so simple. It is quite wonderful to me to see how this work of Mrs.
Shurtleff's has grown up. The whole institution is run very smoothly and
very thoroughly. She takes it all very calmly and keeps it all in hand
without giving the appearance of being what you would call a "business
woman." She always has time to be more than polite and kind. She takes
the trouble to drop in to see me, for instance, when I know perfectly
well how busy she is. She writes the greater part of the "thank-you"
letters herself, and that alone is a terrific job. She is almost an
exact opposite to Mrs. ----, and yet it is wonderful to see how she has
kept this work up to standard and how she has enlarged it, and is every
day, almost, enlarging. Since I have come, for instance, she has started
a grocery store department, and the special tubercular department.
Altogether I am thoroughly enjoying "watching the wheels go round," and
I think I shall be able to do my bit towards pushing. I do not see how I
could have found a pleasanter, more fitting job for a girl of my age.
[Illustration: Dr. and Mrs. Shurtleff in the Office]
Until I got warmed up yesterday, I had the keenest sympathy with one
"Sam McGee" in one of Robert Service's poems,--who, you probably
remember, never was warm until he finally sat in his "crematorium"!
I must stop now. I hope that you have been able to read this. I used a
pen to-night because I have typed so much all day I was tired of it!
Lots and lots of love from your daughter
MARJE.
IX
FROM MARJORIE
Villa des Dames,
79 rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, Paris.
(February 4, 1917.)
DEAREST FAMILY:--
Oh, Mother and Daddy, this work here is so interesting. Now that I have
settled down to it more, and can see what I am doing and where it all
leads to, I am very, very interested. I think that I shall be useful,
too. My typewriter hasn't stopped clicking for many hours since I came.
It is now being adjusted over Sunday, and they are going to give me a
price on having the French accents put on it. I tried to exchange it for
a French keyboard one, same machine, Corona, of course, but find it
would cost twenty dollars, which is an absurd price, I think. Of course,
they are selling so many here, they can ask what they want. However, I
jollied the lady a good deal, and she is going to see how much it would
cost to add the accents only to mine,--for you see it takes a lot of
extra, and just now pretty valuable, time, to go back over every page
and put on the accents. If they give me a good price, I think I shall do
it out of the money Mr. M. gave me.
I have been put in entire charge of the mail now, and, therefore, I try
to get to the Vestiaire by twenty minutes to nine, which gives me twenty
minutes free all to myself to get the letters opened at least, and
somewhat sorted. I am becoming a regular Sherlock Holmes when it comes
to guessing at names, addresses, and whether the letters are from
soldiers' wives, cultivated persons, or the regular appeals! After I
sort them, I head them with the last name, the address, and the
arrondissement, and then file what I can, and deliver the rest to the
various workers who are by this time assembling, and, as I have chosen
the mantelpiece for my desk, pro tem., I find every one gathers towards
the fire, which saves me lots of time! Because I am new, and the streets
are so very peculiar to me still, and it takes longer to look over a
French letter than it would an English one, I do not get ready for
calling until about 9.45. Then I get off, the others having paired off
and started soon after 9.10. Call all morning, but usually only three
visits, for it takes time to get all the details we want, and, as it is
really pretty much up to the visitor and her report as to what the
conference votes Saturday, we don't hurry, but try to give them each
their due, as it were. When I was home, of course, I thought that I knew
what the war over here meant, but now I am beginning to realize that if
I stayed here the rest of my life (which I hope I will not have to do,
even with the new international complications), I would find new
horrors, new complications and results every day. Of course, the object
of our visiting is to determine whether the family deserves what it has
asked for, and also to decide if they deserve what we can do, but they
never dream of asking us to move them. Of course, the greatest
difference between our work here and the ordinary visiting done by
social service workers at home, is that usually the people at home have
brought their present condition of misery on themselves in one way or
another, while these poor souls over here have not. They have had homes,
gardens, rabbits, and savings, which they tell you about as a rule with
pleasure, and not emotionally. (That is one thing, these people have
suffered so they do not weep any more.) These people used to help others
a little, and were driven out in various horrible and less horrible
