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This is not to be a letter, my dear. So little happens on this island that I have no excuse for writing,—except that I think of you so often and like to write your name. In these lazy days when I am lying on a soft bed of juniper out on the cliffs, I so often think about your California4 experiment and wonder what effect it will have on your lives. Of one thing I am certain: that for the present it will make you all the more homesick for Paris5. Ten years from now you may be glad to have a place in California to use as an occasional retreat from the world. Just now, you probably never get tired of the world where people are thinking and doing things, and where they are not awfully self-satisfied. The dreary thing about the west coast is that the failures of all the continent flock there. They don’t make a very stimulating atmosphere.
This has been a rather dull summer for Miss Lewis6 and me—more foggy, lead-colored days than we have ever known here before. So we are going back to New York7 next week. Then I shall go up to New Hampshire8 later. I still have good news from Jan9 and Isabelle10.
Please tell Yehudi11 for me that I am so glad he saw Spain12 just before it went mad13. What a very uncomfortable world it is just now. Please get to Venice14 before bombs begin to fall on it!
An embrace to each one of you15 from your very loving Aunt WillaMiss Lewis asks me to send you her dearest love.
Miss Yaltah Menuhin1 Los Gatos3 California U. S. A. (Post Office Box P.) Air Mail