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[Illustration: Marjorie Crocker and Esther Sayles Root]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
OVER PERISCOPE POND
Letters from Two American Girls in Paris
October 1916-January 1918
by
ESTHER SAYLES ROOT and MARJORIE CROCKER
With Illustrations
Boston & New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1918
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1918, by Houghton Mifflin Company
All Rights Reserved
Published April 1918
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FOREWORD
The authors of these letters are two young American girls, one from New
York and the other from Boston.
They first met in Paris, each having volunteered her services to the
Rev. and Mrs. Ernest W. Shurtleff, to aid in relief work among the
refugees, or, as Dr. Shurtleff expressed it, "To help in our effort to
get under part of the burden of humanity."
The letters were written (as is evident) for the family eye only, and
consent to their publication has been given by cable with much
hesitation.
To me they are revealing of the spirit of feminine young America--a
brave and self-sacrificing spirit which shines out through irrepressible
youthful humor and vivacity, and is a worthy complement to the
unquestioning and unquestioned valor shown by the brothers of such girls
to-day.
CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
Foreword by CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM
I. FROM ESTHER
II. FROM ESTHER
III. FROM ESTHER
IV. FROM MARJORIE
V. FROM ESTHER
VI. FROM MARJORIE
VII. FROM ESTHER
VIII. FROM MARJORIE
IX. FROM MARJORIE
X. FROM ESTHER
XI. FROM ESTHER
XII. FROM MARJORIE
XIII. FROM MARJORIE
XIV. FROM ESTHER
XV. FROM MARJORIE
XVI. FROM MARJORIE
XVII. FROM ESTHER
XVIII. FROM MARJORIE
XIX. FROM ESTHER
XX. FROM MARJORIE
XXI. FROM ESTHER
XXII. FROM MARJORIE
XXIII. FROM ESTHER
XXIV. FROM ESTHER
XXV. FROM ESTHER
XXVI. FROM MARJORIE
XXVII. FROM MARJORIE
XXVIII. FROM MARJORIE
XXIX. FROM MARJORIE
XXX. FROM ESTHER
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ILLUSTRATIONS
Marjorie Crocker and Esther Sayles Root
No. 6 Place Denfert-Rochereau
Women's Vestiaire and Men's Vestiaire
Dr. and Mrs. Shurtleff in the Office
Marjorie and Mrs. Shurtleff, with the Leopard Skin
Esther and Marjorie in Ford Truck
Rootie in Park at Saint-Germain
Marje in the Salon at No. 12 Place Denfert-Rochereau
"Bettina" at Saint-Germain
Le Cèdre at Saint-Germain
Will Irwin in the Garden at Blérancourt
Mrs. Williams, Miss Dobson, and Mrs. Wethey in the Garden at Blérancourt
Luncheon in the Garden at Blérancourt
The Cathedral at Soissons
Very Old and Beautiful House at Roye: Interior completely gone
A German Graveyard
The Air Raid on Paris on the Night of January 30, 1918
------------------------------------------------------------------------
OVER PERISCOPE POND
I
FROM ESTHER
Aboard Espagne, October 21, 1916.
DEAR FATHER:--
The writing-room is a bower of gold leaf, electric-light fixtures, and
Louis XIV brocade, but it is injudiciously placed where both the motion
and vibration are greatest, and not even the marvelously developed
yellow cherub, who holds a candelabrum over my shoulder, is inviting
enough to induce me to stay here long. Not that I haven't plenty to
tell. I could easily use up all the ship's paper in describing the
various people and events of this memorable week.
The day we sailed was perfectly gorgeous. You remember. Mrs. Bigelow and
I watched the big buildings and the Statue of Liberty slowly melt into
the sunset, and then we went down to see what surprises the stateroom
might reveal. And they were plenty. Letters upon letters and lovely
presents. The atmosphere was a trifle charged as we passed the
three-mile limit, and we all found billets--not so doux as they might
have been--on our pillows assigning us to lifeboats and saying just what
to do when the signal should be given to abandon the boat. Both Mrs.
Bigelow and Miss Short were assigned to Lifeboat No. 10, while I was
shunted off in Lifeboat No. 8--a bad omen, I thought. We went up on the
top deck and looked them over. No. 8 looks like a peanut shell--and then
we looked over the edge where the great big blue rollers were beginning
to make the boat creak, and decided rather hurriedly to go down to
dinner. You can imagine yourself what it would be like to start off on
the sea in a canoe at our island when there was a good dash at the
rocks.
Now here is where the Shrinking Violet steps in. Miss Short lost her
traveling-bag, and was in misery. She can't speak or understand one word
of French--and she appealed to me. I suppose you would have had me back
coyly into the stern of the boat, and say that I didn't know the word
for suitcase and didn't dare speak to the steward. But not so. I went up
to a tremendous great gold-braided Frenchman and linked together the
words "bagage," "noir," and "perdu," by a series of what I considered
intelligent sounds, and, by Jove, the man--being a genius anyway--got
the idea that some one had lost a black suitcase, and had the whole
ship's service in action before I could wink. Soon the suitcase
appeared, and I had Miss Short's undying gratitude, coupled with
complete dependence for the rest of the trip.