ways,--marching for days on foot, a whole family, old and young, and not
able to save anything, and some families separated forever, perhaps by
the blowing up of a bridge behind them to keep back the "Boches." We
have one family who got across a bridge just in time. The mother and two
youngest children they saw on the other side before the bridge was blown
up, and they have never heard of or from them since. Then the days of
walking, sleeping in caves, sometimes for weeks, eating only when chance
put food in their ways; women having their babies born in straw in
cellars under bombardment, and the children surviving, sometimes. Then
after weeks of this, they arrive here, for it is certainly true of Paris
as of Rome, that "all roads lead to Rome," to find that they being
refugees must pay rent. No one wants to take them in when they have many
children. The Government is wonderful the way it does give its
"allocation" to them. The Mairies give coal once a month and potatoes
twice; and the schools give sabots or jalottes every three months. But
even with this, it is hard, after having had a "home," to live in hôtels
all in one room, or two at the most (and these people that were a pretty
good class of persons formerly). I don't know whether their mental as
well as physical suffering is more pitiful than those common miners'
families, refugees who always lived a squalid life, but whose actual
physical misery is usually worse than the first class.
Of course, the Parisians have a certain definite advantage right from
the first, because, according to law, they do not have to pay rent; that
is, none who have a member at the front, and goodness knows that
includes all Parisiennes, at any rate. This law does not refer to
refugees, so you see it makes a good big difference in the comparative
cost of living.
I suppose that it must be the Rockefeller Foundation that gives so many
of these people from the "pays envahis" such excellent aid if they pass
through Switzerland. We hear over and over again that in "Suisse on est
bien traité."
Just at present, things are very busy here, for Mrs. Shurtleff is
opening two new départements,--grocery and tuberculosis. The former will
be invaluable, for so many of the people are sick through lack of proper
food; and, after all, with one franc twenty-five centimes a day
allocation for the wife or mother, and seventy-five centimes per day for
the children under sixteen years, and only fifty centimes per kid if
there is no member at the front, with the average family now, with the
very varying rent, sometimes very high and other times comparatively
low, it is, even with a small supply of coal and potatoes (erratically
given, for the most part), hard for a family that is run down, after the
exposures and general strain of their flight, to have enough money left,
when they have paid their rent, to buy very nourishing and very much
food. It is most interesting to find every day new twists and turns as
to what the different Comités and Mairies will and will not do. They are
cutting down on everything as much as they can, and you can hardly blame
them. But the inconsistencies are amusing at times;--one family does not
get its "allocation de réfugié," generally known as "chaumage"
(differing from "allocation militaire" in that it is given, although
there is no member of the family at the front), because they have only
four children! Yet if there were five children or more, they would
receive only four pairs of shoes from the schools every three months, so
whatever you have in the way of a family is a drawback; but if you have
no children at all, you are worse off than ever!!
In one way the poor children are better off, from my way of thinking, in
one detail,--the poorer they are the heavier stockings they wear, and as
they grow richer, the stockings become less and less, until the really
rich, swell, Commonwealth-Avenue children go about with socks and purple
knees!
We each of us have our "pet families" whom we want to do little extra
things for, and I have already acquired one family--a very extra
special, nice, self-respecting one, who won me among other things by
telling me she opened the window in her room twice a day to change the
air!--an absolutely unheard-of thing in this land! The woman has three
dear little children, two who go to school and a lovely little baby.
They are all so clean, and the tiny room is spotless. The eldest boy is
now sixteen, and has just been operated on for appendicitis, and has
gone to some friends in the country to rest after the operation. The
mother and three children spent a month in caves before she came here.
The father is at the front, of course,--is a wirelayer for telephone and
telegraph service. He does lookout work, sitting in tree-tops with
spyglasses and hoisted on top of poles to try to discover the enemy's
guns and positions,--all of which is very dangerous work. Enough of all
this;--I did not realize how I had rambled on.
