first time in many well-ordered months jumped out of my pocket. I have
always been crazy about leopards, as you know; especially this winter I
have wanted to get a leopard's skin, but I did not think that even the
"miscellaneous" column in my accounts would justify the purchase of any
jungle trophies. I asked at Revillon's one day the price of a perfect
beauty that was in the window, and found that it was three hundred
francs. In Poitiers Marje and I were walking innocently down a side
street looking for some crackers and jam and a chamois skin through
which to strain the gasoline, when, suddenly, I saw in the window a
little yellow leopard that just twined himself around my heart! I soon
had him spread out on the counter and was haggling with the woman over
the price. She said sixty francs, with tears in her eyes. I objected
strenuously and Marje walked off in the other direction. She hates me
when I am trying to "marchander" and suddenly pretends that she is not
with me and doesn't know me, which is absurd when we are often the only
two American girls in the town. Well, I bought the leopard--"Leo" on
further acquaintance--for forty francs, and this time tears were in the
very voice of his former mistress. We left Poitiers in a cloud of dust,
not having seen one building, one church, or one view. Baedeker lay
sulking in the back of the car, but Marje was correspondingly exultant.
There is a certain antipathy between Marje and a statistic which may be
noticed. We had luncheon by the side of the road with Leo as guest of
honor. I thought Mrs. Shurtleff would die of laughter when she saw him
and when she discovered a large bald spot on his left shoulder. We all
laughed so that we could hardly negotiate another truffle! I must tell
you that weeks afterwards, when I told Aunt Ella that I had bought a
leopard skin in Poitiers, expecting her to throw up her hands at such
foolishness, she sat up straight and said: "You did? Oh! I wish I had
known there were leopard skins in Poitiers,--I just love them."
[Illustration: Marjorie and Mrs. Shurtleff, with the Leopard Skin]
Tours was our next stop. We went straight to the cathedral, which is
very lovely. As we walked around toward the back, I saw a beautiful
black dog tied to a little push-cart and approached it making
appropriate remarks. Quick as a wink it jumped up and bit me, tearing my
dress, but giving me only a scratch. This was considered very funny, as
I had been remarking what a way I had with animals. I have since learned
that such dogs are trained to bite anything that approaches the
push-cart in its master's absence.
Marje was particularly anxious to go the rounds of the antique shops in
Tours. Her mother and father had once spent a good deal of time there,
and she was anxious to see the city and also to try to match some china
that her mother had bought there. I usually stiffen my neck and keep my
eyes front when I see an antique shop and especially since Leo has come
into my life! I have been really meticulous in my studied inattention!
But here we positively ran into the jaws of the enemy. Marje bought a
million dollars' worth of gorgeous dark blue and gold cups, the kind
that are supposed to be made only in Tours. I came off with a little
imitation one for two francs, fifty centimes, which will mean as much to
me when I drink tea from it with Leo at my back.
From Tours we ran along the edge of the Loire. We were weary of asking
for essence, so you can imagine our delight to be able to get as much as
we wanted just outside of the city. You see, essence is practically
unobtainable in Paris, and at best at a very high figure, so that we
were anxious to get enough to run on for a while until we should be able
to get a special order from the Ministère de la Guerre on account of
ours being a work for charity.
We spent that night at Amboise. It was bitterly cold, but wonderfully
picturesque. The hotel faced on the water front, and up the hill, and on
the right, was a lovely château. The "Cheval blanc," as the hotel is
called, was very quaint, but, like all things quaint, as cold as an
iceberg. We sat around the little stove in the dining-room after dinner
and did our accounts, no simple matter. We got to laughing so over the
state of our affairs that our additions and subtractions--chiefly
subtractions--showed the effects, no doubt. That famous black velvet hat
of mine I had worn down in the train when I went to Pau, not knowing
that I should make the trip home in a Ford ambulance. Fortunately I had
my little brown hat with me to wear back, but the body of the car was so
congested, with our gasoline, our suitcases, the thermos bottles,
Marje's china, and the automobile tools, that the hat suffered
considerably--to put it mildly.
At Amboise Mrs. Shurtleff admitted that she had been very ill during the
night. She wanted to go to Chenonceaux just the same, however. We gave
only a fleeting glance at the gem of all the châteaux and hurried on to
Blois. I was driving that morning and I shall never forget the ride.