This was the beginning of Miracle Number One--that is, my French was
perfectly understood, and I understood nearly everything. Oh, the joy of
having the many hours spent over Chardenal at Hawthorne School under the
vigilant eye of Miss Bourlard or Mlle. Delpit at college--of having them
not spent in vain! Why, one of the Ambulance men told me yesterday that
when he first saw me he thought I was French! (Of course, he speaks
execrably himself, and my red tam might assume any nationality.) I order
meals, carry on all our traffic with the stewardess and deck steward,
and interpret right and left.
All during dinner you could see that people were rather waiting for a
shot off our bows, and every one's expression was bien pressé. After
dinner I took myself up on the bridge in my fur coat and stood alone
watching the most beautiful moon-path that ever I saw. It was cold and
clear with a fine breeze. "O Sole Mio" floated up gently from the
steerage below. Helpful thoughts came to me, and suddenly Miracle Number
Two happened. I felt perfectly sure that we were all right and that
nothing was going to happen to the Espagne. I haven't thought of Germans
or submarines or anything since. I slept like a top that night.
Just as I was about to get into my berth, Mrs. Bigelow asked me if I
knew where the life-preservers were. I hadn't thought of them. Well, I
wasn't dressed, and I couldn't go and ask the steward, so I said, "Go
and find the steward, and say, 'Où sont les gilets de sauvetage?'" "I
suppose," said Mrs. Bigelow, "that 'gilets' means 'preservers'?" "Well,
not exactly," said I; "'gilets' means waistcoats, and 'sauvetage' means
salvation; literally, the waistcoats of salvation; quaint, isn't it?"
"Oh, very," said she; "Oo song lays geelays dee softadge--I can say that
easily." "Alors, allez-vous en," said I, and bowed her out of the
stateroom. She marched erectly down the corridor, and I could hear her
voice,--firm, but growing fainter and fainter,--"Where are the
waistcoats of salvation--oo song lays geelays dee softadge--where are
the waistcoats," etc.,--for all the world like "Fling out the Banner,"
or something of the kind. It would make a good hymn, I thought.
Back she came with a mute and suffering steward. He had understood her
and pointed to the top of the wardrobe. He was not at all disturbed by
my nightgown, and I gave mental thanks to May for having run the ribbons
in--I feel freer in the French tongue when I am in négligé. So the
evening ended with a pleasant chat about sauvetage and naufrage and the
amenities of life.
The first morning was blue and clear, but oh! so rough. My head began to
feel funny as I dressed, so I hurried into my sailor blouse and red tam
and beat it for the deck. And here we have Miracle Number Three. I
wasn't a bit sick for one minute, and have felt better and fuller of pep
than I have since I was at Bailey's. I have been an obnoxious sight to
most of the passengers because I have run, skipped, and jumped
(figuratively) while they have rolled listless eyes at me. There were
only about fifteen people in the dining-room that first luncheon, and I
was the only woman. You should see this boat roll. Really, the Olympic
or the Minneapolis would blush at such actions.
I hardly saw Mrs. Bigelow and Miss Short the first two days, and so it
was natural that I should get very chummy with the Frenchman whose chair
was next to mine. He has long wiry mustaches that stick out at least
five inches on each side. He is a widower, and very small. He speaks
French the most beautifully I ever heard, and says lovely things, and
makes jokes too. When he says anything funny he lifts his feet aloft and
twinkles them very fast and goes into perfect spasms. He talks so fast
that often I don't understand him, but I laugh just the same, and the
more he laughs the more I do, because it strikes me so funny to be
making such a hullabaloo when I haven't the faintest idea what it's
about. He went up with me on the bridge for the moonlight the second
night (Mrs. Bigelow and Miss Short were laid out in a tableau barely
vivant), and we talked French and a little German--he recited
Schiller--and I told him I was going to France, and he said, "Belle a de
bon coeur," and we were bien amusés. He is French Consul at Montreal, and
is going to see his two little sons at ----.
The next day the captain asked to "be presented to" me. He invited me to
sit at his table, and oh, how I hated to refuse. All the interesting
French people sit there, and Mrs. Craigee--that lovely-looking girl that
we saw on the dock--and I could have practiced French so wonderfully.
Besides, Mrs. Bigelow and Miss Short nearly always eat on deck,--but of
course I had to sit with them. I was very much flattered, however,
although I needn't have been, for there are so few girls on board.
There are thirty-six American Ambulance men, and some of them are
dandies. About four in particular are most congenial, and we do
everything together--shuffle-board, deck-walking, afternoon-teaing,
card-playing, playing the piano, and generally exploring about the ship.
I should like to describe every one, but I feel that this is getting
boring as it is. The foreigners are delightful. Our French newspaper man
took my picture for his paper the other day. He is exactly like a
musical-comedy Frenchman--he raises his shoulders and says "la, la," and
wears checked trousers and patent leathers and gets so very
excited--such gestures!
At luncheon the other day there was great excitement--a wireless for
some one, and it was for me! From Robert and Harris and Johnny. Really,
I was so pleased. We were nine hundred miles out, and it seemed almost
like seeing them to have it come. I walked on air all afternoon. At
dinner that night the steward came around again, saying, "Télégramme
sans fil pour Mlle. Root,"--and there was a plate of salted almonds with
the cards the Ambulance men had stuck in it, with all sorts of crazy
messages written on them. I wirelessed back a poem as soon as I could
gather my senses sufficiently, and a good time was had by all.
