably can make money and spend my summers with you too. I think wistfully of the rue de Vaugirard. But if there is only the question of making money, I will have to establish myself here and take my chances about the rest. I do not take insolvency as lightly as I once did; I hate it bitterly.

All in all I think our life extraordinary, even ideal,
considering how much we get out of it, and how badly arranged it
is. I cannot be with you not to agree with me on this STREET goes without saying, though
to be with you now would ENGLAND New JERSEY difference. I do not want
to settle for the rest of my life in some one place in the exercise
of my profession, but, oh God, I am tired of makeshifts. And I am
really afraid that if I do not have some success soon I am going
sour on the whole business. Exhibitions are well enough in their
way, and there are lots of them to contribute to (a salon of nudes
in Paris . . . the director in writing called me Cher Maitre . . . an
exhibition of beauties at Bergdorf Goodman, and the World Fair at
Chicago is coming on) but, though I contribute, I do not get very
excited about them, and actually they are not very useful. I want
to make money, and have some independence. And I am not going to
get anywhere unless I have a contract or an endowment; I would not
know how to go about getting either. I am not even in a position
to pay my dentist bill, not to mention a month's rent. Yet I have
admirers. I could have more. Admirers who would pay. But I am not
in a position to do anything about them. And I could put on a good
show. You must realize that there are not enough people who know
a good photograph from a bad one to make any existence like mine
at present possibly, to make my situation tenable. I do not know
what I am asking you; there is not very much you could do except
to be here. But I feel I have to tell you what it is all about;
the pity that it is all about nothing.

I still do not know if the General Electric job is going
through, or how much that would mean to me. At best it would
solve only some of my problem and only temporarily.

I say I am hopeful. I mean that my love for you enriches
my soul and my thought almost unbearably. My helplessness now is
not of my fault, I am sure. I know it is not laziness. I know that
what I want, what I need, the most in the world is to have you,
never to let you go again. After that I need most to have my in-
dependence, even at the risk of losing you. Oh, why cannot I have
both? I have not been able to rid myself of the idea that you may
marry . . . to solve somebody else's problem . . . and that idea
drives me to despair. I know you love me, I thank God for that, but
I cannot believe you can take on the management of another life
and still keep me . . . keep me without letting me suffer. I may be
strong enough to make the sacrifice. But I am not sure. I cannot be
sure.

I know myself well enough. Well enough to be sure I am
not going to be unfaithful to you, though all expedients fail.
Everybody attracts me a little ENGLE STREET but it is never enough to
make me forget what I want ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY the most, and it is
never enough to make me forget; it is not good enough in itself.
What of the future? It frightens me to think.

I trust you, my lover; I trust you implicitly. Whatever
may happen I shall not blame you. And if I have written you a mis-
erable letter it is only because I love you so much and need your
help. I am not going to try to write you any news now. It will be
long enough before you receive this letter, an eternity before I
receive an answer, and by that time all may have changed. I am
counting more than you can believe on the letter which you promised.
I know it will help to make me whole again.

Adelaide's progress is slow but sure. She is at home now.
And sends her love. Her and father's devotion to you are no less
touching than they are extraordinary.

My love to Barbara and to Bernardine and to Chester, in
varying degrees: you will know.

I love you, my angel, with my whole heart and my body is
yours.

Just as well, don't you think, to keep all this to ourselves. I have told nobody here. Since it probably isn't going through, etc.

November sixteenth, 1932.

My Glen.

Town and Country fired their Paris-letter person, and the person who was to take the job is involved in a law suit and cannot go. "I'll take the job," cried I. "All I want is a good excuse to go to Paris." And Harry Bull and I made banter about it for a while, then turned to other matters. (They are using my Lelong, Hobe Erwin, and Mrs. Harrison Eustis pictures.) And, the last thing he said, just as I was leaving, was that he would let me know about Paris. From which I gather he took me rather more seriously than I had intended. I did not get all the details, but discovered they pay $75 per month for a 1500 word article, and $75 each for three special articles (involving gratis trips to the watering-places). Averaging about $95 a month. God knows if anything will come of it. I'll be surprised, but no more surprised than I was to be taken seriously, by accident as it were. A year or two of this, plus the photo-output, would probably get me a good job here afterwards. Why do I write this? Perhaps just in case you are asked to advise. I dare say the journalism could be managed. Just now the futility of my life here is shocking. And I dislike America. And I really love you.

November twenty-ninth, 1932.

My Glen.

There is so much I want to write to you. I want, of course, to
begin by telling in detail what I feel about Monroe. I want to follow that by an account of
what I feel about you. But I cannot do either, and it might not serve my purpose just now
to become too involved. My feeling for Monroe is based upon hope, upon the future. My feel-
ing for you is based upon experience, upon the past. That is, my personal feeling for you
personally; the great homosexual novel and Steichen's job, your future and my possible part
in it, coming in a different catagory.

You understand all that; I might even be able to explain. But
it is possible that you and Monroe did not understand what I wrote, more likely that I did
not write it well enough for it to be understood. Your letter convinces me that I ~~over~~ exagerated. You exaggerated too, but I am grateful for that, for the fear of God which every
now and then you manage to instil into my slovenly soul. I want no misunderstanding. Too
much is at stake, for me at least. And if I can manage some sort of Credo all perhaps will
be saved, all . . if too much damage has not been done already. You must help me.

I love Monroe now; I have loved him from the moment I first
saw him; I have never loved anybody else. You know that, or ought to know it. I have not
been unfaithful to him, and will not be unfaithful to him. With all my heart I want not to
be unfaithful to him, and sincerely doubt if I should be capable of it. Perhaps I have
told him all this too often for him to believe it still. But it is true. It makes me happy
to want to tell it to you.

The rest is going to be more difficult to express. I am sure
I could indulge in pleasure, under these circumstances, even under circumstances less
remote from my particular heaven, without affecting my feeling for Monroe; I consider that

feeling beyond evil. It is the relationship which, while it lasts, is too human and too perfect to take chances with. While it lasts. And I do not mean its ultimate duration, God willing it will last forever, but the intervals between separations. The emphasis goes in the wrong place unless it is watched, or if one is unlucky. I have not kept my wits about me, and I have been unlucky. (Having been denied Claus and a studio, I have felt a dog and a studio stood between me and a normal existence. But all that in its place.) I have a suitor who is young and attractive and influential; I will manage that somehow. I do not want him (I must have said in one of my letters I do not want anybody), and would not have him if I did. But he can be useful, and by this time I may have learned when not to exasperate. Last year I wanted Robert Levy, this year I wanted Eardley's friend and Moore (a little). And I believe any inquiry into the reasons for those flights of fancy would prove unflattering only to me. It is significant perhaps that neither this winter, nor last winter, nor the winter before, when I have been and am separated from Monroe, have I felt any disturbing attraction for anybody. And my own cries of rage and exasperation have had to do with an elaborate set of unfortunate or unfriendly circumstances plus an extreme lubricity, extreme for me. And Monroe must realize, or must be made to realize, that I want only him and not only forever but now. It really is as simple as that. But the important thing in all these connections is, and perhaps neither of you remembered, that I was sent back to America in September with the understanding that, if it seemed possible (for I gather it seemed desirable), Monroe might marry. And that has not been pleasant to contemplate. My immagination is not good enough for me to be able to come to any conclusions about a happy ménage à quatre; moreover I have felt Monroe has his hands full enough with you and me. Once or twice I have felt strong enough, have tried to prepare myself, to make the sacrifice; alas, it does not last! But I take comfort from the fact that you do not even mention this in your letter. And lately I have tried not to think of it at all, for it frightens me. Even if it were not for that, you know how often, just so often, I have periods of despair about making my way in New York, building a career which will keep me more and more in New York (at least in America), while his life, through you, through H of P, is bound more and more to Europe. And I do not blame you for that either, which is a wonder.

3.

New York is detestable. Or I think so, which amounts to the same thing. I have clamoured for fresh faces (I almost believe now there are none) and people who can be trusted. Perhaps I exaggerate all that too. At any rate I gave given up looking, and my mood is the better for it. I still want the dog and the studio. Losing Claus has not been beneficial. Any number of times he would have helped me over a bad moment; he was so amusing and so adorable. And all that business about B's building, while disappointing enough in itself, has been indicative, even a warning. For everything else that has happened this winter has been of the same sort. The job for the National Broadcasting Company which was to be worth at least $500 to me is still hanging fire; there is still a chance it may go through, but each week makes it less sure. A steady job for House Beautiful (which involves two pages of still-life and about $150 a month) has been dangling uncertainly over my head these two weeks past. And I have put off getting a studio, and put it off, waiting to see how much rent I could afford and what my requirements would be. Here it is nearly the first of December and I have nothing. And yet I have not been exactly idle. A certain number of jobs, mostly from Julien, on which I have to pay commission. The studio I want is practically ideal and in an ideal neighborhood, but would not be worth taking unless I could keep it for a couple of years and costs $150 a month. I have seen hundreds of places and scarcely anything can be had for less than $100 a month. So, I cannot keep on drifting as I have been; it is too demoralizing for one thing. I will have to make up my mind soon to something or go quite potty. My letter about the Town and Country job must have terrified you. That offer came at a particularly restless moment (but that is not definite yet either), though I still toy with the idea; the end of the last paragraph explains that. With $100 a month from America, would Paris be hopeless for me . . . from a business point of view I mean. Oh well! I still dislike everybody but Russell and Lloyd and Fanny (whom I seldom see) and Kate Lawson (who is just back from Hollywood). I do not see Hope at all. I do not know why. I must try.

Last evening Kate went with Russell and Lloyd and me to hear Lehmann, sublime as ever inspite of a bad accompanyist. Handel's "Xerxes" at the Juilliard School next week.

4.

Have I made myself clear at all? I feel like the sailor at the end
of the story. Strange. Last evening after I got home from the concert I went to my bookshelf
and took down the mss. of The Sailor. I do not know what prompted me. And I read the mss.,
all three of them, went to bed and dreamed about it. And this morning your letter came. I
am grateful dear, though it is a frightening sort of letter. It made me cry both from shame
and from self-pity.

Let us leave it like this. I believe in my love for Monroe. I believe
in him and in his love. Above all I do not want him to be hurt, to sacrifice anything on
account of me. In a way I have so little to give, but he must believe I will deny him
nothing. And fidelity is so small a gift; that, just for example . . the best example just
now. So long as he wants it, and secretly I want him to want it always, he shall have it. And
no more nonsense from me. If he should decide to marry . . well, I am sick of trying to
cross that bridge before I get to it and could not in any case. I shall try to demand less.
And I believe in my love for you and in yours for me, call it what you will. You are rather
like Adonis, but not Shakespeare's.

Send this on to Monroe. I intended to write you first, to answer
your letter, and to write him afterwards. But this has taken so long, and I have to make
prints. And I should have written him the same thing, a bit differently.

Write to me again when you can. You have considerable shattered,
though you have strengthened, me.

November twenty-ninth, 1932.

My darling.

If you were not so far away, it would be less difficult to write. Especially
to write what is in my heart. For it appears that I have to defend myself against myself,
against an impression given, and that is not going to be easy. Your beautiful letter from
Brindisi troubled me a little; I wondered if you had not misunderstood. And this morning
came a long letter from Glenway, a rather wonderful letter which made me cry, and I was
sure you had misunderstood. You had given me the benefit of too great a doubt, and I was
frightened. Your generosity is one of the lovely blessings of my life. I had not meant to
provoke so much generosity, at the risk of causing you pain, placing both you and myself
in false positions.

There is really so little I can give you, so little compared with what I receive. But there is always my love. I want my love to make you happy; if it has made you sad, it is because I have been clumsy. Little did I think, when I wrote of lubricity and poverty, that you would give me carte blanche to make both you and myself unhappy. Have I loved you so poorly that you consider it likely that fate might send another love across my path, or do you lack confidence either in your own love or in me, or have I written too much nonsense? I think it is the last; otherwise there would be too many contradictions. To be sure, I have not been happy since I have been home. I have missed you too much and wanted the suppleness of your sweet flesh in my arms. Business arrangements have been unsatisfactory; I have had too much to do with people for whom I have too little respect. Now that I have to, I pray I can make everything clear to you.