Mrs. Shurtleff was really suffering badly and freezing cold; she was
anxious to get the first train to Paris to get home to her husband. So,
of course, you can imagine what a hurry we were in, but the roads were
rough and full of country carts, and I could see that driving fast made
her nervous. It was cold and windy, as I have said; but I had my coat
open and was covered with perspiration by the time we crossed the bridge
and arrived at Blois.
We took Mrs. Shurtleff to a little hotel close to the railroad-station,
where she lay down and begged us to leave her and go off and have a good
time. We said that we would and that we would come back in plenty of
time to put her on the 7.40 train for Paris. We hadn't had anything to
eat all day and were too tired to think; and the thought of the château
was a little too much for us. So we went to a pâtisserie for some hot
chocolate. We ate every cake in the place and got up so much spunk that
we decided to give the château the once over. It was late and the place
was supposed to be closed, but a nice guide took us through. When we
returned we found Mrs. Shurtleff a little better, and with one grand
effort she rose and took the train.
We went to a comfortable hotel and didn't waste much time in getting
between the sheets. The next day was fine, and Marje suggested going to
Chaumont and Chambord and not trying to get to Paris until the following
day. She said that as long as she reached Paris by Sunday night it would
be all right. So we went to that heavenly Chaumont, my favorite of all
the châteaux,--do you remember my writing enthusiastically about Blois
on the way down to Pau? It was the castle of Chaumont that I thought was
the castle of Blois, and it is as fascinating when you actually visit it
as it is from the train; but as for Blois I never want to see it again.
Chaumont is filled with beautiful tapestries and furniture. The
situation high over the Loire is magnificent, and it is the only château
that we saw which is set in a large park, studded with great trees. How
I hated to hurry away! In the afternoon we went to Chambord, which is a
marvel of construction, but cold and unromantic. It is hardly furnished
at all and its most interesting feature is the promenade on the roof,
where you walk in and out among its three hundred and sixty-five
chimneys. We arrived in Orléans at about five o'clock and went straight
to the cathedral. Jeanne d'Arc completely dominates the city and the
cathedral; the latter is to me one of the most beautiful I have ever
seen, being harmonious throughout in style and period. The stained glass
is uniform--modern, of course--telling the story of the "Pucelle de
France." Marje and I clung to each other in the fading light and drank
in the quiet and beauty of those great arches.
We went to a very nice hotel, and in engaging a room we asked the
proprietor how far it was to Paris. We said we wanted to be sure to make
it by Sunday night. He said: "But this is Sunday night." We looked at
him amazed and gave in to his whim for the moment. We stepped out and
bought the paper and found that it really was Sunday! I never felt so
completely lost in my life! Of course we had forgotten to count out the
time we had spent in Blois with Mrs. Shurtleff, but it gave us quite a
start, I can tell you, particularly as Marje was so anxious to get home.
We did not let the grass grow under our feet the next day, believe me.
We had luncheon at Chartres and gave about ten minutes to the cathedral.
I drove from Chartres, and at Maintenon I stopped to take a picture of
the château reflected in the lake. Marje wandered off for a few minutes
to watch the old women in the market-place, and while I was standing
there alone two officers came up to me and one of them said, "Are you
English?" I said, "No, American." "Have you your papers, your permis de
conduire?" I felt my knees give way, but I hung on to the bridge that I
was standing on, and said smilingly, "Oui, Monsieur." "All right," he
said hesitatingly, and passed on. Of course, it was only Marje that had
her permis, and I don't know just what would have happened if they had
pressed the matter further, for I didn't have a sign of a permis and
they had seen me drive. Marje insists, however, that it would have been
all right because she could have said that she was teaching me. I was
pretty grateful, I can tell you, to have had one smile left just the
same.
At Versailles we were surprised to find that we could buy still more
gasoline. We couldn't understand because there is never enough in Paris.
We bought all that we could carry, however, and started for home. When
we came to the crossroads where it says: "Saint-Cloud, 11 K.M. and
Sèvres 6 K.M.," we decided to take the road to Sèvres, although people
had always warned us not to. We soon found out why. The road is hilly
and covered with cobblestones the entire way; but we really didn't care,
when we caught sight of the Eiffel Tower. At the gate of Paris there was
an armed soldier standing in a sentry box, and as we slowed down to go
through the gate I leaned out and said, "Bon jour, Monsieur."