It is now Sunday and our last day. It is a glorious blue morning.
There is a good deal of talk of submarines and floating mines as we
approach France. The lifeboats were swung out last night, our guns
loaded, all the lights darkened, and everything was preparedness. We
tried on the life-preservers before retiring, and the dust of ages that
they bore made me sneeze frightfully. How sharper than a serpent's tooth
it is to sleep on one's passport! I have played the piano a good deal on
the trip. The whole ship is singing "Liebes Freud." This morning Mrs.
Bigelow and I rose at 5.30, and saw a wonderful sunrise. We stood on the
bridge together, and it was all gold and rose and purple. She is a
peach,--Mrs. Bigelow. I can't wait to land, although I love the ship. I
had thought of crossing as just crossing; and not as such a wonderful
time. I do appreciate it all so much, Father, and I will write very
seriously when I get to Paris.
Much love.
ESTHER.
II
FROM ESTHER
Paris, Monday, October 23, 3 A.M.
DEAREST MOTHER:--
This day has been so eventful, so utterly new and remarkable to me, that
I can't bear to think of its being crowded out of my mind by the
immediate to-morrows. These experiences in fact have been so remarkable
and the after-dinner coffee so absolutely noir, that after a few hours
of fitful slumber I seem to be done for the night. After I have
described this place you will not wonder that ink is not provided, but
you will forgive pencil, I hope (it's the nice black one out of Father's
writing-case which I love so, and its maiden trip), although I know that
writing in pencil holds a place with you alongside of messing the top
bureau drawer and neglecting to wear a fully equipped sewing-bag always
about the neck.
The last night on the steamer was thrilling. I stood way out on the bow
with one of the Ambulance men (the nicest one) and watched the lights
way off on the horizon grow brighter and brighter. We watched the pilot
row out from the pilot ship in a little boat, and although the sea
looked perfectly calm compared to what it had been, it was like climbing
mountains in a hickory shell. All dark night everywhere with a few
flickering lights and men calling hoarse things in French back and forth
from the ships--can't you see how weird it was?
It was too bad to go down the Gironde at night because they say it is a
grand sight, but we were glad enough to wake up in Bordeaux. We got up
at 5.30 and looked out on the wide flat river, the many boats, and the
picturesque water's edge of the harbor. We packed our last things, had a
farewell tour de force with the femme de chambre, flew around saying
good-bye to everybody, and then stood in line to see the préfet de
police. Right here I want to say that of all the fairy tales that were
told me, the ones about the difficulties of getting to Paris were the
most fantastic. There were a good many tiresome details: I had to show
our passports everywhere, but everything went smoothly, and every one
was most polite. I wish I could tell you the thousand and one funny
things that happened in leaving the boat. How we hated to leave that
darling stateroom and the still darlinger Espagne. You know my penchant
for everything Spanish, and I knew when I first heard that name at
Bailey's that it was the boat for me; and it was.
You remember the confusion and perfect riotousness of landing. I managed
my own things, which in itself is no joke. I had to get my stuff
together, have it examined, weighed, and checked, send my cable, and
telegraph Miss Curtis, pay my excess, and buy my railroad ticket, find a
carriage, and leave that dock. It sounds simple, but with a million
people all hurrying to do it at once and nothing but rapid-fire French
going on,--I got a few short circuits that were disastrous,--it was
dreadful (but often very funny) and took nearly two hours.
The customs inspector was a woman and pleasant as anything. I never even
unlocked my trunk and she just poked at my suitcases.
How can I describe Bordeaux as we saw it through that musty cab window?
Low and little and picturesque. It was like stepping into a stereopticon
picture and finding it alive. Little houses and shops, with bright signs
all in French, and foreign-looking people in the streets, and many
soldiers and many, many widows. Queer-painted carts and little houses
and little narrow alleys with uneven houses, dark and aged, huddled
together with lights over the doors--you know what I mean--adorable. The
town itself is quite a place--good hotels and shops and cafés, with blue
and red and yellow wicker chairs and tables on the sidewalk.
We piled our luggage in the lobby of the hotel and then filed into a
dismal parlor and faced one another over a marble table (for ornament
only). I was ready for bed and it was quarter of ten. The train for
Paris left at one--three hours to wait and we so tired we couldn't
budge. How that parlor rocked and reeled after the steamer! Mrs. Bigelow
said, "This is France." It made me think of "As You Like It" where
Rosalind and Celia and Touchstone arrive in the forest.
After I had slept a little, sitting bolt upright in the lobby, we walked
about town. The little back streets were so tiny that only one could
walk on the sidewalk at a time. Even Boston can go one better than that.
I walked in the middle of the street and never felt bigger in my life.
Miss Short sent a cable, and I went by myself into a little shop and
bought a copy of the "Marseillaise"--my first venture in commerce, and I
was mighty embarrassed because I don't believe there is such a word as
"copie" anyway, but I got it and was pleased to death to have actually
achète-ed something.