I have not been unfaithful to you, my sweet, neither have I wanted to be. My
fidelity to you is my gift to you, and perhaps the surest way of proving my love. To know
that you care, that my gift is of value, though it costs me so little, is another of my

2.

blessings. It is my shame that, because of a certain disconnect between ideas and a particular limpid erotic immagination, I offer my gift so often, so noisily, with so little grace. It will be to my credit when I can behave toward you, and in all things, with a grace and elegance to match your own. For I too believe that in itself our love is perfect; we must keep it so . . . when we are together it seems so easy . . . you must help me.

Have these other winters been dreams, or lived in a dream? But that does not matter now. My eroticism is well in hand, my body learning again the lesson of continence. Perhaps there was too much of that sort of pleasure for me last summer, not enough of other sorts. But, whatever the reason for my rather extreme eroticism since my return, one thing is certain. There is no pleasure in the world fine enough to compare with what you give to me, no pleasure worth caring about. The important thing is that you must not be hurt, that you must not be permitted to make utterly extraneous sacrifices. In so far as I can "live and learn my lessons in imagination" . . . well, I expect I am doing so.

I do not, for a moment, believe that there is anybody in the world to replace you or who could give me more than you have and will always be able to. It seems scarcely credible that you should think that, by making love, I might find such a person. I have never had such an idea. How could I? I have known too much about homosexual men and, whatever else I may forget, I am not likely to forget the lesson I had learned even before I met you. Have you forgotten the summer of 1928 when, for the first time and God willing for the last, I "tried to fall in love"? What a miserable thing that was. Do you think I would let you, or myself, in for that sort of nonsense again? Monie dearest, the thing for you to remember is that I am in love with you, in love as romantically, as sentimentally, as passionately, as I have ever been. And all this misunderstanding has come from my fretting about our separation, about money, and about my rather volatile, perhaps incurable, certainly harmless, fancies about male flesh in general. Perhaps the one thing in the world I could bear less well than any other is to be definitely cut off from you erotically. Please try to remember that, along with everything else; it is frightfully important to me. I have always wanted all of your love for myself. How stupid I should be to ask what I was not willing and prepared to give.

3.

H. de Balzac, LA COUSINE BETTE

Beaucoup d'hommes veulent avoir ces deux éditions du même ouvrage, quoique ce soit une im- mense preuve d'infériorité chez un homme que de ne pas savoir faire de sa femme sa maîtresse. La variété dans ce genre est un signe d'impuissance. La con- stance sera toujours le génie de l'amour, l'indice d'une force immense, celle qui constitue le poète!

book. Another aspect of all this,
to America this year with the
It seemed desirable, ### you might
for you nor Glenway have mentioned
of the notion that it just might
given up trying to cross that
to think about it at all. But

About business. Well, I guess I will not write about it. Glenway writes that my discouragement is chiefly impatience. Impatience for you, and for a life that will bring us together instead of separating us. But I have no studio, not yet. And all the important jobs, three or four of them, are eternally "almost within reach". And then, I badly want a dog. I miss Claus more and more, especially when I am blue. He was so adorable and so amusing, and would have helped over many a bad moment. If English Bulls (my new fancy and there is an excellent kennel near here) were not $50 each, I should have a pair . . . or at least one. It is horrid of Philippa to be en voyage during the periods when she should be seriously considering the sanctity of motherhood. But about business. You will want to hear that I am not idle. There is not much else to tell.

Be happy, my darling; at least you will not be bored. And I will try to be happy too, for your sake as well as my own. I wrote a long letter to Glenway yesterday, in reply to his long one, telling him many of the things I have told you here. It took me so long to write, and I had work to do in my darkroom, that I was afraid I would not get a letter off to you. I started this late in the afternoon, then Russell came home from work and wanted to be amused, and this is the next morning. So I asked Glenway to send his letter on to you. Between that one and this one, I hope you are going to understand all that is in my heart. And I will try to wait patiently for an answer. I am not afraid of my mood. I am a little afraid of the mood my cries may have created in you. A letter soon with news.

3.

I am enclosing a half-page from my commonplace book. Another aspect of all this, written far better than I could write it.

Perhaps you do not realize that I was sent back to America this year with the understanding that, if it seemed possible, for apparently it seemed desirable, ### you might marry. That has been the bitterest pill. Even though neither you nor Glenway have mentioned it in any of your letters, I have been unable to rid myself of the notion that it just might happen, and then . . well, what would become of me. I have given up trying to cross that bridge before coming to it; I couldn't. And I am trying not to think about it at all. But don't you see, my sweet, what it would mean?

About business. Well, I guess I will not write about it. Glenway writes that my discouragement is chiefly impatience. Impatience for you, and for a life that will bring us together instead of separating us. But I have no studio, not yet. And all the important jobs, three or four of them, are eternally "almost within reach". And then, I badly want a dog. I miss Claus more and more, especially when I am blue. He was so adorable and so amusing, and would have helped over many a bad moment. If English Bulls (my new fancy and there is an excellent kennel near here) were not $50 each, I should have a pair . . or at least one. It is horrid of Philippa to be en voyage during the periods when she should be seriously considering the sanctity of motherhood. But about business. You will want to hear that I am not idle. There is not much else to tell.

December sixth, 1932.

Dearest Glen.

I can manage. Pray that I can manage.

This is to be just a line. To thank you for your wires. To let you know that, for the time being at least, all is well. I feel able to write you a long letter, and indeed want to, but cannot take time now . . not time enough. I want to tell you about the funeral, about Adelaide, about my poor brother. Perhaps I can do that later. I know I shall want to answer the letter I expect from you.

I have not been specifically sad, not yet, except for a moment. That was the worst moment I could have chosen . . at the funeral, toward the beginning of the service. The shock has been too great. I have been too busy. Father's friends have been so kind. I would not have believed there would be so much to do. Nearly four hundred letters already, and there will be more, all to be answered. And the undertaker, who was devoted to father, has been magnificent. Father arranged all the details of his funeral three months ago. Yet he did not believe there was immediate danger; I am pretty sure of that.

Adelaide has been wonderful. Both Russell and I have been calm. Although, I believe, Adelaide and I are due for a breakdown. That is not true, God help us, at least so far as I am concerned. I am a bit afraid for her. She has been too wonderful. I will not go on. There are people downstairs, waiting to see me. I see everybody.

Lloyd's letter tells a lot. I asked him to write it. He didn't want to show it to me, of course, but I persuaded him. I am not sure he is right about everything. But it doesn't matter. You will get the whole story, bit by bit. He has been an angel. I will want to write about him now too. I am going to try to write to Monroe, perhaps this afternoon. I had a wire from him yesterday. I do not dare think about us. We are pretty badly off financially, even if it were not for that I could not leave Adelaide . . not this year.

From George Platt Lynes
125 Engle Street
Englewood, N.J., U.S.A.

Monroe Wheeler, Esq.

c/o Thomas Coats & Sons

P.O. Box 519

Shanghai

CHINA

December sixth, 1932.

My darling.

How far away you are, and how badly I want you here. I will need you more later. Since Friday afternoon we have lived in a dream, and even now there seems scarcely any reality in our lives. Perhaps I will be better able to tell you the whole story now, than I would later. For now all the immediate tasks are done, and I am free. Not free enough to think, but free for other tasks: to arrange, to sort, to dispose of not to plan too far, not yet.

The interment took place yesterday at Woodlawn Cemetery. I begin at the end of the story, though not quite at the end, for on our way home, crossing the bridge, we had to stop to rescue a would-be suicide. A German servant-girl: she had taken off her coat and climbed the fence, then lost her nerve and clung there, above the river, screaming pitifully. We pulled her back, got her into the car, and took her to the police station where we spent ten minutes answering questions. It was rather shattering, but not perhaps part of the story.

Russell and I were both in New York when father died. I had seen him at luncheon. He had looked tired . . but he always looked tired . . and I did not pay any particular attention. Then I set off for town, where I had a sitting, taking the car for I had all my equipment to transport. I had the sitting, a strenuous one, and was actually drinking a high-ball at the moment father died. I was to take my things to Lloyd's flat, where I often leave them, pick up Russell and bring him home. When I reached the flat I found a card in the door, from Russell, saying that father was "desperately ill" and to hurry home. Adelaide had managed to reach him, but had not told him the truth. So I hurried home, hurried as much as I could for every traffic signal was against me. And when I reached our drive I guessed . . as a matter of fact I had guessed even before . . there were so many cars. As soon as I opened the door I knew. It was Tom Protzman who actually told me. One of the most vivid impressions I have is of entering the house. There were dozens of people, and as I opened the door there was on everybody's face that curious expression of dismay, embarrassment, and uncertainty. Ella Dana came to me first; I think the expression on her face one of the most eloquent things I have ever seen. Tom was close behind her. Of course, I came upstairs at once to Adelaide. I found her calm. Russell, who had reached home fifteen minutes before me, was calm too. But Adelaide wanted to talk, and Russell was silent. I was simply stunned. Even yet I have not felt specifically sad, except for a moment. There has been too much to do. We managed to eat some dinner, and almost immediately I began to see people though I refused to speak to anybody over the telephone. It was easier and in a way harder, but it had to be done sooner or later and I am glad I began at once. Needless to say all father's and Adelaide's friends have wonderful to us and infinitely helpfull, not even in the way.

Father was in his own room, on his own bed. The first few hours I did not want to see him, but overcame that feeling. And, sometime that evening, I went into his room with both Adelaide and Russell. And, dearest, I was so glad. I have been in often since. The next night, Russell having gone into town expressly to get my camera, I took some pictures of him. I did not know if I wanted to, or if I didn't. But I was so afraid that, if I didn't, I would regret it, and now I know that I would. He was so completely himself. The tired look was gone but there was that patient, half-whimsical, devoted look on his face which we all knew so well.

There have been people here all the time, and somehow I have not minded. There has been so much to do. And there is so much to do yet. There are over four hundred cards and letters and telegrams to be acknowledged ... and they still come. Eighty-six arrived today. And Adelaide has wanted us to wear mourning. So all our clothes had to go to the tailor's for black bands. And there were black neckties and gloves and socks and I don't know what to buy, though most of that was done for us. And the flowers had to be taken care of ... enough of them to keep seven women busy for two days. I have never seen such flowers, even to sheaves of orchids ... all the usual set-pieces, crosses of easter lillies, wreathes, and countless other sheaves, not to mention the loose flowers. Mostly roses and crystallized mums. I had flowers personally from Helen Riesenfeld and Lois and a new friend, Philip Johnson. I had personal letters or telegrams from all the people from whom I did not expect them, and few from those from whom I did. Sicut superius est. No word at all from McAndrew. From Europe there are wires from Walter Hardy, Jacques, and two from Glenway. I informed Glenway and Walter at once. And yesterday I had my wire from you. Bless you, my darling.

The funeral took place on Sunday at three. Father died on Friday about five-o'clock. The service was short and beautifully done. It was conducted by Bishop Stearley, Dr. Boynton who is an old friend of father's, and Charles Hutchinson whose curate father was when he first went into the church. Russell picked out the hymns. Not the dreary funeral hymns, but the gay ressurection ones, and the tenor of the choir sang "I know that my redeemer liveth which father always loved. The church seats eight hundred, and they tell me there were at least a hundred people standing in the aisles. Adelaide and Russell and I sat in the very front of the church with Marguerite Dana and Tom Protzman, both of whom have been wonderful. It was difficult, by far the most difficult part. I cried all through the first part of the service, the only tears I have shed, and was afraid for a few minutes I would faint. But it ended at last, and on the whole I managed pretty well. Adelaide sobbed softly all through the service. And all the relatives were there, sitting just behind us, and the Smyths of course. Lloyd sat with some friends. After the service Lloyd and Bob Smyth Sr. went with Russell and me to the vestry to the Englewood Cemetery for the committal ... that is, to leave father in the vault there for the night. Then yesterday morning at ten Lloyd and the curate and Russell and I, following a car full of flowers and the hearse, went to Woodlawn for the interment and there Bob Smyth joined us. In a way I was glad to go. There was no service at the grave; just a prayer. And I had never been there before. It is the Platt plot into which father was put (the Lynes are all buried in Norwalk). The George Platt sarcophagus is in the center, and around it are the stones of his daughters (including father's mother) and of his son Archer, the beauty in the top hat, who brought back from China the jade buttons I once gave Glenway, and who died in Shanghai. It was a beautiful morning and I did not mind seeing the casket lowered into the grave ... I do not know why. On the way home we dropped Russell and Lloyd at the subway, so that they could go to work. Then came the episode of the suicide.