Once in Paris we found that we were completely lost, having brought
everything with us but a map of Paris. It was too provoking, but here my
refugee knowledge did me good service, and I picked my way in and out
among the slums and found the way straight to our Lion de Belfort. We
had enough energy left to start unpacking that dear little car that was
stuffed full to the roof. The people at the pension were all excitement,
and the maids ran up and down stairs helping us with our things. We went
over at once to Mrs. Shurtleff. We found her looking worn. We knew how
anxious she must have been to know that we had arrived safely, so that
you can imagine how we felt when we tiptoed into the room and found that
she was so weak that all she could do was to turn her head on the pillow
and say, "Hello, girls!" We found that she had fainted twice coming up
on the train, but that Miss Curtis had taken care of her at the station.
After seeing Mrs. Shurtleff, we took the car to Miss Curtis's because we
knew no place to leave it overnight. We did not feel much like a
triumphal entry, but Miss Curtis and Miss Sturgis were so glad to see us
that all we had to do was to answer questions and get back to Place
Denfert as soon as possible.
Well, that is our trip. It certainly was interesting and it laid the
foundations of my friendship with Marje, who is the finest ever. It is
worth everything to me to have her companionship.
Time is up.
Devotedly,
ESTHER.
XII
FROM MARJORIE
12 Place Denfert-Rochereau, Paris.
(March 26, 1917.)
MY DEAREST DADDY:--
Writing nowadays is rather like the shooting the men do at the front;
they never can see if their shots get there. I am never sure if my
letters get to you, there has been so much trouble with the mails. The
head man at Morgan, Harjes told Dr. G. the other day that they had just
received a great deal of mail--the first for a long time--which was all
wet. The papers were ruined, but the letters had fared better as a
whole. I wonder what that meant?
As you probably know by the papers, we had a Zeppelin raid or alarm last
week. It was very exciting. I have never heard such a noise as the "gare
à vous" trumpets or horns--or whatever they are--make. Esther Root and I
stood out on our balcony for a long time watching the aeroplanes
overhead. They had searchlights and made a beautiful effect. The
Zeppelin was, of course, brought down way outside Paris. They never get
here, because the air guard is so very efficient; also they have to go
right over the army and are always discovered. However, I can now say
that I have been in Paris during a "near-raid," at least! This almost
makes up to me for the disappointment of not having had one during my
interminably long stay in London.
I have one very serious confession to make to you. I have been
religiously keeping accounts ever since I left New York, first in
dollars on the ship, then in pounds, shillings, and pence while in
London, and then shifted to francs when I got here. You have no idea
what a gorgeous account-book it was, or still is, but--here is the
tragedy--I lost the dear book last week, somewhere in the metro. There
is only one chance in hundreds that I will find it again. I don't know
just what I can do about it. I can't possibly remember what I spent, but
I will make a rough account which will give you some idea.
This room which I have now is only ten francs a day, and is much nicer.
It has splendid hot running water in the closet, a nice balcony, and the
food is delicious. Mme. H---- is very nice, and so are the other
boarders. Some queer ones, too,--two sisters from Poland who tell us
stories that make our hair curl! Also a Mlle. Germain, who is studying
to be a doctor, and tells us, at meal-time, about the latest corpses
from the Morgue she has cut up! It is wonderful to me the way the French
don't mind what they say at table.
I am wondering if I shall do all the queer things that I am now doing,
when I get home. I take my fork and knife off my plate every course and
lay them on the tablecloth. I "swab" (it's the only word) my plate with
a piece of bread, to get all the gravy. I eat bread by the yard
(literally), while I never touch it at home. You would laugh to hear
what we have for meals, and yet they are delicious,--mostly vegetables,
a little meat, very well done, and with delicious sauce, and never
anything but cheese and confitures for dessert. Although the tea-shops
are all open, you can notice a slight difference in their cakes. They no
longer have frosting in the real sense of the word, but are covered with
cream or paste or powdered sugar. The fillings are not as sweet as they
once were, but they are still delicious. Do you suppose I will want
white wine with luncheon and red with dinner, when I get back? I can't
get along without it over here. It is so funny when you once begin to
think it over. It does make me tired when I hear people say that living
in Paris in war-time "is very different," and then heave a sigh. Of
course, I don't know what it is like here in peace-times, but I do know
that we are all very comfortable. We all have luxuries, and there are
wonderfully few restrictions, I think. You should hear Mr. Ayrault--who
has just come back from a four months' tour of inspection of prison
camps in Germany--talk. He says we don't know what war means here,
compared with Germany, where everything is distributed by
cards,--everything except goose, and that, as a result, is prohibitively
high. He is most interesting in his accounts of Germany. I wish I could
write you all, but I don't suppose Mr. Censor would approve. By the bye,
of all my letters from America, only one from C. Morss has ever been
opened.