It didn't seem long until train-time, and we got into crowded but
comfortable first-class carriages. After our elaborate good-byes, we
found nearly every one from the steamer on the train, the Ambulance men
and everybody. In our compartment there were a very fat French woman, a
young girl, and her maid. The young girl--I had planned to spend hours
in describing her, but I can't stop now. I'll just say she was Elsie
Ferguson in "The Strange Woman," and let you picture her. The prettiest,
most charming, and warmest creature I ever met. It was the first time I
had heard a girl speak high French. There were no French women on the
boat, you remember, and it was like music. The country we passed was the
prettiest I've ever seen, more perfect than England even. So many
poplars, and hills,--and such houses. There were acres of vineyards and
lovely farms and with autumn foliage,--fainter than ours, of
course,--lovely yellows and reds, and leaves dropping, and blue mists
and more poplars, it was like a dream-land.
It was a long trip, but the steamer people visited back and forth and
bought things at the stations and stood in the corridors and talked, and
it didn't seem long. The fat French woman joined our conversation after
the French girl got out at Poitiers--I must tell you that she is married
and her husband is an officer and has just recovered from being badly
wounded. She is going to find out on Sunday if he has to go back,
because, you see, he'll never be strong again, and she is praying that
he'll be réformé for good. Oh, she does seem to love him so. If he isn't
réformé he'll have to go back to the front. She is so brave and so
beautiful!
Well, after she got out, a nice old Frenchman got in and a typical
Englishman (who spoke French) and we had the most wonderful time. Of
course we didn't speak at first, but the fat woman and I would say
things across the compartment to one another and they would offer a
remark now and then, until we all got to talking. I shall have to write
some of these things down, I fancy. I'd hate to forget them. I thanked
Heaven for the 'steenth time for my French, which is a bruised reed,
right enough, but a perfect joy just the same.
I was expecting to fall into Miss Curtis's arms, but it would have been
an empty fall, for she wasn't there. I didn't know, when I wired her,
that there were two stations, so I suppose she didn't know which to
choose. I could have gone with Mrs. Bigelow and the others, but I
thought Miss Curtis would have engaged a room for me here, so I wanted
to try this place, anyway. One of the Ambulance men, Mr. Baxter, offered
to bring me here and see me installed. There were no taxis left, and it
was still drizzling, and you know my luggage,--the eleventh hour Altman
winter flannels boiling out of the carryall with price-marks dangling
and soiled from constant exposure,--and me tired and dirty with the ship
still going round in my head, standing alone by a dark and empty
cabstand at 10.30 p.m. in Paris, the unknown. The others all rattled
off, and Mr. Baxter disappeared to find a taxi, and I sidled up behind a
big French soldier for comfort. I saw the fat French woman to say
good-bye and thanked her for being so bien gentille to me. I told her
that "elle m'avait fait senter la bien venue en France," which was
rotten French, and she said, "Mais Mlle. est si aimable." I could have
hugged her, and I felt as though she were a great big mother, twice,
three times, your size, Mother.
Mr. Baxter manufactured a taxi out of nothing and we bundled in the bag
and baggage without any idea how far our place was from the Quai
d'Orsai. It was nice to be on terra-cotta--to be in a place where you
don't have to show your birth certificate before you can order an egg,
as he said. The only thing that any one has told me that's true is that
Paris is dark. I don't see how the taxi-men can drive at all. We rattled
along, and finally came to a street that looked like a tunnel--a faint
light at the other end--that's all. At the very blackest point we
stopped, the driver said, "C'est l'hôtel," and by the light of a match
we could see a black sign with gold letters beside a door that looked
like the door of a stable, saying that, indeed, it was Hôtel des St.
Pères--but oh, so dark. It looked as though Louis Treize's sub-valet de
chambre had boarded it up and gone away and that no one had ever been
there since. We knocked and knocked, and after ages we heard a shuffling
step and the great black doors swung open. There stood the sleepiest,
wall-eyed person, almost entirely covered by a big spotted butcher's
apron. I asked in uncertain tones if they had place for Miss Root, and
he shook his head and I asked if he knew Miss Curtis, and he said no,
and then I asked if I could get a room. It was the most awful-looking
place. I didn't know just what to do. He made for a dark flight of
stairs,--the janitor, I mean,--and I started to follow him. I asked Mr.
Baxter if he supposed the janitor was a concierge, and he told me that
jardinière was the nearest he could get to it. Upstairs we went on
dark-red carpet, past maroon walls--up and up and up. Very high ceilings
and long black corridors. Finally he opened a room on the fourth floor,
and it looked clean, and I said I'd stay. I went down to get my things
and to thank Mr. Baxter for being so kind. I should have been so forlorn
all alone. So he drove off to the Ambulance Headquarters. I could hear
the taxi going off down the street and the "jardinière" tumbling over my
bags. I do think American men are wonderful!
We climbed again to this eyrie and he wished me "bon soir." Again I was
so glad for French because, as he was turning down my bed,--I told him
that "je viens de venir d'Amérique," and that I did not wish "que l'on
me réveille." He was quite genial and said good-night all over again.