There is but one more grave in the Platt plot, for Adelaide of course. Russell and I decided we would like to be buried in North Egremont.

Adelaide has behaved marvellously. She has been brave and calm, has gone ahead with everything, discussed everything. I hope it can last. But, as perhaps you do not realize, she is still far from well. It will probably take the better part of the winter for her to recover her strength. And I should not be surprised to have her break down at any moment. Russell has been wonderful too, though, of all of us, is it perhaps the most lost, the most crushed. In the letter which Lloyd wrote last evening to Glenway, at my request, and which I had some difficulty in persuading him to let me read, he said that Russell loved father better than I, at least that I had succeeded better in breaking away. It is the sort of thing it is useless to speculate on. I loved father dearly, not equivocally, but it is certainly true that Russell loved him with a childlike devotion and will miss him more. Adelaide has lost a lover. That is more difficult. I doubt if she finds anybody to replace him. I do not know what sort of life we can make for her. She is only fifty-one. Father was fifty-three.

December fourteenth.

Dearest.

The doorbell rings a hundred times a day. And every day brings more flowers, more visitors. More work for me, of course. I mean photographic work, for the rest is taken care of by female friends.

I have decided that I will never finish this letter. There isn't a chance of it. For I am so rushed that I scarcely have time to sleep. It is only ten days before Christmas, and everything has to be done on time. So I am sending you this that I have written already. I wanted to send it all at once, but that would mean waiting too long, and I do want you to hear from me. I will try to remember what I have written already, and not repeat. I will write again just as soon as the Christmas rush is over. Perhaps by that time I will have made my plans.

I am pretty badly shattered: tears of exasperation as well as of sorrow. But am doing rather well, at least outwardly and on Adelaide's account.

Monie, dearest, I do not know what is going to happen about us, about you and me. I am glad I wrote you all I did in my last letter, though I wish I remembered what I said well enough to know how much is and will be true now. Perhaps it will make you understand how much I love you, no matter what tricks destiny may play on us, and that you are the only thing in the world I want. I am tongue-tied. But I need you. You will realize perhaps how much, perhaps not until I am able to tell you, mouth to mouth.

Love me, my darling. Love me always. I know that your wisdom and gentleness is great and that you will be able to understand and comfort me. And to think that I am able to give you nothing, that I must look forever forward and never back.

I suppose there isn't a chance of your returning this way.

My love to Barbara and Dina.

Your lover, I hope for ever and ever.

P.S. The pornographic cards from Port Said arrived the day of father's funeral. Curious coincidence. But they did divert me. Please get me more. Lots more. And any other photos I might like. Horror pictures perhaps. Violence rather appeals to me now and from a distance. I want to continue with my collection of curious and erotic pictures,

Englewood. December twenty-sixth, 1932.

My dearest Glen.

It is not going to be easy to answer your letters. Hard enough to think, even erroneously; I almost wish I did not want to write. Of course, your letters have meant everything to me. They are wonderful. I have had to make plans, to decide something nearly every day . . about cars and furniture and books and a studio and pleasure and work. A good deal of it is routine, but there are my needs as well as Adelaide's and Russell's and they have to be taken care of somehow. I haven't managed too badly so far. Your strength behind me and your star ahead. I'll need both, perhaps for a long time. Not that I shall lean too hard or cry too loud. The time has come at last to try my strength, to discover if I have character or none. I feel definitely I have my back to the wall, but I am not frightened . . at least, not yet. I have faith in my future, whatever it is to be. I have faith in my ability to work well, even without love, though perhaps not without making love. Perhaps father's death will be my salvation. I wonder if he thought of that, or if he was afraid to leave us alone. Not at the end, for he did not know he was going to die. I wish I could concentrate. It would help.

A paragraph to tell you what happens. We are to stay on here until some-
time in April. Father's salary is being continued for three months. There was very little
insurance. There is a pension, but less than $500 a year. All in all Adelaide will have
about $1500 a year. Russell and I have nothing but what we can make. Adelaide goes from
here to Egremont where she will run the little house for "guests" and unquestionably will
make some sort of success of it. We are trading the two cars for a new Ford for her to
use there. And I will take a studio. I hope immediately, for I need it more now than I
will later and later I will have to have it anyway. I have found a place in 50th Street:
plenty of room for all professional activities and with a small apartment in the rear.
Russell will live with Lloyd through the summer (spending a month with Adelaide). In the
fall, if Adelaide decides not to stay in the country, they, perhaps all three of them,

3.

I have taken back, because I had no choice, what little I had to give. How can I tell him?
How could you? When you come to New York many things have not changed already will be
changed. A new set of circumstances, perhaps a new point of view. If you or he were here now
you would spoil me in all your ways. So perhaps it is as well that you are there and he in
China. I am going to need that spoiling later, I am going to need it desperately. I will
never get it from anybody else. And, for the time being, I am strong enough. I trust you,
and I trust him. I have to. I want to. I do believe in your star, have never believed it
would fall. If you and he can believe in me . . well, the battle is nearly won.

I have had lovely letters from Moore and Eardly. E still trying to persuade
me to take pictures in London. How far it seems.

My business has been remarkably good, just about twice as good as it was
at Christmas time last year. Business in general is about twice as bad. And I did land the
job doing the singers, or part of it. Lily Pons and Rosa Ponselle last week. And I am quite
sure there will be more. I must try for the graduating students and the brides this year.
Too late for the debutantes. Perhaps I can get them next year. But, at that, I will have
to borrow money to install a studio.

I cannot write more now. Considering what confusion I have been through,
how little the composure I feel, I think I have done pretty well. And, having started, it
will not be so difficult to write again.

Please write me whenever you can. Your letters make what I have been
thinking clearer to me as well as put helpful and desirable notions in my head. Blessings
on your book and on you every day of the year.

I love you,

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

January thirtieth, 1933.

Dear.

Inevitably the first sheet of the new paper goes to
my other home, though there is not time enough for a let-
ter. And you will probably want the new cable address. I
could not have my old one, and hate made-up names . . .
though I considered the titles of all your books and some
of your characters. I am still surprized that somebody
had not already chosen Vaugirard, for me somehow so ap-
propriate.

Still far from settled, though making progress, and
working all the time. Thank God. Just now on an enormous
architectural montage for the Museum of Modern Art and an
exhibition in Milan. And I have to take some nudes for the
new Arts et Metiers book. As well as the usual things.

John McCormack last week . . the nastiest of men. Through
it all I think of you continually and very lovingly.

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK
TELEPHONE: PLAZA 3-8666 - CABLES: VAUGIRARD NEW YORK

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

February twentieth, 1933.

My beloved.

I wish I knew when you were to arrive in Paris.
For I am so afraid you will find no letter from me. Glenway
wrote about going to Berlin . . he did not say when but
gave me the impression it would be soon.

I can scarcely believe I have written you only
once since father's death. Nearly all the circumstances have
been heart-breaking. My own sadness, Adelaide's despair and
illness, work and frivolity and impatience. I have been do-
ing too many things. Moving out of the house in Englewood
has been a task: an eighteen-room house, every room full.
Moving into my new house has been difficult and slow (it is
beautiful) and I have been working here all of the time.
And I have been frivolous. Nervousness of one sort or another.
I have not been able to be alone. But I think that is chang-
ing now. My home is in order and I love it, and really need
to be alone, to devote myself entirely to my work.

Adelaide moves out of the house on Friday when
the servants and the furniture go to North Egremont. She is
to stay three or four days with the Walkers and then go up
herself, but fortunately not alone. Marie Coe, whom you may
remember, has attached herself to Adelaide, which is a bless-
ing, and asks nothing better than to be allowed to take care
of her. Kate and I are going up for the first weekend, and I
shall try to go up one weekend each month. The vestry offered
her the house until the first of May, but Tom Protzman and
I decided that Englewood was the worst place in the world for
her and, much to her relief, are getting her out two months
early. I am glad you cannot see the house; ripped from end
to end, it is the most depressing place I have ever seen
(more depressing to me than for example the cathedral at
Soissons and in very much the same way). I have had the
relief of New York, the distraction of people, the excitement
of my new home. But she has been there all day every day.
The house holds too many memories for her. Perhaps worst of
all, being ill, is the fact that nobody quite remembers she

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

is no longer the rector's wife. How abominable father's life
must have been so much of the time.

My darling, for several weeks after I sent that
long and unfinished letter I could not write. I might have
found the time, but I did not know what I wanted to say. The
revolution was too damaging, and I did not dare say half the
things I thought, fearing they were untrue. I could not help
feeling that somehow you too had died; you were so far, so
horrible inaccessible. And when I wanted to write, knew what
I wanted to say, it was too late; you would not have received
my letter. No Europe for me this year, of course, and the
thought that circumstances were keeping us apart more than
ever before was terrible to me. And I think it was not so much
the idea of losing you as it was the idea of having to learn
not to love you that frightened me. How stupid I was. I know
now that I shall love you even if I never see you again, love
you better than anything in the world. Possibly I am learning
to love you as you deserve to be loved. Perhaps I am wiser.
Certainly I feel a good ten years older than I did three months
ago.

My guardian angels this winter: Glenway and Lloyd
and Kate. Lloyd the least, the youngest. He is so good and so
beautiful; perhaps I am a little in love with him. Kate is
magnificent. She has decorated my entire place with her own
hands and saw to it I got everything just as cheaply as possible.
The place is a tribute to her. And it has been lovely seeing
her every day. And Glenway. There is not very much I can say.
He got me through the winter. Perhaps I can get myself through
the Spring and Summer. Do for him what he has done for me, and
tell him I love him.

There must be lots of things you want to know, but
I cannot think what they are. So you must ask. I cannot ask
how or when you are coming to New York. Actually I need you
more now than I have. The awful stress and confusion being nearly
over (I am good in emergencies), and a new life to plan and
organize. When I can have you I will want nothing else. And I
am sure you will like my home. The Steinway is in tune and has
a resonance here it never had in Englewood. It is for Glen to
play upon.

Why have I never heard from Barbara or Bernardine?
I have heard from everybody else, even the most unlikely people.
Do I get a dog? I want one so badly.

Write to me, my darling, as soon as you can and
never forget how I love and want you. I will write more soon;
you are near to me again.

Monsieur Monroe Wheeler

9, rue de Condé

Paris, VIe

France

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

March third, 1933.

My darling.

I cannot seem to wake up this morning. Dinner last evening with Gretchen Greene after a long day's work. And the night before I scarcely got to bed at all. The opening of the new negro play . . . rather clumsily put together but with two magnificent scenes . . . followed by parties in Harlem lasting until far into the morning. I left at six and was the first to go. This afternoon I am going to North Egremont to spend the weekend with Adelaide, going alone, alas, for Kate has a job for a week.

Your lovely wire arrived yesterday, and with it two letters from China. Messages from both East and West. It is a real blessing to know you are back in Europe. China is too far for communication, and it is helpful to have you in surroundings I know. And I have wondered if you were living with B until you could get a servant . . . I noticed the wire came from Rambouillet . . . and if you were going South. You were the first to use the new cable address. I hope that is an omen.