In one of your letters you spoke of fighting the "White Rats." I don't
care much for the idea. Don't, for goodness' sake, get stabbed in the
back or poisoned by a lot of bum vaudeville artists! I speak of stabbing
and such. If you hear of a young American being killed by a bicycle over
here, you may be sure that it is I, and it will be such an ignominious
death. A taxicab I could bear, but I seem fated to be killed by a
bicycle. They don't use horns here, and just go whizzing by. I have just
avoided two already.
Spring seems to be trying hard to get here,--not too successful so far
in its attempts, but there is some green grass in the gardens, and on
Sundays the Punch and Judys and merry-go-rounds are open on the Champs
Élysées.
I know I am getting cross-eyed, and walking up and down the Champs
Élysées is doing it. There are so many interesting people, so many
uniforms, that it is horrible. I try to look both ways at once. Then
tea. I have been to Rumpelmeyer's several times. It is very popular
here, although in London no one would go to Rumpelmeyer's, for it was
considered too "Boche." I am afraid the French love their cakes too
much! Such people as you see there, regular "coo-coos," you would say.
It is very amusing to sit in a corner, and watch and listen, and, of
course, the food--to say nothing of the joy of having ice cream--is to
be considered.
I have been going over several other Vestiaires lately, and I am
becoming more and more convinced that Mrs. Shurtleff's is among the best
organized institutions of its kind. Naturally some of the Government
things are much more complicated and wonderful. I can't help asking
myself more and more what France would have done and would do without
the assistance she receives from America.
Your very loving daughter,
MARJE.
XIII
FROM MARJORIE
12 Place Denfert-Rochereau, Paris.
(April 5, 1917.)
DEAREST MOTHER:--
Having gotten rather tired out the last few weeks, and having had
several bad headaches, I decided to take a few days' rest now,--for I
have at last finished the card catalogue,--before I start out on my new
duties, which are to be many and various. So here I am in bed with the
machine on my lap, having a good time, writing to you. Things have sort
of piled in on us at the work lately. It seems to me so very important
that none of the workers should fail now, so that is why I am taking
these few days to get my breath before going on. Mrs. Shurtleff has at
last come in from Neuilly with Gertrude, who seems to be doing
remarkably well. I can tell you that we are glad to have Mrs. S. home
again. I am particularly so, for I have had to go out for her and take
her back every afternoon, and as she wanted to be here for the work as
near nine o'clock in the mornings as possible, and the garage, or
remise, is some distance from here, I have had to make pretty early
starts. I found to my surprise that I was leaving this house at eight
o'clock, and, after a struggle with the car to start it,--for it has no
starter and we have to grind it,--I would beat it out to Neuilly, which,
being outside the gate, is an awful nuisance. You are stopped going and
coming, and have to get a red slip saying how much gas you have in the
tank, and you have to be very careful, for if they do measure how much
you have and find that you said either too much or too little, they are
very strict, and there is a heavy fine.
If, for any reason, I should die suddenly just now, and you had my brain
dissected, you would find, I am sure, that at least one half was a mass
of figures, which, if you studied, you would find was the result of my
constant reducing gallons to litres, and miles to kilometres, and my
endeavoring to figure out without measuring in the tank, how much
essence remains. Also you would find "essence," where to get it, how
much to pay for it,--"shall we stop here and buy some, or chance it till
we get home?" written all over my gray matter. I am at present entirely
responsible for the car, and, delightful as that should sound to you, it
is a privilege not entirely free from care. The question of getting
gasoline alone, in these days, is hard enough. Then I have to keep an
account of just what the car costs per day, and also to keep it in good
shape, for it is impossible to get mechanics these times. They are all
under the Government. We have for the car (which, by the bye, we named
"Nilly," for the other car being "Willy," and this one having come over
as I told you without anything--absolutely NIL) a small hole in the wall
off a peculiar alleyway, which is known over here as a "remise." It is
just big enough to get into, and is fairly difficult to navigate, for it
faces a cement wall, and one has to back in and turn just so, or else
hit the wall. But at the rate Rootie is going now, there will not be
much wall left to trouble us soon!