My room is the queerest of the queer. There is a worn red carpet with
rainbow figures, the paper is green and yellow striped--mild, but
incontestably green and yellow. The ceiling is slanted and I have one
dormer window. There is a marble mantelpiece and a huge bed; also a
marble washstand, which I feel must be a bit of ornamentation looted
from Napoleon's tomb. I looked out of the window, but it's perfectly
black. There may be a blank wall six inches away, or a court or a forest
of trees or almost anything for all I can see. I stood in the middle of
the room with my hands on my hips and looked around and smiled. There
was my own fur coat which is Northampton to me, and my black sweater
which is Bailey's, and my suitcases and myself--all of us dropped into
this garret room.
When I went to lay my weary--oh, so weary--bones between the sheets, I
found the latter to be fashioned apparently out of heavy canvas. It was
like nestling down between two jibs of the good swordfisher, "Edmund
Black." The pillow is enormous and uncompromising--my own little baby
pillow Mrs. Bigelow put in her trunk for me. Still, as I describe them,
they look very good to me and I think I'll go back to them. It is
getting light, I think, and pouring rain, I'll try looking out again.
Tuesday.
I have seen it! I have seen it! Paris is the most romantic place in the
world. Talk about London! Oh, I never shall forget this afternoon. I
went to sleep almost before I stopped writing the above in pencil and
never woke up until twelve o'clock. I asked the femme de chambre whether
or not any one had called for me, thinking Miss Curtis might have tried
to find me, and she said that I had had two telephone calls, and that a
young gentleman had been here in a taxi. It was Mr. Baxter, of course,
because he said he would take me back to the Quai d'Orsay and help me
with my trunk and customs and prefect of police; and there, they'd told
him that I was asleep, and not to be waked up! I felt hopeless at the
thought of having to go by myself without any idea of what to do! I
suppose Mrs. Bigelow may have called me up. I had no idea of Miss
Curtis's whereabouts and I knew that the Shurtleffs are at their
headquarters all day long and I had no idea where that was, and I knew
that Mrs. Bigelow was at the other end of Paris and couldn't help me
even if I did see her.
I didn't feel like lunch, so I took the map of Paris and went out in the
dripping streets with no umbrella. I was so confused and so embarrassed
with my map, which I didn't dare open; I felt that people were staring
at me, and my rubbers and umbrella were in my trunk and my coat and hat
and feet were soaking. I just wandered along and finally came to a taxi.
I decided to go to Mrs. Shurtleff's house, whether she was in or not. So
I said, 6 Place Denfert-Rochereau, and got out at a big apartment house.
I walked in, and there was no elevator boy or telephone girl or
anything, so I rang at the first apartment and asked for Dr. Shurtleff.
The maid said he wasn't there, and I asked if she could tell what
apartment he lived in and she said she didn't know; finally her face
lighted up and she showed me into a little parlor and said, "You come
for a consultation! I'll go and get the doctor." Heavens and earth, I'd
stumbled into a physician's office. I said, "No, no!" and went out. I
thought I'd have to ring at all the apartments to find the Shurtleffs,
but I found a concierge, tremendously en négligé, who pointed to a
little elevator and said, "third floor." I got in expecting to be
followed, but bang went the doors without apparently word or sign from
any one and up I shot. Up and up; and I was scared to death. I felt sure
I was going through the roof; but eventually we stopped and I got out
and rang at the first bell to the left, as I'd been told. No answer; I
rang and rang; still no answer. I gathered that they were at the
headquarters, so I sat down on the top step of the stair and wrote on
the back of my visiting card that I was at the Hôtel des St. Pères. I
was a little discouraged, because it meant that I would have to wait at
the hotel until some one could call or write. In the mean time the lift
was standing inert and I couldn't make it go down--of course, I wouldn't
have gone down in it myself for the gross receipts. I could hear people
ringing wildly down below and pretty soon a man came leaping up the
stairs. I asked in my prettiest French if he could make the thing go
down, and he couldn't any more than I. He started to go into an opposite
apartment, and as the door opened I heard some one greet him in English.
I jumped up; it was the first English I'd heard since the others had
left me. I rushed forward and almost put my foot in the door, for I was
desperate. I asked the woman who had spoken, one of the most beautiful
women I ever saw, if she knew where Dr. Shurtleff lived. She said, "I am
Mrs. Shurtleff. Why, you must be Miss Root." And she threw both her arms
around me and pulled me into their living-room. There were Miss Curtis
and Dr. Shurtleff and a blazing wood-fire. If that wasn't heaven on
earth to me, I should be ungrateful to admit it. We talked and talked,
and oh, but I was glad to see them! They never had received my telegram
and the Espagne had not been announced in Paris, the concierge had
directed me to the wrong apartment, but now everything was straightened
out. It just happened that they were taking an afternoon off, the
Shurtleffs, that is; the others left very soon. I hadn't had anything to
eat since on the train the night before, and I felt weak and horrid, and
everything still rocked; so Mrs. Shurtleff gave me hot tea and nut bread
and cold chicken, and warmed me through and through. She is an angel;
she looks like one of the old Gibson drawings,--beautiful, and so
charming and enthusiastic, and much younger, too, than I had thought,
with light-brown hair and blue eyes and pink cheeks.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: No. 6 Place Denfert-Rochereau]
The first thing to decide was where I should live permanently, and Mrs.