When I can afford a living wage I mean to have Dorothee. Meanwhile I have a secretary ($5 a week) who comes from one until six o'clock. And I must say she is good, especially with the clients. And the clients. Of course there are not enough of them and money is difficult to collect, but so far I appear to be managing. The latest job is an advertisement for silk underwear (it was fun) and I have to do a lot of still life cheap for Philip Johnson (Museum of Modern Art) for his Art Nouveau show, domestic equivalents of the entrances to the Metro. Every now and again I get a chance at the human face.

It frightens me sometimes to realize that I am on my own. Literally there is no one to provide me with money; the most I can ask is an occasional meal, and I have not done that yet. And I look about my palatial establishment

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

ment and wonder how I ever had the nerve to take it. There
still are bills, of course: some three hundred dollars worth.
It cost more to move in than I had planned, I suppose it al-
ways does, which has not been a comfort. Thank God I have no
trient to pay until the first of May. By that time I hope to have
cleared up my other obligations. I am not paying anybody all at
once. Twenty-five or fifty dollars first to one and then to an-
other. All the little items I have never had before: the ice
man and the cleaning woman and the laundry and the food. If it
were not for them. But what is the good of writing it. As I
remarked before, in a letter to you or to Glen, father's death
is going to be the making or the breaking of your gpl. Ora pro
nobis.

Stupid stupid letter. I cannot write to both you
and Glen. You know how and why I have neglected you. You know
perhaps how good he has been. And I hope he is not going to
stop writing just because you are back, just because I send the
news to you. Funny winter. When I think of all the things I have
thought and said and written since I left Paris in September, I
am astonished to realize how right, at least how appropriate,
they were. I cannot reckon the mistakes; I am not clever enough
or it is too soon. I suppose there will be regrets. I suppose
I know what they will be. Time and strength enough for them
later. Meanwhile, darling, remember how I love you; never for
a moment do I forget. And write to me as often as you can.

My love to Glen and to B. And do not let her for-
get I want one of Philippa's babies. Is there any way one could
be sent?

Always your adoring

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

March fifteenth, 1933.

My beloved.

Your letter, which I received yesterday and which I wanted to answer then and there and could not, is almost too beautiful . . almost unanswerable. I really do not care a bit, at least not now, to know what Siberia was like. It is enough to know that you are nearer, within a reasonable radius of communication.

Some things I could never write, or have written, if you had not written about them first. Not that justification appears very difficult, but explanations are devious and I am never sure enough of making myself understood. I am terribly proud of your jealousy and terribly ashamed. I hope you can understand me in that. I have always been proud of your love; I think you know how proud. And you know how miserable, on the least provocation, jealousy can make me. I am not afraid you will cease to believe in my love. I should love you anyway. I am ashamed of having hurt you. My darling, you must know how passionately I want you to be happy, and the thought that I have hurt you is intolerable to me. But I know too well that it was at the risk of hurting you, and, in return, of being

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

hurt, I took the jump. The decision is irrevocable now, and I
know that for the present it was good. And I will have to remem-
ber that if ever I have reason to regret it. Actually I have done
very little for my pleasure, enough to maintain my tranquility,
nothing to excess, nothing to make me desire you less. Time en-
ough for a complete confession when we meet. Anything I could
write now would be meaningless. And you realize why I did not
write these things to China. It was too far, nothing lasted long
enough for it to go on being true, and I did not want to spoil
your holiday. My life for nearly four months has had its hellish
aspects. Perhaps only a fool would have done the things I have,
not only in respect to love, and only a fool would not be
frightened. I have let myself in for a lot and I have reason to
be frightened. But my new life is strange enough still to fas-
cinate me, though I may grow to hate it. And I am going to need
your love to get me through it.

I suppose the European press has made much of our
late "bank holiday", and well they might. Everything topsy-turvy,
no money, everybody living on credit and thinking it fun. I had
one dollar in my pocket when it began and that dollar lasted me
all week. Credit at the restaurant next door, dozens of letters
from shops and hotel restaurants and caterers and speakeasies
and even theatres offering credit. Best of all the Eastman
company sent a man around to get me to open an account and of-
fering large discounts, something I have wanted to arrange for
some time. And I paid my running expenses by cheques which could

not be cashed. There was only one inconvenience. The woman who
looks after me could not afford to buy oranges; neither could I.
So all week I went without my morning orange juice. But that is
over now and I am waiting to see what will happen next. Our new
president is not very attractive but he does make life interesting. I, for one, was disappointed they did not let us have scrip;
I had it all figured out that it was going to be good for my business.

Did I write that my secretary is a great friend of
the president. Imagine my astonishment when she asked to have
three days off to attend the inauguration.

Tell Barbara her building on Fifth Avenue has a
new facade. I wired you the other day about my dog. The reply
did not sound like you and was forwarded from Englewood, so I
presumed you were away and that she answered it. Will you thank
her for me.

As for Philip and his typographical competition,
he is no longer a suitor of mine (though I take photographs for
him and his museum) and doesn't know anything about typography
anyway, though if you made something which looked enough like
a German railway poster you might win a prize. I suppose it is
too late.

I need money. I suppose everybody does, but then
I suppose everybody is more used to it than I. Hand to mouth
living is something new to me and I am not at all sure I like
it. And the pile of bills is shocking, though apparently nobody

really expects to be paid. I wrote, I think, that I had gotten
my lamp shades and my fabrics on the barter system, and that I
am likely to get my furniture, which needs it, upholstered in
the same way. $100 worth of upholstery for $200 worth of pictures
(which cost me not more than $10 to make). It is a racket. And
I have just bought the Nonesuch Plutarch on the same plan. I
have wanted it a long time. Besides books are tangible assets
which photographs are certainly not.

And next Wednesday I am giving tea to twenty-five
of (I hope) the right people. Business is not being very easy
to get, and it is even harder to collect money. And I am making
every effort to collect the pennies.

Something that troubles and displeases me. Dor-
othere has a thing about me, and (as they say in New York) has
it bad. Kate and Lloyd, the smarties, say they have known it a
a long time. But it burst over my poor head like a bomb, and
being unprepared I was not quite as graceful about it as I might.
Sunday night she was here and, although Lloyd was here too, took
off her clothes and demanded to be taken to bed. And for three
hours would not be placated, would not have Lloyd who was will-
ing enough, and generally gave me a very disagreeable evening.
Shades of the rue Berton. But at least she did not get any en-
couragement, and I was as amiable as firm. Though in the end
I wept and made her go home. Why do these things have to hap-
pen. All winter I have been nice to her, given her meals and
drinks and lots of time, and she has been charming. And, al-

though I like her, she really does not interest me greatly. And,
in spite of a superficial gaiety about it, it is apparent even
to me that she means business. I cannot very well refuse to see
her, but it is going to be a long time before I ever see her
alone. And there you are.

This is a long enough letter. There are things I
should do, and Miss Wilckes (the secretary) will be arriving soon.

Do not forget anything about the nature of our
love. You are the only person in the world who can give what I
need, who embodies all the qualities of body and soul that I
love and admire. And I want so desperately to know when you are
coming to me with the full treasure of your beauty and passion.
You will find me changed somewhat, I think, though obviously
I will be the same. I could not have lived through this winter
without changing a little, but nothing alters in regard to you.
I will wait for you forever. You are always my only love, my
only lover.

VIA. S. S.
BREMEN

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

March thirtieth, 1933.

My lover.

Your letters have troubled me. Inevitably I have
read and tried to read between the lines. It was not dif-
ficult to read the passage in your last letter which you
had taken pains to obliterate. And I feel so powerless. It
becomes intolerable as I realize there is nothing I can do,
nothing but repeat those things I have said and written so
often that I lose confidence in their efficaciousness. You
cannot love me too much. Believe that, for I need your love
as I have never needed it before. I suppose I will have to
tell you why . . all the loveless things that have to do
with business and with living . . though I should like to
spare you that inquietude. Above all you must believe that
the strength of loving you is the only strength that is go-
ing to get me out of my present confusion and despair. It
is too sweet and too painful to think of the joy of touch-
ing you, of lying safe in your arms. And I am afraid that,
if I cannot see you, I may lose you. I have been afraid of
that, afraid of the accidental and the treacherous. I know
I will not cease to love you. I am not explicitly afraid
you will cease to love me. Why do you ask, "If one ceases
to love . . ."? Oh, I know I could calm and convince you if
you were here. I have everything to lose or everything to
gain. How can I help, this time, putting myself first in
point of need? How long can I put off asking you to come to
me? I should have done it long since, but for one thing. I
have wanted so desperately to prove to you, prove to myself
and my mother and all the world, that I could live by and
for and on myself. I have been working so hard and working
well and there has been work to do (never enough, alas),
and there is always the problem of working harder and better.
This month I have earned $250: just half what I have to
earn to support myself and my profession. And at the moment
I am in the position, for the first time in my life, of not
knowing where my meals are to come from. To be sure it is
the end of the month and the bills do not go out until to-
morrow, and I can beg my meals if need be. But there are
always letters, or more often telephone calls, from people

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

who have a right to expect to be paid, who make me pretty
miserable. For example: the Edison Company demanded $100 as
deposit for supplying me with light. I got them down to $50
and finally down to $25, and then was forced to borrow the
money from Hope (I have never hated anything so much as asking
her) to keep them from turning off the current. So there is
that to pay back, not to mention the retoucher and the supply
stores and above all the rent. There are no personal bills
but household ones. Not a penny but what I can earn. And I
have never been in that position as you well know; it is not
easy. Suppose I could not pay the rent and the bills. Suppose
I had to move out of this studio, which would mean giving up
photography as a profession. What would I do? I have reason to
be worried. Not specifically about the present, though there
is little cheer in it, but about the future. It seems to me
I have not lacked courage. How foolish I have been it is still
too soon to tell. And it is very possible that I may "come
through" with something really useful and good, something that
will solve my problems. There are always lots of tentative jobs,
some big ones. But I feel now I am foolish to tax my courage
to the point of despair. I could still take pride in whatever
I might accomplish, proving to you, in your presence, that I
am capable . . . if that is to be my destiny. And I need your
courage and your wisdom, the strength of your love, your love
itself. Even if I am to lose this studio and this apartment,
I cannot lose it until you have seen it. And you could live here
comfortably for the price of your meals and amusements. I am
within walking distance of everything but the Village and Har-
lem. And, my lover, so much has happened since we met. There
have been so many changes in my life. And I feel the danger to
us both of putting off our meeting longer than is absolutely
necessary. Will you come to me?

I do not want to write about the Guggenheim or about
the cheque you sent from China, though I have had it on my
mind to write about the latter for weeks. It seems that my en-
thusiasm about the Guggenheim was somehow misplaced. I am sorry
they were stingy. But doesn't it mean I will see you sooner?
The cheque arrived more or less at the beginning of my period
of financial stress, and I permitted myself to pay off a
troublesome electrician. I am afraid you will have to assure B
that my intentions are honourable, and that she will get it
back in catalogues or in cash. I have sent her exactly $5 worth
of catalogues so far, and as soon as I can find a free after-
noon I am going to the Metropolitan, go through its collection,
and find out what can be done about securing copies. That is,
copies of the catalogues of other museums. As you probably
know, not being able to afford the duty on your books, I col-
lected from Minton Balch as I delivered the books.

The pajamas I love though I have not worn them yet.
I am saving them to wear about the house next summer (if I

have a house), for, as you know, I do not wear pajamas in bed.
The white frogs are delicious in the midst of all that blackness.

And about Jacques. I do not want to write about that
either, but suppose I should. It is obviously impossible for me
to leave New York. Nothing ever happens here on more than two
days notice, and I would be sure to miss something. So I dis-
cussed the matter with Kate, who is between jobs and who was
amused by the idea of taking the trip, and she expressed her
willingness to go. We carefully consulted four of the larger
agencies and discovered it would cost at least $350 to make the
trip. So we wired Jacques, as you probably know, asking for $400
and further information. I hope it occurred to somebody to ex-
plain to him that Kate would probably make the trip more econ-
omically than I and that he would get back anything that was
not spent. But I gather from the wire he sent (much too terse:
merci lettre suit) that he has changed his mind about it. And
I suppose I will have news in due time. Lloyd said he could be
away for a week if it were asked of him. It appears it is as
cheap to fly (in 24 hours) as it is to go by train (in 3 or 4
days).