[Illustration: Esther and Marjorie]
I have enjoyed the rides out and back with Mrs. Shurtleff ever so much
in one way, for it gives me a chance to have her all to myself, and that
is something that few people can have with Mrs. Shurtleff. We have had
some bully talks. One day I went in to the hospital,--which is the
American Hospital, by the way, not connected with the American Ambulance
out there, but a hospital for Americans sick over here, and is a model
in many ways. I went all over it, and, incidentally, met Mrs. Robert W.
Service, the wife of the man who wrote those poems about Western life,
very much in Kipling's style. Daddy has them. "The Cremation of Sam
Magee" is one of the best. He has just published "Rhymes of a Red Cross
Man,"--war poems, needless to say. Well, Mrs. Service was at the
hospital, with two kids, twins, eight weeks old, dear little things. She
herself was very sweet and rather pathetic, I thought, trying to do
everything in the American way, although she is really a French woman. I
was impressed with the hospital and the nurses, and it gave me a nice,
secure feeling that, if I was ever sick, I could be so in the good
American way, even way over here.
I have been out with Agathe, the maid at the Vestiaire, almost every
afternoon, sending off packages, and then later returning Mrs. S. to
Neuilly. She stayed out there all the time with Gertrude, sleeping in a
horrid little hotel where there was no heating, but she got comfort from
being with Gertrude in the afternoons and evenings. By the time I got
the office work done, and did some chores and extra leaving and calling
for bundles, I found that it was after seven before I put the car
finally to bed, covered up and locked up, with the precious bidons of
essence standing in tidy rows behind the car. Then letter-writing in the
evenings, and making reports, extra typing for Mrs. Newson, and all the
hundred and one things that come up every day, reading and listening to
Rootie play,--which she does so very wonderfully,--this was getting to
be too long a day, so I have cut it out. Monday was my last day to go
for Mrs. S., as she brought Gertrude in yesterday. Just think, only
eight days from the operation. I hope that they are not going to let her
do too much, but I do not believe that they will.
Yesterday I was a little tired, anyway, and had a headache, and I was
told to take a Mrs. Jackson, one of the workers, off for all day in the
car, calling, as usual. I had no idea where I was going, or what I was
going to do, but I was given the address and told that it was an all-day
job--lunching with Mrs. J. too. I adore Mrs. J., she is such a sport,
and, like all the rest of the people over here, has been so good to me.
I got lost on the way to her house. I never saw such an elusive street.
I swear it moved on the map, while I was watching out for taxis. You
have no idea what sport it is trying to find one's way about Paris with
a map in one hand and driving with the other. Fortunately, my sense of
direction is fairly good, and after a time I arrived on the
street--going in the wrong direction, of course. If any one can tell me
the French system of numbering their streets, I would be obliged.
I used to think that Boston streets were mixey, because they changed
names once in a while, and Summer Street becomes Winter after it crosses
Washington, for some reason best known to itself. In Paris, a street is
one thing on one side of a lamp-post, and then suddenly adopts the name
of the nearest square on the other side of the post. The odd and even
numbers of a street run entirely differently on the two sides of the
street, so that when looking for forty and you see thirty-seven, you
think that forty is apt to be fairly near on the opposite side of the
street, but no, no, it is a couple of blocks ahead or past, for the
numbers do not run evenly, and twelve faces thirty-seven! Of course, all
the numbers are put up good and high, so that they won't be stolen, I
suppose, and also so that when you want to see them, and are walking,
you can turn your face skywards and, walking ahead, fall off the
sidewalk and amuse the children! Also in the car, with this body, one
has to lean out the side and crane, and I can tell you my swanlike neck
comes in handy, to say nothing of my eyes, for the ingenuity shown by
whoever hides the numbers on the houses--just behind a blind or beneath
a scroll, or to right or left or beside the doorway--is wonderful!