Shurtleff took me that afternoon to two pensions, the best and nearest
to the work. One was very near, just across a little green square from
the Shurtleffs'. The other was on an adorable little street in the old
Latin Quarter, where all the painters from time immemorial have lived.
It was dark, and no conveniences, no heat, no running water, and no
bathtub in the whole house. But I peeped into one of the rooms and there
was a wood-fire singing so adorably, and a lovely mantelpiece and gold
mirror, and a piano with candles. That was nine francs a day, and
although much more inconvenient and far-away, I wanted to go there. The
cook showed us around and I promised to call on Wednesday and see the
landlady.
After that Mrs. Shurtleff took me to do an errand--and I saw Paris for
the first time. I think that the Seine, and the bridges, and lines of
straight trees are the most beautiful things I've ever seen. We looked
up the Champs Élysées as the sun was setting and the lights were
beginning to twinkle through a violet haze. It was like a dream city. I
sat on the extremest edge of the seat in the taxi gazing and gazing at
everything. Mrs. Shurtleff delighted in my delight, and she said it made
her live again the enthusiasm and wonder that she felt when she came
here ten years ago. So many queer things I noticed that she grew used to
years ago; the door-handles in the middle of the doors, the lamp-posts
in the middle of the sidewalks, and funny quaint little things like
that. We saw a trolley-car marked "Bastille," and I burst out laughing.
Why, it seemed like marking the ugliest, most ordinary or modern thing
"Guillotine" or "Robespierre"! Think of getting a transfer or "watching
your step" going to the Bastille.
I went to the Vestiaire yesterday morning where I am to work. It is
wonderfully interesting. All kinds of clothing are piled everywhere and
there is an office where people apply, and everything is very
business-like. The refugees are pathetic to the last degree, and already
I have seen many, many people, and heard of cases, that I couldn't
believe existed in the world. I haven't done any real work yet; but here
is something I want to tell you. We need everything, particularly warm
things, blankets; and big wide shoes above everything. I saw men turn
away some people to-day, and I tell you I'd like to snatch these
bedclothes out of the hotel and go find old people and give them to
them. But any kind of clothes! I saw a pile of sticks, about a hundred,
stored in the corner, and I asked Mrs. Shurtleff what they were for and
she said for the blind. They can't afford to buy them. Think of being
blinded and then not being able to afford a few pennies to buy a cane.
I find that Paris is much more alive and happy than I had expected,
although the individual cases are so very hard.
I have decided on my pension, and I like Mme. H----. My room certainly
is comfort itself, for Paris, with lovely sunlight and trees and a park
below. I move in November 4th, and I am glad to have it settled. Living
is so expensive that many of the best pensions have had to close, so I
feel I am wonderfully lucky.
Yesterday afternoon I covered about twelve acres of streets and
buildings in fulfilling various official formalities, and now call all
the prefects of police by their first names. I had no trouble, but it is
tedious to go from one place to another. My official title on the Paris
register is now "Demoiselle de Vestiaire," and as that can refer both to
relief work and to check girls in restaurants, I can give up one any
time for the other.
[Illustration: Women's Vestiaire]
[Illustration: Men's Vestiaire]
I went to the station and brought my trunk here. I had dinner with Mrs.
Bigelow, and we just fell on each other's necks and couldn't seem to let
go. Those two days of separation have been pretty long. We went to
church to the Wednesday evening meeting. We could hear them singing
"Abide with Me" as we came up the street, and it was the first note of
music that I had heard in many a long day, except what I played myself
on the steamer. My heart just swelled up, and when we got in and sang
the third verse, the tears were rolling down our cheeks. It was a
wonderful service.
The sun shines to-day for the first time, and I have been out with my
trusty map. You see such vital little scenes in the street--two girls
poring over a letter from the front, and giggling and teasing each
other; a little girl with tight black pig-tails, bare legs and socks, a
full black cape, and a basket under her arm, standing on tippey-toes to
ring an old bronze bell; a widow walking along with a little child,
watching with an inscrutable expression a car full of soldiers starting
for the front; a group of poor people, market-women, old men, and
children, pressing closely around a sign-poster who is posting up a
list, "Morts pour la Patrie." Many times you see the signs: "Don't talk,
be careful, enemy ears are listening." Oh, this country is at war, but I
can't tell you the inspiration that seems to be in the very streets. And
it is so beautiful when I think that I am really to live here, to be
chez moi, and have my own books and pictures and perhaps some plants,
and be able to go about and see these things. I can't tell you how happy
I am. If the Statue of Liberty ever wants to see me again, she will have
to turn a complete back somersault.
I send love home in bushels. There have been moments in these last few
days! But never for one breath have I wished that I hadn't set out, and
now with my pension settled, my permis de séjour granted by the police,
my trunk by my side, my work fairly started, the Shurtleffs perfectly
wonderful, and Mrs. Bigelow at hand and happy, why, nothing could be
happier than I am. And I never can thank you enough for letting me come.
My one trouble now is writer's cramp, so I must stop before I am too
paralyzed to address the envelope!
Do write me.
Love to you all.
ESTHER.