There is no news. Bless Kate and Lloyd and Russell for
me; I bless them every day. And write me all your thought. I
have so much more in my heart than I can ever write. I want so
for you to love me happily. I want to be in Paris. But I want
more to have you here. Do you have to do books this year? Do
you understand what I am trying to say? I hope to love you wisely.
I know I love you well. And remember, my darling, that anything
you ask it is in my power to give automatically is yours. With-
out asking it, I am yours. Let me make up to you the pain I have
caused. Be happy. Come to me.

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

April sixth, 1933.

Lover.

Do not harden your heart against me. I have been afraid
you would, perhaps against your will, wanting to do the con-
trary. Obviously your blues are unhealthy and should cease,
but I cannot believe the worst way so far as I am concerned
could be the best way for you. My pride in your jealousy is
but a part of my pride in your love. Have I to convince you
that nothing mars, or spoils, that nothing alters or even
touches my love for you. My longing for you now is my heart's
only desire. And you speak of the advantages to me of what has
happened this winter as if something beautifully new, a new
lover perhaps, had come to save me. Save me from you? Have I
been so inarticulate as to persuade you to believe anything
of the kind? The advantages to me. I still believe in them,
but they were merely physical advantages, good for the nerves,
to tide me over a bad time. But that time is past now; that
need is no longer a need at all, not even of interest. For
weeks now I have been continent, as wholly yours in body as
I have ever been in spirit. I am untouched. It may be that I
will have most difficulty in convincing you of that. Yet you
ought to know by this time that my heart has never been touched
but by you. How often have you complained in friendly or
social connections that I have no heart at all. How many times
have I said that after you there is nothing, nothing for me,
knowing too well what the usual homosexual relation amounts
to. Have I allowed you to believe that there was only one
to give me pleasure this winter. All pleasure in moderation,
and only Lloyd was in the least like a lover. Try to put it
out of your mind that anybody took your place, even for a
moment, that there was any encroachment upon your dominion.
Oh, I do not want to comment upon the possibility of another
lover for you, but I cannot help it. I am afraid of that, un-
reasonably afraid perhaps, because I believe that to be the
greatest danger to me. It might be your salvation; I cannot
think of that. I am afraid because I risk losing you, wholly
or in part. For I, knowing you, cannot believe you would
come through such an experience, however slight it might be,

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

without being touched, without leaving some part of yourself. I
am not asking you to be faithful to me; that would be unfair,
even if I had the right. It is only human for me to hope there
will be no need for such a remedy. I, speaking only for myself,
will not allow this thing I started to become a vicious circle,
a multiplication of lovers on both sides of the Atlantic. I
want you to want me on any terms. The chances are you will get
what you want, what I want, and on better terms than I at least
will deserve.

Yesterday was a day of holy and unholy wonders. Your letter and Barbara's at breakfast. I spent the morning answering hers. No lunch because I had no money. (I managed to get some before dinner time.) A strenuous sitting in the afternoon. Then some fifteen people for tea. Dinner with Russell. And sometime after midnight Lloyd came in and discussed with me for a couple of hours the problems which confront me. He is wonderfully compelling in his moments of vehemence and conviction.

I suppose you know what Barbara's letter contained. Or don't you. You mentioned nothing about it in your letter, written four days later. In case you do not, she has invited me to go to Europe for two or three months if and whenever I like. Do you wonder that I have had no peace of mind ever since. I wrote her that I wanted desperately to go now, almost immediately, because I was worried about you, because I needed you all. But I had to explain that I could not leave unless the rent here could be taken care of in my absence. I wrote as directly, as frankly, as possible, yet did my best to make it easy for her to accept or to refuse the condition. Of course, I pray she will accept it. My only chance of seeing you when I need to see you more than I ever have. And I can perfectly well be away for May and June and July. Business is at a fearfully low ebb; no portrait work here through the summer, unless I am very much mistaken; and the commercial aspects of photography (I have been doing some) . . . well, there is nothing doing in that line before the middle of August or the beginning of September. It occurs to me that B may be making a secret of her invitation. But you will know how to behave about that. And if I cannot see you now, we will have to find some other way to be comforted. God help us.

Thank heaven you can be gay. I take comfort in that. Try to forget what distresses you. I want only to make you forget and I could if we were side by side, my head upon your breast. There must be a way. For do not lovers always find a way? And is our love so young or so untried? I read and reread that cruel and lovely poem of Donne's, wishing I had the wit to answer it. We will read it together, and I will show you where it applies and where it does not. I have written you, not without tears, not only this time but many times and I know it is good because I love you.

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

April eighteenth, 1933.

My lover.

Somehow I do not feel I can write this morning,
yet it is the only thing to do. I am in such a turmoil, not
being able to help thinking of everything at once, which is
confusing, or to decide which are the important things. I
am far too restless to read. No work that demands my atten-
tion, not until later in the day. And I cannot play the
phonograph or the piano or merely look out of the window.

This is a beginning. I do not want to close a let-
ter to you until the money has arrived from Barbara; she
wired she would cable it today. I suppose I want to know how
much she is sending, though that part is not likely to make
much difference, not in making plans. And, of course, it can
have nothing to do with my affairs here. The terrible thing
is that I am being forced to make my plans not on a basis of
wanting and being able to see you but at the pleasure of my
debtors and creditors and immediate business. I can add the
columns of figures; I wish a fortune teller could foretell
the rest. You see, at the moment, my liabilities here are
just five times my assets, which is discouraging. $600 as
opposed to $120. I owe a third of the $600 to Willoughbys,
another third for installation here (installments are still
due the electrician, the painters, and the movers), the last
third covers a multitude of miscellaneous matters . . . few
enough of them unnecessary. Fortunately I have been able to
pay my running expenses: telephone, etc. And my credit is
as yet unquestioned at Eastman. How simple life is when there
is no bread and butter and laundry to pay for. At the moment
I have four sittings in view. I am sure of only one.

If it were not for these outstanding bills I could
live on about $350 a month, though that seems fairly irrel-
evant. From the economic point of view, a trip to Europe at
this time would mean: that the rent would surely be paid for
a couple of months, that I could pay some of my bills with
money on which under ordinary circumstances I would have to
live, that I would be away from New York at the dullest
season. Reasons enough for going. The only reason I have for

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

not going is that these past few weeks I have been working on
fashion photos, in the hope that Harper's Bazaar and a few of
the department stores who need and are looking for new photo-
graphers might take a fancy to me. There is a woman here, a
friend of Kate, who has lots of "contacts" and who is doing
things about me. But my faith in that was considerably shaken
this morning. She was to come here today, sent word instead
that she would be out of town until next week, and this is only
Tuesday. And I do not know what, if anything, I am supposed to
do in her absence; there should be something to follow up . .
Then there is another woman who represents Worth and Schia-
parelli in this country who just might get me work to do for
them not here but in Paris. I might even work for Harper's over
there. But that has more foundation in fancy than in fact, and
that brings up another problem. Should I go to Europe prepared
to work (remembering what that involves in extra expense as
well as the necessity of having a darkroom). If I leave every-
thing here, I am sure to regret it. What do you think? But
it is evident that I cannot make any plans, not for a week or
two. I wish I could. The economic as well as the emotional strain
of these past weeks has left me rather worn; I scarcely know
how much wiser.
I have to leave this now, but will con-
tinue later in the day or tomorrow. I love you.

Next day. I have just received a cheque for $500 from
the National City Bank, and am glad I did not try to finish
this letter before receiving it. It is so exciting, dearest, to
realize I have in my hand the means of going to you; you must
know how exciting, how thankful I am. But the amount of the
cheque only adds to the confusion and I would appreciate know-
ing just as soon as possible just how I am expected to spend it.
If the cheque had been for $400 or for $600, I would be in no
doubt about it. Barbara specifically mentioned "round trip" in
her wire. Round trip on the International Mercantile Marine
boats (Tourist, of course) costs in the $190; I have just in-
quired. The question is: am I expected to pay one or two months
rent out of the remaining $300? If I pay two months, there is
nothing left for incidental expenses. If I pay one month, I'll
have much more than I need for the other things. Unadvised, I
should pay the rent for one month. But you had better let me
know. I'm not going to have any money of my own. I'll have to
pay my bills as far as I can, leaving the rest until my return.

As for boats. The Westernland without you doesn't
sound very attractive; it takes so long. Tourist on the White
Star boats is just something to put up with, and not so quick
either. My choice is Third Class (Immigrant Class) on the
Bremen or the Europa. Tourist on those boats is horrible because
of the vibration; Third is in the front of the boat, quite
bearable I am told, and costs $85 one way, $150 both ways.

B's wire said that you said to take the I.M.M. so that I could
return with Glen. Aren't you returning too? I dare say you both
might question the desirability of immigrating (or is it emigrat-
ing). Better let me know about that too. As a matter of fact I
could go steerage on the North German and return on the Western-
land for what the I.M.M. round trip would cost. I am going to be
in a hurry, when I leave.

Of course the thing now is to bully or beat or black-
mail everybody in sight into being photographed and at once.
The Bremen sails on May 3rd, the Europa not until the 14th. The
Westernland goes on the 5th, the Majestic on the 5th, and the
Olympic on the 12th. I took the Homeric once (remember?), the
most dismal of trips. I want to take the Bremen, but am not at
all sure I can be ready for it. After all, it sails just two
weeks from today. But, if I can make it, I certainly shall.

Will you wire me as soon as you have had this letter,
answering the questions. I'll need to know as soon as possible.

Thank God Adelaide and Russell are going to be all
right. Adelaide's little business is going to flourish (she had
21 extra people for luncheon on Easter), and Russell can get
along on what he makes. I'll let him live here while I am away,
more comfortable for him and it means I will not have to have
the telephone and electricity cut off. He has been living with
Lloyd and they have been crowded.

Lloyd and I went to Egremont for the weekend, for my
birthday, going up Friday afternoon, not returning until Monday
afternoon. John Hoysradt joined us on Sunday. A new friend of
ours whom we met through Kate, ex-Yale, and now appearing in
K. Cornell's new play. We did not have good weather, but managed
to get in some walking, even an excursion to Bash-Bish Falls.
Very pretty. It is strange that, having lived so many years in
that country, I had never been there before. It was while we
were there that Russell telephoned B's wire to me.

Upon my return I found the set of Montaigne; it made me
so happy and made my book shelves look so rich. I have been want-
ing Montaigne, and this is such a lovely edition. I scarcely
understand how it can be so tidy and new-looking. Did I thank you
for the Macedonian. Good for me, that was. For not only did I
enjoy it, but it spurred me on to reading out of my new Plutarch
which I enjoyed (am still enjoying) even more.

What moved me most was your inscription. To see in your
handwriting, so unexpectedly, even parenthetically, the words
"Anno VII" brought tears to my eyes. Seven is supposed to be a
lucky number. I pray it will be lucky for us. Certainly if my

prayers and desires are good for anything, they will help to
make this year a good one. I think we both deserve relief from
the emotional strain we have been through, deserve it insofar as
we have paid for it, and to think that it is possible for us to
be together again in just a few weeks. I suppose you will have
planned what you are going to do with me when I get there. I
do not care where I live or what I eat or smoke or wear so long
as I can have you in my arms, for hours and hours at a time.

Hope has had half of what I owed her. She will have the
rest before I go away. You can count on that.

Now I must send a note to Barbara; it isn't going to
be easy to write. Does she realize what she is doing, what she
is giving? Blessings on her for doing and for giving. We will
have to give her the best time we can, though I have never felt
I had much entertainment value. You will help me.

This is not just the sort of letter I would like to
send to you, all problems, but the problems are important. I
will let you know definitely what I can do and when I can do it
as soon as I know. Probably a wire from you will arrive just in
time: the wire I asked for. So do not delay sending it.

I love you. And I mean more than those words have ever
meant, to me.