I want you and Daddy to know that I have been writing so hard that I
never heard the luncheon bell at all!! I am now eating my various kinds
of crackers with one hand, while I finish this with the other! I shall
have a splendid excuse to have a very plentiful tea this afternoon,
which will be very nice. I can tell you I think that I could stand a
several days' siege with my well-stocked wardrobe.
Lots and lots of love to all the family from your very happy and busy
daughter,
MARJE.
This letter, although probably late, brings many, many happy returns of
the day to you, Mother dear.
P.S. Having re-read this letter, I have to apologize for the writing. I
am terribly sorry it is so messy. I guess I got excited and tried to go
as fast as the typewriter does!
X
FROM ESTHER
On train from Pau, Saturday, February 24, 1917.
DEAREST FATHER:--
A telegram came to me a week ago, just as I was about to return to
Paris, telling me that the Ford had arrived at Bordeaux and to stay in
Pau until further notice. So I have been put in Pau since then, having
one more extra week. It has been glorious.
But nothing so glorious as the news that our darling Ford is on French
soil--or in French docks or wherever it is. A letter from Mrs. Shurtleff
unfolds this plan for me to meet her and Marjorie Crocker in Bordeaux
and drive the car up to Paris. Our road lies straight through the
château country. With weather and reasonable luck with the car we ought
to manage to get some fun out of it. Mrs. Shurtleff and Marjorie would
be my choice of companions, and the heart of France with a long straight
road my choice of place.
My "permis de conduire" hangs in mid-air. No word has been said of it,
but I know I must have one. The more I concentrate on the genus Ford,
the less I can remember about it; and to start off with an air in a new
car and in a strange city will be a sensation, at least. However, I'll
do anything once. The last time I drove a car was when I took Mrs.
Perkins for a national excursion down the sylvan ways of Connecticut. I
hardly expected then to have as my next passenger a frowning French
prefect of police through the heart of Bordeaux. We shall see.
Yesterday afternoon is one of the pleasantest that I have to look back
on in adorable Pau. Sudden inspiration seized me in the early afternoon
and I bought a sketch-book. Possibly Harold's charming drawings, made in
the country and at the front, planted ambitions in my unaspiring pencil
that I had hitherto ignored. Anyway, I bought a businesslike appareil
and wandered around the château seeking the most appealing detail. I
chose my point of attack and settled myself down on the curbstone with
my muff as a cushion. A few yards away a real artist was working, with
stool, easel, board, and other paraphernalia. I could almost hear his
brush scratch the canvas and feel his withering eye on my back.
Undismayed, I maintained my lowly position and scratched on for my own
part with unabashed enjoyment. The afternoon sun gave long shadows and
"touched the Sultan's turret with a shaft of light." It was magical.
I had almost finished when some boys came running out to play. They were
little chaps in the inevitable black aprons, and on their heads the
round sailor tams topped by a rosette. Some clustered around the artist,
the rest looked over my shoulder. They began to take sides. "Pas mal
çà," said one sitting on the curb beside me. "L'autre est mieux,"
genially put in another. At that several champions sprang magnanimously
forward--I say magnanimously, for really my efforts weren't too
successful. Age and weather and the piecemeal way in which the château
was built have given it that irregularity which is charming. The towers
tilt and the roofs sag in a way to make Bob's architectural soul recoil;
but I have rendered these with such unstinted charm that in general
perspective the château seems to have aged several centuries. One rosy
eight-year-old shook his head and declared vehemently: "Je mettrais
quinze jours â faire un tel dessein!" I asked him if they taught drawing
in school. It seems that every Tuesday and Friday "one" draws pitchers
and cups and casseroles and that day the whole class had drawn his
whistle. One day they draw the map of États-Unis. "Oh," I said, "c'est
de là que je viens, moi."