III
FROM ESTHER
Paris, November 26, 1916.
DEAREST MOTHER:--
My literary style may be a trifle affected by Baedeker, but I hope the
following details will not seem as dry as sawdust to you, for they are
the very air I breathe daily.
At the beginning of the war the French Government declared a moratorium,
which is the suspension of rent payments for every one in Paris paying a
rent of less than two thousand francs or possibly three thousand francs.
With practically all the men mobilized, many families would have starved
but for this provision. The wives or widows of soldiers are given a
regular income by the French Government called "allocation,"--one franc
twenty-five centimes a day and seventy-five centimes for each child. The
soldiers themselves get five sous a day (formerly three sous), which
barely enables them to get necessities and soap and tobacco, etc.
"Chaumage" is money given to woman refugees if they have no men
fighting. One franc twenty-five centimes a day for all over sixteen not
working (mothers of little children, invalids, blind, etc.), and fifty
centimes for children. There is a special old-age pension for men and
women over sixty. In addition to these pensions there are
committees--Comité Franco-Belge, Comité de la Marne, Secours des
Meusiens, etc., who help refugees by giving money and clothes to special
cases. They are so swamped with demands, however, that they cannot do
much. It is a marvel to me what they and the French Government can do
and what complication of financial adjustment is apparently carried on
successfully. Where does the money come from to finance this war?
Perhaps it would seem that considering the chaumage, the refugees are
nearly as well off as the Parisians, but I assure you it is not so: the
moratorium makes a vast difference, and, above all, the strangeness of
Paris, ignorance of where to find places to live and work, ill health
often contracted from the hardships of the way down and the frightful
shock of living through bombardment. Many of them, you see, were fairly
well off in Rheims or Lille or Maubeuge, or wherever they came from, and
had to flee with only the clothes they had on their backs. The people
who try to do much with little and live up to their former way of living
appeal to my sympathy more than the most squalid who really have the
greatest misery.
We have found that people can get a furnished room for thirty centimes a
day and up. Awful little rooms, dens of darkness and disease, can be
found (only occasionally, praise be) for three francs a week; but I
can't consider those. I saw one yesterday--a mother and two little girls
live there, and it was about the size of the cabin in our motor-boat,
but made the latter seem vast and airy by comparison. With the prices of
food and coal high, and constantly soaring, the poor people can just
make out their rent and food, but cannot buy clothes. Shoes are thirty
francs and up. You can figure it out for yourself. With our help,
however, many, many poor families can get along that would otherwise be
destitute. Sometimes we can give a girl a suit which will enable her to
present herself for a far better position than she could hope to obtain
in rags. Sometimes boys can go to school if they have warm new shoes, a
black apron, and an overcoat, when without them they would stay at home
and shiver in idleness. Warm strong clothing not only gives a new lease
to health, but to life as a whole. You should see the little girls when
I give them a hair-ribbon or a dress for their doll, if they have one.
I have gathered a lot of old stuff that I found at the Vestiaire and
have brought it home and ironed it out and cut it up fresh and given it
away to all sorts of little "fillettes." I do believe in the trimmings
even for the most wretched, especially if they're kids, and I am glad to
say that Mrs. Shurtleff does, too. We have a box of tinsel favors filled
with tiny bonbons that we give to the littlest, if they are restless
while their parents are being accommodated. The other day we had a
little angel of less than two, a small refugee from Rheims with its
father and mother. Her ears were pierced and supported tiny earrings.
When in this war-time any one had the time and inclination to pierce
that child's ears is one on me! Her father left our part of the
Vestiaire a few minutes to be fitted to an overcoat in the men's
department, and the child began to howl. I took it in my arms and rushed
it after its father as fast as I could go. Then all was serene again. In
some cases we go so far as to move families from crowded, dirty,
unsavory quarters to as clean and as airy a place as we can find in
proportion to their income. We then guarantee their rent for three
months and help them to furnish. This is all in the hands of the
installation department, and I have nothing to do with that, so I cannot
tell you as much as I would like to.
The field work is the visiting and investigation of applicants. The war
work of the Students Atelier Reunions has become known by word of mouth
among the refugees. Of course, the reports and results of our work
travel like wildfire and we are inundated with requests. After receiving
a letter from a refugee the case is looked up by two field workers and
reported at a meeting of the committee the following Saturday morning. A
vote is taken as to what to do and how much to give if it is decided to
give anything. The people are then told to present themselves at the
Vestiaire and we give them what they need. Every type of man, woman, and
child has crossed our threshold even within my month of service. How I
love them all!
I try to get each story as I measure the person and search the stock and
try on and tie up and list. Mother would die to see me, who have never
known anything more about children than that they belonged to the animal
kingdom and were awful little monkeys and might better approach more
nearly the vegetable kingdom, even if they were darlings--to see me tell
some mother of ten that "her little Yvonne is large for eight," or that
"Renaud has small feet for a boy of twelve." It is I who measure and
mark children's clothes as they are sent to us, according to age, and in
centimeters at that. I have been driven to ascertaining my own waist
measure by the same rating and now go about heavily veiled.