1. What boat?

2. How many months rent?

3. Take or leave apparatus?

From G.P. Lynes
44 East 50th St.
New York

Monsieur Monroe Wheeler

9, rue de Condé

Paris, VIe

France

44 East 50.

September fifth, 1933.

Dearest, my Monroe.

I might be doing any one of a number of things this evening: hanging some of my all too mortal works, or pasting pictures in my snapshot book, or continuing my house-cleaning. But none of those things has to be done, and I am lonely for you.

I have been good and have worked hard. And I am tired and scarcely mind. Though my life cannot be satisfying when I have to be separated from you. Knowing that is the price I am going to pay for my happiness last summer, going to pay and have paid. I mind terribly. But, of course, the precariousness of my life here keeps me from being bored.

I went directly to the country; only an hour in the city. But I did not stay as long as I intended. I had a nice drive with Adelaide the first day. After that I did not see her at all. Hoards of people all day long, and she went to bed about ten. I stayed three days. She agreed there was no point in my staying when I had so much to do here, when I never saw her anyway. So I was going up again the weekend of the 16th. Russell arrived the day after I got back, and had dinner with me. Now he is up there awaiting summons to work. Our friend, his boss, is not due back until the day after tomorrow. Adelaide is looking wonderfully well. She plans to spend the winter up there and seems not to mind; Marie stays too.

I worked steadily for two days cleaning my house, and, of course, I am not done yet. It was not dirty when I arrived (Beulah saw to that), but having the least tidy of my friends as guests this summer left its mark. Every closet, every

cupboard, every drawer: full of things, recognizable but not mine. A lot of Russell's things and a few of Lloyd's; they made a pile four feet high on the piano. Those I packed in suitcases. I have not got my things in order yet.

No stores were open until today, but I had enough chemicals in the house to mix developer. So I have developed the Castaing and Porter pictures. I will make first proofs tomorrow and will send second proofs off this week (a few lines to remove from Madeline's neck, etc.). And I want to enlarge some from my better Rolleiflex negatives while I still have time. I saw Fredericks Fox on Sunday; only two days married but glad to see me and certainly my best bet. Commercial, of course; I doubt if there will be much if any portrait work this month.

In the absence of everybody else, Beulah and Agnes Hyde (Allen) sold one of my pictures of Gertrude to Time, to be used they tell me on the cover. All I have to do now is to tell them how much.

Only Kate is in town and she is so busy working on Jezebel, starring Tallulah B., that she can scarcely be seen. I did, however, have dinner and go to the movies with her and Alan last evening. I saw all the new movies on the Majestic and a pretty poor lot they are, all except K. Hepburn's latest which said to be good. Guess I will go. Kate is well and tired, avid for news which she will never hear if she keeps Alan ever with her.

Stupid stilted sentences. But did you see what funny Gertrude perpetrated in our honour. "There were one or two under twenty, for example George Lynes but they did not count as Gertrude Stein carefully explained to them." And, "There was also Glenway Wescott but Glenway Wescott at no time interested Gertrude Stein. He has a certain syrup but it does not pour."

You gave me that certain syrup, first time I met you, etc..

In a day or two I will send you some snapshots that were taken on the boat. Some of Betty and some of Cupid, one of me and one or two of the most

personable young man on the boat: one Johannes de Kock, Dutchman from South Africa, self-appointed ambassador of Jesus Christ, in other words the leader of a group of adherents to the Oxford Movement, and I bet he thinks he will convert me yet . . . he is swarthy and has the most brilliant jade-green eyes (the best jade, of course). But this is only in passing. I would send the pictures with this letter but for the fact that they are not down at Eastman's being fabricated.

I hope you like your Rolleiflex as much as I like mine.

It seems to me that all the poetry I can remember has to do with you and me, and in particular with you there and me here. Christmas seems terribly far away. Oh, I know that time passes, but that does not help when I have a lump in my throat, when tears are near the surface, just because I want you. Last summer was more than just a happy summer, it was the happiest in my life. I know it, and I know why. I want you because I love you, because I cannot bear not being able to hold you and look into your eyes, because we share a secret which all the world may suspect but which only we will ever know. How much we have learned and created, given and received, because of each other. The emotion I feel is singularly un-tragic, but having to be away from you now is martyrdom enough. I can wait until Christmas (I believe I could wait as long as I knew you would come some day, no matter how long that might be). I can wait, not gladly perhaps, but with some resolution, so long as Glen gets on with his book and so long as you want to stay until it is done. But, if the syrup does not pour . . . Well, it either will or will not and the chances are I will not be told (why is it that sort of news never creeps into your letters, why for that matter have I been home a week without a word from you), but you will know what you are accomplishing there and you know what you can accomplish here. I love the new book, our book, and am proud to sacrifice you to it. But, you must know, however proud the spirit may be the heart is wonderfully weak. And I should never hesitate to choose between literature and you, if ever the max choice should be mine. Last winter was a bad dream, useful in a way but hideous. Can we forget the winter and not the profit?

gpl

September twelfth, 1933.

Beloved.

One letter from you, and that several days
ago. You said the house was full of refugees from
Villaviciosa, and that Rawley wanted you to sail the
first of October. John and Agnes arrive the day after
tomorrow, so I hear; the rest are all over the place.
I wish I could feel you would come so soon. Alas, I
have not been able to feel anything of the kind.

The last sheets of this paper, giving me a
sort of nostalgia. For what, I scarcely know. Unless
it has to do with the fact that you remember gpl.

I was playing Russian Bank with Russell, while
the Castaing proofs were washing, when his Miss Pope
telephoned. So he left me, and I put the proofs out
to dry. Then I realized I had not written in several
days and that I was unlikely to have another chance for
several days . . . so here I am, and glad to be though,
wishing you here, I feel sombre.

I wish too I had been in Chantilly with you.

Well, it appears I am going in intensively
for giving the public (the multitude of "art directors"
hereabouts) what it wants, plus, I hope, something
a bit special. I have acquired an Irishwoman, who has
worked at advertising and especially at fashions for
some time and who claims to know the field pretty
thoroughly, who has more than the necessary connections
and who is one of those aggressive mortals with a
talent for salesmanship; I found her through Fredericka
Fox who considers her something not far short of
ideal. Unable to offer her any sort of salary, I
offered commissions (25% which is rather high); and
she refused to talk business until she saw how things
were likely to go. If things do go, I will give her
a draw (I must find out from Lloyd just what a draw
is) and a much smaller commission. But I am getting
ahead of myself. She seems much taken with the detail
and texture of my pictures (the fashion pictures) but
does not care for much else about them, and proposes
to me in "what will sell". And we are now go-
ing ahead to make a new set of samples. The new regime

begins tomorrow. I will have to work like the very
devil, but I am all for it . . . to tire my body and
to keep me from wistfulness, while trying to make
my fortune. Wish me luck.

I have been photographing Radio City for
Philip, and there are a couple of portrait jobs for
this week or next.

Bill Hinckle's classes begin on Monday and I will not be there. I should like to be. The classes come at a good time of day and I could stand a bit of body-building (all the approved German methods). But, with a mere fifty dollars between me and the wolf-at-the-door, twenty dollars a month (payable in advance) seems a lot and it is all too uncertain where the next cheque is to come from. If I really make some money soon, I will join and try to catch up.

Julien has me down for a show this winter.
And, if I had not happened to ask Joella what the
schedule for the winter was, I might never have heard.
I could get together a pretty presentable show and
it would doubtless be good advertising. What do you
think?

Allen Porter is back from Hollywood mix with
lots of new stories. Long conversation yesterday with
Carl V.V. in the middle of Madison Ave.. And the other
evening, when I was dining at Child's with Lloyd and'
Russell, Douglas came in and joined us. Dorothee came
in for an hour this afternoon, between vacations; look-
ing tired but well . . all of them are having all
their usual difficulties. Kate is busy on Tallulah's
new show. Russell is back at Harpers. Hope keeps her-
self in the depths of the country.

Lloyd came back from his vacation lean in the
face and nicely tanned, looking very handsome and very
well. He and Miss Strozzi are being very contented,
each with the other, and ask nothing better. He made
a face when I told him Glen and John had become friends.
Some grievance against John: apparently not serious,
though I did not discover what it is. Having not seen
him for several months, I was amused to realize that
he is bound to change in the next few years, perhaps
as much as he has in the last few. I will like watch-
ing it.

Now I will take Cupid for his walk and go to
bed. It is wonderfully late and I am wonderfully tired.

Via S.S. OLYMPIC

Sept. 29th

Monsieur Monroe Wheeler

9, rue de Conde

Paris, VIe

France

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

September twenty-seventh, 1933.

My distant lover.

You are distant, of course; terribly dis-
tant. So much going on, here as well as there. Sometimes
that helps, but sometimes it doesn't. At any rate it makes
the distance greater. And, as for being my lover . . well, I
do wish I could enjoy some of the practical advantages. I am
as nervous as a cat, and have no use at all for nerves though
I try to avoid the provocations.

I scarcely know where to begin. This is the
first moment I have had to myself, except late at night when
I have been too tired, and there seems to be lots to write.
Of course there is the weather. September has been cool, more
or less, but rainy. Now we are in the midst of that Indian
Summer which, if I get to the Berkshires this weekend, will be
lovely, but which in the city is just hot and muggy and exas-
perating . . very uncomfortable just now. But that probably
doesn't interest you much.

Dining with Dorothee this evening. Tomorrow
evening Elizabeth Hawes is giving a large party to show her
new collection (some of which I have already photographed).
Then I am going to the country. And next week Margaret Perry
is to be married; perhaps I'll not go since I have no morning
coat. Lots of appointments to see people about business, but
all the time.

Jamie is in and out of the house all the
time. Since he discovered me about three weeks ago, I have
seen him three and four times a week. Usually for luncheon,
occasionally for dinner; sometimes he just comes and chats
while I work. It is my guess that I am about the only person
here to whom he can talk about Eardley. Pretty tragic for him,
though he makes every effort to be gay. Apparently E was un-
necessarily brutal, but I had the impression that E was afraid
he might not otherwise be able to make the break. Am I wrong?
According to J this is the third marriage of long standing
this young man has managed to put on the rocks. What's his

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

name makes E account to him for every minute of the day. Comical, if true. I have a picture of E making notes in his diary every few minutes. J is convinced that this new affair cannot last long . . though he doesn't expect to be taken back. Etc. Etc. Not having been favourably impressed by the new young man, I am inclined to feel as sorry for Eardly as I do for Jamie. I wonder why it did not happen long ago.

Let's not let these things happen to us.

And then Mr. Eugene W. Van Cleave, known to the world at large as Van, has been in town. He runs the ranch in New Mexico that everybody goes to (everybody: Douglas, Jack Becket, Iris Barry, Emily Davies, etc.), and it is he with whom Jean G. has been in love, so they say, all these years. He is attractive as they come, but in a distorted, rather mean, rather thyroid way. Not that he was not charming. I have no complaint. In fact I rather liked him. Made a great fuss over me and tried his best to take me back to N.M. with him. And all this time he has been in love with Johnny Arledge and that is all the good it has done him. Too bad.

Not good news of Jean. Kate had a letter saying he was taking morphine . . . for his sciatica. And Van said Cady Wells had found him asleep in a Santa Fe gutter. Van put him off the ranch about the time Kate was out there. He is seeing that old dim-wit of mine, Mary Barnwell, who has started a night club out there. I gather nobody else will see him at all. Can't he be got back to France?

Dreadful news about Bobby. I will write her and try to send things to amuse her. Send on the enclosed adv. My favourite. And let me know what you hear from her. And let me know what Francis does.

What "very unpleasant disease" did G. contract from Jimmy? Something peculiar to the south of France?

Strozzi has decided, he wants to be friends. Last evening Lloyd called to invite me to go to the movies with them, and it was all very pleasant. And she has invited me to dinner. You know how she has hated me, and I am very amused and very curious. I'll know more when I have seen L this evening.

We saw Paul Robeson in Emperor Jones, a good enough film with moments of sheer magnificence. What a beautiful creature he is. Freddi Washington and Blanche Dunn (L's girl) were both in the film but did not show to advantage.