Then began a thousand questions, and I related what wonders I could, for
joy to see the many eyes grow rounder and rounder. There are buildings
in New York--I told them--there were buildings in New York ten times as
high as the château. "Pas possible!" was the general verdict. My
eight-year-old pushed his way out of the crowd and ran to the corner of
the street. "Dis donc, Julien!" he called out, "viens ici, écouter ce
qu'il y a aux États-Unis!" Another boy came running from the house and
joined him, and I saw him out of the corner of my eye, pointing out the
tower of the château with astounding comments. I went on describing the
elevators in the high buildings and how fast they went. But they had
never seen an elevator. He who has missed a French elevator cannot
complain of any great lack, but it certainly does heighten the
difficulty of fifty-eight stories. I had finished. My pals started to go
off, lured on by some one's "prelotte" (hop-scotch stone). I said, "Vous
pouvez dire hop-scotch?" They all tried in different tones and
tempos--and it was drôle comme tout. We all burst out laughing and I
started on my way. "'Voir, Mam'selle," they called after me, lifting
their "bonnets" and waving. I walked home smiling.
What I should have missed if the sketch-book hadn't inspired me--or if
French were an unknown tongue--or if you hadn't let me come to France!
You have doubtless known and detested hotel children--the spoiled
darlings of elevator boys and hotel habitués; so you will be grieved to
know that you have raised one. At my time of life--it is only a second
childhood, I know; but this month at Pau has given me a luscious taste
of being petted. The Hôtel de Londres is small and English. Every one
greets every one else in the dining-room, every one shares in hotel
newspapers, and every one promenades on the boulevard. Getting
acquainted is easy and interesting, but for my first two weeks I did
nothing but sleep and read. My third week was the week that Harold and
the boys left, and as they didn't get their definite orders until
Saturday, we had to say farewell nearly every day.
This week has been my week of expecting a telegram, so I have steadily
made the best of the last moment, and really feel that some of those
wonderful English people are my friends.
Mr. and Mrs. Moody are my favorites. She is tall and majestic and her
face is a mass of little wrinkles like the ripples when you drop a
pebble in a pool. Mr. Moody is little and bald and white-haired and
coughing, and must always have his rug. He has explained the Crimean War
to me from A to Izzard and traced a genealogy of the French kings by
memory.
Then there's Mr. Heyworth, a sort of a William Gillette man from India,
who was torpedoed on the Arabic; a young French aviator and his wife,
very good-looking both of them; and a Russian lady who in a desperation
of loneliness took a great shine to me, which I successfully
counteracted by having her teach me the Russian alphabet. Last of all,
there was a little French girl,--Bernadotte,--whose mother, an American,
died three weeks ago, and whose father is at the front. If she had had
any less than two governesses to keep her away from people, I shouldn't
have had a show as the hotel baby.
Well, we played bridge and walked and took tea and went driving and had
a splendid time. Aunt Ella studies all morning, never takes tea, and
goes to bed early, so that I have been a great deal with these other
people. Mr. Moody called me "m'dear" and patted my hand, and Mrs. Moody
teased me in the most tremendously ladylike way, and we had a splendid
time. When my telegram finally came, it seemed very sudden; and they
were no end nice about my going. Mrs. Moody said how much she would miss
the Donna of the next room. (We had become acquainted by my hearing them
gargle and their hearing me laughing over my letters from home, and
singing "La Donna e Mobile" to myself.) One day I called Mr. Moody's
attention to the fact that I had changed my time of departure. He said,
"Quite in keeping, my dear. La Donna e Mobile!" As I was finally going,
he, in the sweetest way and the most English English, quoted what
Boswell said when he heard of Johnson's death. "The gayety of nations is
eclipsed," and said that he hoped to encounter the gayety in Paris. I
said that I hated to go, but,--and here, Plagiarism, gentle presence!
lit on my brow,--"This Donna likes to be en automobile." It proved to be
a wonderful exit speech.
Even Teresa said she regretted my going, "On s'amuse bien quand M'lle
est là," and when I said, "Hasta luego!" she answered feelingly, "Hasta
luego!"--perhaps our most felicitous Spanish conversation.
