MAY 7 3 26 AN 1926
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EVE, May 26, 1926

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HOLLYWOOD 2400 CABLE ADDRESS "FAMFILM"

Great Northern Hotel

November 10, 1930

Dear Aileen:

I've been on the verge several times of phoning you long distance, just to hear the sweet friendliness of your voice, but each time I didn't because why spoil a well broken in girl? New York seems to be breaking down my old Puritan heritage, however, and at the rate I'm going I shall probably weaken and break down at three dollars a minute in the very near future.

For the first time since I've been in pictures, I'm enjoying my work. Lubitsch is splendid and simple, and he knows more than all the rest of them put together.

You are not missing much on Broadway except the tonic effect on the nerves of ten thousand riveting machines, the drone of a million motors, and the low hum of six million voices. The few shows I have seen will read as well as they play -- so don't buy the books.

How are the short stories progressing? And how are those lovely people, the Rupert Hugheses? And do you miss me? Before you mutter a No!, I'll tell you a story.

Mrs. Ginsberg has moved from the East side on the Bronx to the West side. She is explaining the difference to a friend. "On the East side is giving when it's a party, is again low class things. Like salami, or herring, or maybe old-fashioned chopped chicken livers. But on the West side is already everything high tone. You go into a house and is giving up to the fine articles, like caviar, maybe anchovies, and -- if you'll poddon the expression -- cocktails!"

Love,

I heard a bell ring "norwean-poor"!

TÉLÉPHONE : AUTÉUIL 77-61
CABLES : BARCOLOCAB, PARIS

46, RUE NICOLO

PARIS. XVIe

Dear Henry:

My first notion about the set
of illustrations for the Bible was to do the job
from the astonished point of view of one who had
never heard of the Good Book up to the age of 36
-- a traveling salesman, for example, who is
stopping over in the Clintonia Hotel, Toledo, who
has looked over the local hetaerae and gone to bed
at nine o'clock in disgust and who picks up the
Gideon tome to read himself to sleep. But perhaps
it would be better to do it after due fasting and
prayer. In either case, I shall certainly ask you
for the advice you so rashly offered. It's a
frightful job and would take me years to do it.
There ought to be some way for us right-thinking
uplifters to make a fortune at one fell coup so
that we could devote ourselves to such work and
not have to grub. It's shameful the amount of
money that is handed about from boob to boob in
the Old Country. Some of it ought to be deflected
into honest pockets. I go into the silence every
night between 11 and 12 trying to think up some
way to do it.

I've another great project to
expose New York in a set of pictures, too, but it
is terribly hard to get anything done between
obligatory jobs, despite the fact that I heave and
grunt a good deal.

Life improves, however. I kept a
record of the months of March and April and I find
that on 50 of their 61 days I did not set foot
beyond the front-door -- and 6 of the remaining 11
days were wasted on wholly unnecessary trips to

to London and to Reims, where I suffered a week-end party. I will know better in May and June.

I did not know about Madeleine Boyd's operation, but I am sure that whatever she had subtracted from her system improved her.

We are having a good deal of company in the front parlor, but they never stay long at a visit. One of them left a book called *THE GREENE MURDER CASE* the other day and I went to bed with it and read it -- the first detective yarn I'd read in ten years. It turned out an excellent job, but the thing that interested me was the conviction that grew on me that the author, S. S. Van Dine, is none other than our old friend Willard Wright. If you ever have time for such things, look it over and tell me if you don't recognize hairs from his beard in it.

Germaine sends you her best love and I add mine.

AUTEUIL 77-61

46, RUE NICOLO

PARIS, XVIe

Dearest Aileen:

I have committed an unpardonable sin -- my first. I have sent a fellow to you with a letter of introduction. Even your having surrounded yourself with stragglers from the Algonquin while I was in the Old Country was not as bad as this.

This is written in haste to get it on tomorrow's boat -- to warn you and to let you know the truth. I wrote the usual stuff in the letter which Theodor Glaesel bears you -- that I felt sure you would love him. The truth is, I never saw the fellow. He may be an international crook. I have reason to suspect that he is a fairy. He may be a charming fellow. I don't know him at all. Léon Bailby, the owner of the Intransigeant (the Hearst of France in a way) asked me to give him the letter and there was no way out. I had to do it. With this warning, you can receive him or send down word that you are suffering with leprosy as you like.

He is a Swedish gent, lots of papa's money and -- wants to get in the movies!!!!!

When I think that I have had no answer to some half-dozen letters I have written you since my return, I feel less sorry about this.

I am, madame, your hble. and obt. svt.

I am dead with fatigue. Think I will motor to Holland tomorrow for a day or two. Will send you some photographs of me and the house

shortly. The press photographs it daily from ten till five.

42 WEST 58TH STREET

14 Feb

Angel Aileen:

Your letter pulled me out of a slough
of despond. This morning I was an old, hoar
man; and now sap is running in my veins
again.

May 25th! Toulon! It can't have been
that long since I reported to you! That was
92 years ago. I wish it were 192. It was
Toulon that drained me of my fascination for
the third French Republic. I walked around
my estates in Toulon and went slowly cuckoo.
One day I went to the armourer's in the rue
Alger to buy an automatic. I was going to
shoot myself in my swimming pool -- since I
can't swim, anyway. When I got to the
armourer's, the automatics looked so mean
that I bought a beautiful target pistol,
instead. I tried it out on a pine board an
inch thick and figured that it would penetrate
the half inch of oak in which my brain is
encased.

But I took to going over to Cannes and
making wuppee, and one thing led to another
until I found myself on the Ile de France
and eventually back in New York. For the
first time in my life, the place looked good
to me -- and I go crazier over it every day.
Dudley Field Malone is arranging matters for
Germaine and I shall soon be on the market
again -- or on the town.

But I work too hard here. I work like a
cab horse and come down, periodically, with

blind staggers. Life never seems to get it-
self arranged very neatly.

I am a dramatic critic, amongst other
things, and like it vastly -- I think because
it interferes with drawing pictures. I like
going to the theatre, too. Such is the
fundamental simplicity of my soul. Do you
ever see LIFE? I'll send it to you, if not.

I think a good deal of my book was
whistling in the dark. "I will like France!
I won't like America!" Let us forget it.
I should like to do something sentimental, now.

Judging from the sounds that issue from it,
Hollywood must be even worse than you say it
is. I saw a talkie the other day. Really,
now. How awful. A disjointed silent picture
over here and an gramophone with an old needle
in it over there. No connection between the
two whatever. "Condemned" was the title. I
was sure of that. After all, I can read. I
think I could have understood some of the
gramophone, too, but they had it at the bottom
of a well and there was a queer echo that made
it incomprehensible.

The motion picture cathedral, however,
smelled the same as ever.

Be of good cheer. Anything -- even the
chinema -- is better than drawing pictures.
J. Horace Christ, how I hate it.

I heard of your blondeness months ago and
meant to wire my protest. I must study the
photograph before I approve. In my heart, I
am dead against it. But then, I am going gray.

Do you see the Roland Youngs? Pets of
mine you remember.