It sounds as if you were digging in for the winter, surrounded by Miss Harrison's choice collection, infested with diseases of uncertain nature. I must say your letter fascinated me, but I cannot be satisfied with a letter that

mentions neither The Deadly Friend nor your visit to New York. And, in case I have not mentioned it before, there is scarcely a chance of my being able to go to Europe next year. I expect, I hope, to be too busy to get away. Will you bear that in mind as you make your plans.

Now put this in your pipe and smoke it if you can. I wrote you about Catherine Cleary who is working with me. We have been working on fashion pictures principally, and she spends day in and day out telephoning, making appointments, taking my pictures about to show people. There are over a hundred firms from which we are trying to get work. And I must say I am greatly encouraged (though peniless at the moment). She is a good girl and appears to know what she is about. And . . it is to this I want you to pay attention . . she seems to be convinced that together we can make enough money so that I can pay her $300 a month and is not only willing but anxious to work for $1500 a month, gross. We are making progress and we all will see.

If I am successful here, will you live here?

Nearly two o'clock and I have had no lunch. And I have lots to do this afternoon. So good-bye for now. Remember me I'm loving nobody but you and you are being wonderfully intangible.

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

October third, 1933.

My glorious lover.

No letter. I have just written pages to
Bobbie, and am exhausted. Two sittings today and lots of
work besides. So you will forgive me, since there is little
news except that I am busy, since I want you to have a mes-
sage of love by the fastest boat.

Russell has a small flat at 155 East 34;
John is paying $10 a month for weekend privileges. Lloyd,
who intended to take a suitable flat for himself and Glen
just before Glen should arrive and board meanwhile with
Arthur Frank, is living in a bad flat at Russell's address.
It seems that when moving day came Arthur was nowhere to be
found. Now Lloyd plans to take a permanent flat the first of
November.

I want you more than I dare say. I am
active enough to keep from moping. But I am so tense and
nervous all the time. It is beastly. And we both know what
you could do about that. Sex aside, damn it, I miss you bit-
terly. Can't you make any plan. You can't get here too soon
to suit me. As you may have realized, I am rather terribly
in love with you.

Via S.S. BREMEN

Sailing October 4th

Monsieur Monroe Wheeler

9, rue de Conde

Paris, VIe

France

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

October eighth, 1933.

Dearest.

I have come from wiring you. Perhaps it was a cow-
ardly thing to do. But I am so lonely. Infinite prospects
and no money. An immense future but no present. I could not
help it. I wanted to ask what plans you had made, and was
unwilling to risk being told you had made none at all. For-
give me, if need be.

I saw Dick Halliday yesterday at Margaret's wed-
ding. Ironical coincidence. He has bought the house behind
ours in Englewood. He has not changed at all.

I do not want to write to you. I want you too
badly, and am afraid again. Not afraid of starving . . I
can eat on credit if I have to . . but afraid of not being
able to manage my life, afraid of not having you enough,
enough of you, afraid of losing the privilege of happiness.
I ask myself the most absurd questions, and wonder if I am
completely unworldly. What, for example, if B's illness
should keep you there. If she wants you, should her need

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

have precedence over mine. And what of G's demands.

Oh, I am not asking you to alter your life, though
I want to alter the conditions that are making me miserable.
And I want to be successful, here, at what I have undertaken.
I cannot solve our problem. I am too poor and too exigent.
I want life to be perfect, and I should be so bored if it
were. But I am finding my life, day by day, nearly intolerable.
Longing grows to such indefinite proportions, and
that vagueness, coupled with the uncertainty of this struggle
for money, leaves me no peace. I need peace, the strength
and happiness that love can give me and that I want from you
only. I am good at my job, though erratic. I have no dissipations,
though I sometimes confuse the important with
the unimportant. At best I need distraction, and I scarcely
take pleasure in those people, devoted to them as I may be,
whom I see. It is a bad business. You should be in three
places at once, and I loathe having to wait my turn. What
can I do but complain, except of course not complain . .
perhaps that is beyond me.

You made me so happy last summer, made up for so
much. I may have been too happy, but I will not regret that.
No animosity. My love to G as usual and thank him for many
things. I scarcely need to say I love you.

Perhaps my heart has made a fool of me.

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

October twelfth, 1933.

My lover.

Your complaint was just and very sweet. But that
was bad luck; not neglect on my part. If three weeks passed
without bringing a letter from me, it must have been the
fault of the post. For I have written often, oftener than
that at least, though not as regularly as I wanted.

Now it is Catherine's turn to complain, because I
am neglecting all my jobs . . which are fairly numerous . .
to send you a letter by the Europa which sails tonight.

It looks, at last, if I am not unduly optomistic,
as if things were beginning to happen. At any rate there are
a half-dozen good jobs scheduled for the next couple of weeks.
And it is a comfort to know that the people to whom we show
the work are enthusiastic. As a matter of fact, considering
the number of photographs the average art director looks at
and the number of photographers he sees, it is a very good
sign that they can be enthusiastic. And several concerns . .
for example: Altman, Saks Fifth Ave., and a couple of agencies
. . have promised us the next jobs that come along. Not all
promises, of course. I could not be optomistic for long about
promises. There are assignments. So, by the time you get here,
I ought to be well launched.

Columbus Day, coming in the middle of the week.
Holiday for everybody but me, and everybody comes to see me.
Fleasant nuisance. But it does take a lot of time.

My maid, that dazzling negress with the red hair
and the green eyes, informed me she had a better job and was
leaving. She left. So this afternoon I am interviewing dom-
estics. Perhaps I shall take a boy. They sometimes clean as
well, and it would be a blessing, as well as a saving, not
to have to hire Western Union messengers to make deliveries
when Catherine and I are too busy to make them ourselves. I
wish these problems would settle themselves once and forever.
I hate these changes. And Grace was so devoted to Cupid.

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

I was grateful for your wire, though it has been the cause of much wondering. I, of course, want to know if you will come early or late in November. Come early. And Lloyd wants to know if Glen is coming with you, out of sentiment, and because he wants to make arrangements for living quarters. Give us both as much notice as you can.

I feel better than I did on Sunday evening when I wrote you last. I had to pretend, and that helped. I had been so depressed and unhappy for days that it was beginning to react on Catherine, and when she is moody she does not give her best. I am glad to report all goes well now in that quarter. Nevertheless what I wrote still is true enough. So the sooner you can come the better it is going to be for me and for the work and, I pray, for you. I can make you comfortable enough.

Not strange, perhaps, there is no substitute for love-making. No satisfaction in not making love. And I have no desire to make love to anybody but you. Truer now than it has ever been. Why is that?

Does the syrup pour? I was not much encouraged by what you wrote, though you never mentioned the Deadly Friend. You said Glen's preoccupation is his new malady; you did not say it had been established as a fact. And you said he was having his miniature painted. To be sure I have never seen Olga's work, but I have a certain distaste for the miniature, and it must take time. I am greedy about that, not only because I want you.

Jamie and I have become "great friends". I have not had much occasion to see him alone lately, though he is always in and out of the house. But when we are alone he tells me his troubles interminably. The day before yesterday, at luncheon, I had the bad judgement to get him started on the subject of you. All Villefranche, of course. And he asked me if you had ever been to bed with Eardley and I said, "No". Then he asked if I didn't think you would some day, despite your and E's denials, and I said that I doubted it. And he said he had found you and E embracing when you were supposed to be playing ping-pong. And so on. He complained of E's neglect those weeks in the Midi, and of course I remembered I had been pretty badly neglected too. It was all pretty silly and of no great importance to me, but I allowed myself to be made unhappy about it all though I did not allow myself to be made unhappy long. Jamie is not a bad sort, and in fact I have developed a certain fondness for him. He is often wonderfully funny. He obviously feels a distance, a restraint, between you and himself; you could get him over it, if you liked. He seems quite devoted to Glen, and feels that Glen is fond of him. It is tragic the way he talks about E: only in the most flattering terms, with infinite disappointment and a little bitterness. I hope we never come to that. I at least have not the armour.

Margaret's wedding was much as any other. Expensive and not much fun. Her young man is apparently more queer than not . . . nice looking but, from my point of view, scarcely irresistible . . but she has $87,000 a year (according to Guthrie McClintic) and, as Philip Johnson's sister pointed out, they are great friends.

You remember the nice low mansard-roofed house with the big lawn that we often looked at and that was in back of the rectory in Englewood . . rather it is on the corner of the street in back of the rectory and the street beside the church. It seems so strange that Dick has bought it and that you will be going there to visit . . I assume you will. He invited me to go out. If he confirms the invitation I am going to accept. It would be very strange.

Your friend, Dick Halliburton, who is also a friend of Allen Porter, and into whom we ran in a restaurant last week, has been living at the New Weston, just next door. We spent an evening with him; it was very odd.

My poor stomach is clamouring for luncheon, and I suppose I had better humour it.

Cupid is the one perfect animal in the world. Not as funny as Philippe, but so much nicer. And enormous.

You are not likely to forget I love you or that I want you. And, if I keep from writing letters like my last, it will not be because I do not know how. I am really not much interested in my news. Come as soon as you can, and plan to stay.

One more item. Tonio opened in a play last Monday and seems to be having a success. He had only small parts last year with Eva le Gallienne. And now he is playing the lead, not under her management.

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

October twenty-eighth, 1933.

Very dear Glen.

The fast boats always sail Saturday midnight and I never have a chance to write except on Saturday morning. And writing is always such a poky sort of occupation for me. I cannot get on very fast. So I decided to send my Saturday letter to you this week, and to write afterwards, if there is time, to Barbara. I have a lot to say to you. And I do owe her a letter.

In reply to your letter, yesterday I wired to Monie. Then it occurred to me he is probably in Suisse and you are not going every day to the office for his mail. And, out of economy, I did not wire again.

I am sorry he showed you that letter. Of course, I did not ask him not to show it, though after it had been sent I rather regretted I had not. I guessed it would make trouble, and that was not the idea at all. I was unhappy, so much must have been obvious, but it was not to blame you or Bobbie that I wrote. I was very lonely and had

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

been terribly depressed for more than a week; I have forgotten
now what the cause of it was. But I know that it was in a plaint-
ive mood that I wrote. I guess you will just have to believe I
was not complaining about you.

Glen dear, I have not a very great perspicacity
and, with time and distance, it grows rather less. My bad mem-
ory or lack of imagination. I marvelled last winter that you were
able to be in two places at once, there and here, but that I can
not go. I become much too preoccupied with the present, have
too little talent for making plans, the past is all brilliance
and drama and exaggeration. (I still dream of Spain, have talked
of it too lavishly.) And, of course, I am ashamed of hurting
either or both of you. I have no grievance. Did I invent one?
Monie was not to come until your book was done, and the re-
ports I had were most favourable. But often enough, and es-
pecially just lately, the reports were few and far between.
I am afraid I read for news. Gertrude's joke is in bad enough
taste. I am sorry I used it, though, God knows, it was not to
chide you. As for your demands. I never supposed you were de-
manding anything in particular, that is anything that might
be dangerous to me. Except for the general truth of the fact
that I want Monie with me always, my demands are pretty much
of the moment and depend upon whether or not I am liking my
life, moment for moment. You see, I do love you a lot and I
do trust you and know no reason why I should cease to do either.

Oughtn't you to come with him? I wish I had the
courage to insist that he wait until you are ready to come. I
am afraid I haven't. Everything changes about so. When I left
Paris, he was to wait until the book was done. When I wrote that
letter, I had no idea he was entertaining any other plan. Now,
you both tell me, he is waiting until his book is done. A con-
siderable difference, which makes me feel all too selfish. And
yet it seems somehow impossible to put behind me all my little-
boy tricks and wishes. I am sorry. Is it on Bobbie's account
that you want to wait? Or is it still that you are determined
to bring the book done? I remember the arguments, yet I see a
lot in favour of your being here. On my account and on Lloyd's
and on John's and, by no means the least, on your own. Consider.