It has been more than I had dreamed, this stay in Pau. The mountains,
the country, the aviation, and the people. I tried to repay the kindness
that was shown me, and I realize that young people and happy people are
scarce now, so that any one of my age and spirits would have had as
cordial a reception. Those older folk were lonely and I was different,
that's all. C'est la guerre.
We are passing through lovely country. It is sunset-time and the
shepherd boys are driving home their sheep in an orange haze. The man
opposite us looks like the villain in the play--black mustache, derby
well over the eyes, black velvet brocaded waistcoat, and gold ball
cuff-buttons. I expected him to draw a Smith & Wesson on me a short time
ago, but it was three pills (like shoe-buttons) that he had. He gulped
them down and is now sleeping innocuously like a baby of two.
My writing is only a trifle less awful than the roadbed--Bordeaux!
Love.
ESTHER.
XI
FROM ESTHER
Paris, March, 1917.
DEAREST FATHER:--
I have never told you enough about our trip up from Bordeaux, and so
many things happened that were interesting and the effects of the trip
have been so lasting that I want very much to put you au courant.
We left on a Wednesday for Angoulême, which was a beautiful day's run.
The weather was superb, and it seemed too good to be true that we were
actually flying down the famous poplar-edged roads of France in our own
little car. We reached Angoulême at sunset-time. If you have ever been
there, you will remember the wonderful situation of the city. It rises
high in the center of a plain and the walk around the walls affords a
beautiful view. After getting settled in the hotel, we made the circuit
of the town and watched the shades of a pink and gold sunset slowly
deepen into the purple of twilight.
I rose early the next morning, before the others were up, and took a few
pictures. I had a lovely ramble among the old churches.
It was on leaving Angoulême that I cleverly took the wrong road, which
added fully fifty kilometres to our day's run. We found ourselves at
about two o'clock in La Rochefoucauld. Everywhere we were in search of
essence, and as we found plenty of it there, Marje forgave my stupidity.
As we knew we could make Poitiers that night, anyway, Mrs. Shurtleff
said that it made no difference. After having given one look at the
lovely château, I felt personally very pleased with myself. We had
luncheon at a funny little inn, which was so stuffy inside that we
insisted upon having them serve our omelets on the front porch. They
thought, of course, that we were crazy and the windows were crowded with
faces showing ill-concealed curiosity.
We went up to the château and found an old woman there who was glad to
take us around. The present Duke and Duchess of La Rochefoucauld have
not lived in the château since the beginning of the war. She is an
American with millions who has restored most lavishly but in the best
possible taste the interior of the fine old castle. The only son and
heir died, at the age of seven, a few years ago. A charming marble bust
of the child placed in the chapel gave a pathetic note to the whole
place. We stopped at Ruffec that afternoon, having been advised not to
miss the place where they manufacture pâtés de foie gras and truffles.
The fattest woman I ever saw has a little shop in a courtyard where the
finest canned goods are put up. She showed us her storeroom of thousands
of cans, and I felt like buying a couple of thousand until I found out
how much she charged. As it was, we bought six or seven cans, arguing
that it was pure economy to eat pâté with bread at the side of the road
instead of going to a hotel for luncheon every day.
We made Poitiers that night just after dark, dead tired. We slept late
in the morning and had a terrific time making the car start. We had time
to stop only at a few stores before going on our way, so that at the
present writing I can't tell you the difference in the general
topography between Poitiers and Jersey City. One thing I do remember is
that Harold made a careful note, on the guide that he wrote out for me,
that the Field of the Cloth of Gold was near Poitiers; and as I am a
perfect sight-seeing fiend I was bound that I would see it. While
manicuring the car in the garage and pouring gasoline and oil into every
joint and crevice, I tried to find out from the garage-man where I could
find (and here Marje disappeared inside the bonnet) "le champs de
l'étoffe d'or." He thought it was a part of the car and said that he was
sure that it was not that that was out of order. I gave up the search
and found when I reached Paris that such Field is near Dieppe, a good
three hundred miles from Poitiers.