My good fortune has been to be made one of the field workers and I go
with either Miss Curtis or Miss Sturgis every Monday and Wednesday. Two
always go together because, until we have been to a place once, we don't
know what we are getting into, and it would be foolish to go alone way
to the back of the top of these big dark buildings without knowing what
sort of people lived there. In their homes you do see the people chez
eux. We see the extremes of cleanliness and filth, thrift and
abjectness. I shall not stop to describe individual homes now, but I can
tell you some of them are rare. In one home of about the same stratum as
the Russian family Mother and I visited last Christmas, I stepped
gingerly among the rags, coal-dust, food, and so forth on the floor, and
went and sat beside the dirtiest but the darlingest child you ever
saw,--blue eyes with black lashes, which always get me, you know,--but
its nose running fearfully. Miss Curtis did the questioning, but I
interrupted every three minutes to beseech the mother to wipe the
offending organ. I finally learned that the child ought to have an
operation, but it is only twenty-five months old and the doctor will not
operate until she is three. I showed her the buttons on my glove,
fastening and unfastening them. She looked up to me with her dirty
little mouth smiling radiantly and said, "Tiens!"
They are not the type we can do much for, but I begged some warm clothes
for them and they came to the Vestiaire yesterday. The name is Pruvot,
and there are a mother and daughter, three sons in the war, one of whom
I am going to adopt as "filleul," a son and his wife and two little
girls, and a little illegitimate child of a son who has disappeared and
whose mother has abandoned it. He is the star child, Marcel Pruvot, two
and a half years, and I am crazy to adopt him. What would you say if I
brought him home with me? Think of what one could make of his life; but,
of course, I shall not. We sent a layette to one little mother. (My
mother should see the layette department, stocked up with the cutest
things I ever saw.) And as a special luxury, we included some talcum
powder, marked "poudre de riz" (rice powder). Mrs. Jackson went to look
her up one day and found her boiling the talcum powder with water in a
saucepan, just about to feed it to the little creature of three months.
She had never heard of powder before.
The next big branch of work is fitting out the blind. There is more
pathos, gayety, and inspiration on Tuesday and Friday afternoons than in
all the rest of the week. After the men are wounded at the front they
are brought back through a chain of relief stations, "postes de
secours," to hospitals, and finally to a Paris hospital. The blind are
allowed to recuperate here either at the Val de Grace or the
Quinze-Vingt (big hospitals), and are then sent away, usually to the
country to learn a trade or to rejoin their families, or both. They must
give up their military clothes, underclothes, and shoes when they are
discharged, and are given only the poorest kind of civilian clothes in
exchange. This is where we step in to give them decent clothes. In many
cases they are not given civilian clothes at all, although I don't
understand the Government system enough to see how that is possible. So
Miss Hodges, our representative in work for the blind, brings five or
six of the most needy and touching cases to us and we fit them out.
The blind are the most childlike as a general rule of all the people we
deal with, and the outfit we give them and the kindness and help they
receive at the Vestiaire mean to them a new start in life, as we have
learned from guards afterwards. Such brave fellows! It is an exception
to see one downcast or morose, but when you do, your heart aches twice
as much, not only for them, but for the many gay ones who have conquered
despair. One boy twenty-four years old was wounded in the leg and
dragged himself along the ground half conscious, to find he was dragging
himself toward the German trenches. At this point he was struck again
and his eyes put out. He lay between the trenches under fire for days,
unconscious most of the time and feigning death the rest. By a miracle
he escaped being killed. He was picked up and taken to a hospital; has
been there six months, and is now starting out to learn a trade--in the
dark. I love to do what I can for them, especially as this is my one
chance to know the French poilu.
You would laugh to see me measuring and fitting, especially when it
comes to holding up underwear to some dear blind giant. I remember all
too well how at the age of eight I used to wriggle in Altman's when
mother insisted on "getting an idea how they would go" by holding "them"
up to me. Every saleswoman and floorwalker got the idea clearly. There
are moments when blindness is not such a misfortune.
The blind soldiers are always interested to know what their new clothes
look like. "C'est de quel couleur, Mademoiselle?" "Dark brown," I say,
"and I will give you a brown and white tie." "Ah que je serai chic,
moi!" One of his comrades would nudge him and say, "Je voudrais bien
avoir les yeux pour te voir, maintenant, mon vieux! C'est vrai que tu
vais te marier?" (I would like to have eyes to see you now, old fellow;
is it true you are just going to be married?) Then they laugh and thank
me "mille fois" and shake hands and wish me good luck. Sometimes I walk
down the street with them and guide them along. I admire their medals
and tell them that the passers-by are looking at them, etc. We never say
the word "aveugle" (blind), but "blessé" (wounded). Sometimes when we
have to wait for their guards I sit on the table and tell them all about
my crossing and about America, and, oh, a hundred things. We do have
good times--for the moment.
I have tried to give you a grasp of what we have to meet and how we try
to meet it. First, the French system of pensions and rents, then the
giving of clothes and the moving of families, then the field work and
the work for the blind. I haven't told about the Ouvroir because I am
not well enough informed. We give employment to many women in making
clothes for the Vestiaire,--flannel shirts and petticoats, underclothes,
dresses, everything. All materials, clothes, furniture, or their
equivalent in money, come from America.