About the dedication. I should not have mentioned
it, since you might have wanted to change your mind. Obviously
I should be very proud and pleased, and I can, I believe, behave.
I may have conveyed to you something of what I feel about the
book and the pride and the pleasure, though I should prefer not
to be given the book as a reward for behaviour. Am I reading
carelessly again? As a matter of fact, you know I love the
book and you could give me nothing that would delight me more.

You may have heard that Kate Hardy has had a
stroke and become completely irrational. She is in the Amer-
ican Hospital and apparently her condition is critical. She

may be dead by the time this reaches you. Ask Monie to write a
note to Walter (39, rue de la Bienfaisance).

All goes well here. As I wired I am cheerful
and patient and busy enough. Quite busy in fact, and life is
only comparatively dissatisfying. A number of new young men,
attractive though not attractive enough, one in particular who
is much too attentive and much too young.

The only news. I am finally a member of Bill
Hinkle's Modern German Gymnastics class. It appears that he
wanted some new publicity photographs and didn't want to pay for
them. So I am bartering again, this time getting two months of
the "body beautiful" and by the time the two months are up I
hope to be in a position to continue on a cash basis. I have
attended only twice, and am so stiff and sore and covered with
black-and-blue spots that I feel some sort of monster. But,
oddly enough, I like it and find it has great entertainment
value. Prospectus enclosed. Note first sentence, second para-
graph.

Write to John. Something tells me he is rather
in love. With you, I mean. And he craves attention and will not
ask for it. Typical that. How I change and change about. I must
say I approve of all that romanticism. And Monie ought to ap-
prove. It is all so good from a family point of view. Carry on.

No letter to Bobbie today. But soon.

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

November third, 1933.

My darling.

I was afraid I would not have a chance to write
at all this week. When Catherine is here I have little op-
portunity to get at my desk, and she is here most of the
time. But, out of a clear sky, I find I have a free hour to
dedicate to you. I have, of course, been busy.

Catherine is not here today. On Tuesday we were
taking publicity pictures in Hawes' new establishment when
the poor girl slipped and fell, straining a couple of lig-
aments and breaking three bones in her foot. And on Wednes-
day she had to appear in court as a witness to an accident;
no way of getting out of it. So I spent the day practically
carrying her about the city, first to court, and then to be
x-rayed, then here (as I had a sitting), and finally back
to her flat on the other side of Sherridan Square. Luckily
we had her brother's car; luckily Hawes carries accident in-
surance . . as do I. But it is an awkward situation and I
must say it interferes with her usefulness. She lives so
far away, and doesn't get on a bit well on crutches.

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

Wednesday evening the Levys gave a little impromptu party in honour of Lifar, who had just arrived. The familiar faces, plus Virgil Thompson, plus Marcel Duchamp, etc.. But it was a nice party. It seems that I met Eddie Warburg for the first time, and that we got on extremely well. At any rate he invited me to dinner the next evening, and I went, and had a very pleasant time. He is, as you probably know, Lincoln's partner in the ballet school, and taught at Bryn Mawr where he was a friend of the Finch‡Donnellys. Also it seems that I am giving a cocktail party next Tuesday, and that I meant not to invite the Levys but I have invited them and all because I liked Mr. Warburg. I fancy you will like him too. (He is in-decently rich.) Lifar seemed not to count much, though apparently I am photographing him next week.

Fanny had a tea, I think it was last week, to introduce Zimbalist's favourite pupil. An extremely accomplished though saccharine young man of seventeen . . just a lad. It was all very jolly, and I managed to make a conquest of old Julianna Cutting (my patroness of two years ago) whom I had not met before, and to get on a bit with your old friend the Mar-quise de Polignac. There were lots of other people. Zimbalist, of course, though not Alma.

Presently I must be off to Bill Hinkle's class which, oddly enough, I am finding not only beneficial but enormously entertaining. And then I am meeting Russell at

the Sloane mansion, more or less in the lap of Hunter College,
where we will snatch a bite to eat before abducting the charming
Misses Sloane and Akin to North Egremont for the weekend.
Agnes and John are joining us there, and Lloyd goes up tomorrow
morning. It should be fun for all, and slightly profitable
to Adelaide . . . who, incidentally, is ever asking when you are
going to see her.

I was considerably distressed by Glen's letter,
and answered it at once instead of writing to you. I do hope
he is well and happy . . at least not distressed or unhappy
about me and my goings-on. God knows, I should not voluntarily
have hurt him or you or made trouble for either.

Do not worry about me. I got over my little crisis.
In fact I find my spirits constantly improving, thanks to a
bit of success in business and, above all, to your imminent
arrival. You'll have to believe I could not get on without you
indefinitely. Having you to look forward to . . so soon . .
I am peacefully eager, serenely impatient, and not unhappy at
all. Yet it hurts when I think how much you mean to me, how
absolutely irreplaceable you are.

When do you sail?

Love to Glen. I wish I could make time to write
Bobbie; I'll try. Love to her too.

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

November thirteenth, 1933.

My perfect lover.

It is midnight, and I am not much good for
anything but sleep. But I have realized that unless I get a let-
ter off to you on the Majestic you will not hear from me again
before you sail. Tomorrow is out of the question. Re-photograph-
ing Julian Green, and having some half dozen people in for cock-
tails. A bit of developing and a concert with Fanny. And Wednes-
day morning would be too late.

Unless you have changed your plans, you
will arrive on the Manhattan on Thanksgiving, the 30th. The 2nd,
as you know, is Russell's birthday and the anniversary of father's
death. Adelaide wants to visit the cemetery sometime during that
weekend and to take us back to the country with her. (Since Rus-
sell will be there anyway, I have suggested that Lloyd come up
too.) I will bring you here from the boat, and you will have a
day or two to get settled before we go to the country. You'll
not be able to do much business that weekend. I hope this is
agreeable to you.

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

I have two closets, and you can have one
to yourself. But I have only one bureau, room for only one, so
I will have to ask you to share it with me. Now I have to solve
the problem of what to do with your trunk.

Don't forget your skates.

I wish I could describe my happiness. It is
so wonderful to know you are coming. I have wanted you so badly,
dreaming night after night you were there asleep beside me,
awakening in my arms. I'll try so hard to make you comfortable
and happy. I am too half-witted to write. Only believe my every
breath is a prayer in your honour. I love you. Even you do not
know how much.

My last letter. Soon I can speak with lips
and eyes, in silence and in bliss. Come quickly.

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1220S

Cost no more than
any other high-
grade greeting

ESTERN
UNION

(58

<table><thead><tr><th colspan="2">SIGNS</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>DL</td><td>= Day Letter</td></tr><tr><td>NM</td><td>= Night Message</td></tr><tr><td>NL</td><td>= Night Letter</td></tr><tr><td>LCO</td><td>= Deferred Cable</td></tr><tr><td>NLT</td><td>= Cable Night Letter</td></tr><tr><td>WLT</td><td>= Week-End Letter</td></tr></tbody></table>

SPECIAL BLANK • SPECIAL ENVELOPE

NEWCOMB CARLTON, PRESIDENT

Received at 108 East Baltimore St., Baltimore, Md.

1033 NOV 27 AM

10:00

NA5 92 NL=NEWYORK NY 27

<table><thead><tr><th colspan="2">MINUTES IN TRANSIT</th></tr><tr><th>FULL-RATE</th><th>DAY LETTER</th></tr></thead><tbody></tbody></table>

MONROE WHEELER, STEAMSHIP CITY OF NORFOLK=
BALTIMORE MAIL LINE ARRIVING NOV 29 BALTO=

WELCOME TO MY HEART MY LOVER THURSDAY IS THANKSGIVING AND SATURDAY RUSSELLS BIRTHDAY AND THE ANNIVERSARY OF FATHERS DEATH AND HAVE PROMISED ADELAIDE YOU AND I WOULD BE WITH HER FOR WEEKEND OUGHT TO GO THURSDAY TO RETURN SUNDAY RUSSELL GOES SATURDAY IMAGINE GLEN WILL PREFER TO STAY WITH LLOYD AND JOHN ~~HE IS INVITED ALSO HE COULD STAY HERE~~
WHILE WE ARE AWAY PLEASE DISCUSS THIS SO I CAN LET ADELAIDE KNOW HAVE ENGAGED ROOM FOR HIM AT HOTEL NEXT DOOR FOR ONE NIGHT COME QUICKLY TO YOUR IMPATIENT LOVE=
UNSIGNED.

Monroe Wheeler, Esq.
639 Forest Avenue
Evanston
Illinois

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

Christmas, 1933. Nine-thirty, P.M.

Monie, my darling.

What a lovely Christmas it has been, all
ice and sunlight. And I am richer and happier for a sumptuous
pair of pajamas. (How well you kept them concealed from me.) I
love them as I love you . . quite specially . . and, later, will
wear them in your honour.

I reached home about an hour ago, tired
from the trip through darkness and from my long walks across
the windy shimmering fields. I happened upon your half-bottle
of brandy and drank some; did you purposely leave it behind. It
did me good . . . I found the house in shocking disorder . . though,
considering my good humor, most everything of the sort seems
relatively unimportant. I like being good-humored, and I am sure
it is very good for me. Of course, I have a bit of picking-up to do

I owe you an apology. In the country I
found the other pair of black-and-red boots. I did not know I had
two. So one must be yours. And, since the pair here is in rather
better condition than the pair there, the pair here must be yours.

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

I have made myself a present of two yards
of dark brown herring-bone hapholstery goods, and Dorothy Lacey
is going to make me a bed jacket. Not at all luxurious like yours.
I just wearied of cold shoulders (not yours) while breakfasting
in bed.

Rosemary has just called, bubbling over with
excitement, sounding more like Bernardine than I could have im-
agined possible. She is coming to see me tomorrow. More of that.

Now I am going to do the housework. A couple
of hours of that. And Glen will drop in on his way from Nutley.
Eventually I will get to bed.

Bless you and merry Christmas. I am infinite
ly happy . . all because of you.

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

December twenty-eighth, 1933.

Lover.

Here it is only ten-thirty in the morning, and I have
no business to be writing to you. All those pictures of Eddie
Warburg to mount. So I will not write really. Just send a
line to remind you that I still love and miss you like the
very devil.

The Messiah last evening. Somehow I had forgotten that
"I know that my redeemer liveth" was part of it, and that
made me unhappy . . not, mind you, that I was sorry I went.
It is a lovely score.

Rosemary is here, very excited and really ravishing.
She looks eighteenth-century (French or Hungarian), her hair
in a window's peak. And tomorrow, after lunching her, I will
probably snap a few pictures.

Please write to me. Not a line so far, except from the
train, except for Adelaide's wire. It seems to me I have
written faithfully . . in a skimpy sort of way. I suppose you
are excited and happy and quite busy, but please oblige.

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

December twenty-ninth, 1933.

My sublime lover.

It always happens; almost always. When I
complain of not receiving letters from you, I usually get one. So
it happened yesterday. And I saved yesterday's letter to send with
today's. As usual I ought to be working. But your letter made me
so happy, absurdly proud, that I have to steal a moment. I have
been in love with the enchantment of being in love, with you very
particularly. And what a good thing it is.

Last evening Glen and I dined with Helen
in her in her particular ghetto, and pretty dull it was. This
evening Margaret and Mildred are giving a ballet party to which
we all are going. And on New Year's Eve there seem to be parties
at Jimmy McKernon's, Philip Johnson's, and Muriel Draper's. I
do not make much sense out of it. I will go to Jimmy's and Philip's
anyway. Are you being gay away from the family? What is Chicago
like? Like New York?

No news, except that I love you and that is
news indeed. (Oh, I guess Glen and I are going to the opera on
Monday with Mrs. Winthrop.) And now, of course, I am waiting for
your next letter, always impatiently. Did you get those pictures?

44 EAST 50TH
TELEPHONE: PLAZA 3-8666

STREET T. NEW YORK
-ables: VAUROOD NEW YORK

Monsieur Monroe Wheeler
9, rue de Condé
Paris, 6

France