the Parisian street names and numbers, I was late to Mrs. Jackson, and
found her waiting and eager to be off, for there was lots to be done. As
I knew that there was not any too much gas in the tank, I emptied one of
my extra bidons in (I always carry two extra ones; each holds five
litres of gas, makes about five gallons in all). I said as I did so that
it smelled like bum gas, and then thought no more about it. We started
cheerfully, and got about three blocks, on a nice muddy asphalt street,
and she died, quietly, but very dead, indeed. I got out and cranked for
a time, but soon knew that there was trouble deeper than mere cranking
would remove. So off came my hat and coat, and I rolled my sleeves up
and went to it. I found the spark seemed all right, and by a process of
elimination found out that just what I dreaded from the first was
wrong--the carburetor. By this time the sidewalk crowd had grown
considerably, for the sight of an American girl, hatless, sleeves rolled
up, hair flying, bobbing under the car and into the hood, was not missed
by many residents of that district, I can tell you. A very nice
gentleman pushed his way through the gaping crowd, which was getting as
near and as much in the way as possible, except when I turned every few
minutes and froze the half-dozen most forward with a glance calculated
to freeze, and which I wished could kill, for anything that gets me
peeved is an audience, particularly a French one. The nice American said
that he "knew nothing about a car," but "could he help?" He could. I
dispatched him for help from the nearest garage so quick that he
couldn't change his mind. By the time he returned, I had the feed-pipe
of the carburetor all off (I know that these names mean nothing to you,
but they will to Daddy), and the two mechanics which he had found would
not, of course, believe a simple woman--and I guess that I looked more
simple than I felt even by this time, for they had thoughtfully begun to
clean the streets while I was exploring under the car, and I was not
only muddy but wet.
After a heated discussion in Anglo-French, the men believed me, and
stopped cranking, and, on turning the pipe down to let the gas run out,
we were delighted to see pure aqua pura run out--not gas at all! Now,
don't you call that the limit? The last bidon of gas which I had put in
wasn't gas at all--it was water, pure and simple. Of course, we had to
wash out the tank, waste quarts of essence, which is more precious than
gold these days, and then clean out the feed-pipe and carburetor. You
never saw such a job, and all performed on the street! All told, that
little drink of water which I gave the Ford cost about one and a half
hours of time, and about sixteen francs in money.
We got under way again, but it was so late that nice Mrs. Jackson had to
rearrange all her plans. However, we got a great deal done, and,
incidentally, I had a wonderful day being with her. We lunched at a
queer little restaurant over in Montmartre--had hors d'oeuvres, cheese
omelette, lots of very good bread (at least, as bread goes these days;
how I shall enjoy some toast made out of white bread!), and cream cheese
and apple sauce, with coffee which was the real article--not chicory or
burnt almonds, or whatever it is that they give you at half the places.
We talked about everything under heaven and earth, and I came away from
luncheon more than ever convinced that she is a wonder. She asked me to
go South with her the 22d of this month, but I am not going to. First
place, the work needs me, and second place, I do not want to take my
vacation until this summer, and then take it all in one big lump, doing
something worth while. I am awfully complimented that she asked me,
anyway.
I went back to her house for tea after we did some more calls in the
afternoon, and had another nice talk with her in front of her fire, in
the nicest apartment--all etchings in her study and such dainty nice
things. I can tell you it is pretty nice to have tea from a silver
service once in a while, only it makes me sort of homesick for the
library and Josey to scrap with over the remaining piece of cake. I
suppose that she will be so grown up when I get back that I will not be
able to henpeck her any more at all. I think from her letters that she
and I are going to understand each other much better when we get
together again, and that we will pull together, not apart. I wish that I
could possibly tell her how much her letters have pleased me, for I know
very well what a nuisance it is to write me, and she has been so
faithful. After tea with Mrs. Jackson, I went over to see Ibb, who has
been resting off for a few days, and found her better. Then I toddled
the old Ford home, and, when I arrived here, went to bed myself. I found
I was a good deal more tired than I realized at the time, so yesterday I
just lay abed all day, and am doing the same thing to-day. As a result,
I feel like a fighting cock this afternoon, and am going to do some work
here at home to-morrow, for Mrs. S. wants me to go easy and not go to
the Vestiaire until Monday or Tuesday, for Monday is a holiday. Mme.
H---- is too good to me; she has had all sorts of special nice things
cooked for me, keeps the fire going in my room all day, and with that
and the sunshine, and every one being so good to me, I feel like a
different person already. Esther is a very fussy nurse, and won't let me
turn over for myself if she can do it for me; and to-day Mrs. Jackson,
dear, busy soul, came in to see me. I couldn't get over it. It is too
wonderful the way people are so good to me here: Mrs. Shurtleff, Mrs.
Jackson, Mrs. Christie, Dr. and Mrs. Lines, and I don't know how many
others. I just love them all, and am altogether too lucky for words.
Every one seems to have a different idea as to what the effect of our
entering the war will be. I hope that you will approve of my helping by
driving, if they call for volunteers for the American Ambulance, for I
would like to do it very much, and think that I am up to it. I naturally
will cable you before I do anything definite, and will consider it very
seriously before I leave Mrs. Shurtleff, as Daddy told me to. If,
however, America needs any help which it is within my very limited power
to give, I could not be happy, feeling that I was working for the French
only. This is, of course, all "IF"!
I have been saving the papers lately, for they are interesting, and I
thought that we would have a good time comparing them with the American
papers when I get home--seeing what they have let us know over here and
what they tell you over there about us here. I wonder which place is
really the most interesting.
Of course, all the mail is coming in the most peculiar order, yours of
February 28th arriving in the most dilapidated, water-soaked, almost
illegible condition, long after yours of March 2d, which came before
yours of March 11th. I never knew such wonderful letters as you and
Daddy write to me. I simply read and re-read them by the hour. Thank
goodness, you feel that I am telling you just what you want to know. You
have no idea how hard it is to write, for there are so many things to
say that one longs to be a Bernard Shaw and be able to say them all, and
not be just plain Marjorie Crocker, who can only ramble on without any
rhyme or reason, as she talks!
For goodness' sake, take my letters in doses, not all at once. I know
that it is awful to rant on as long as I do, but I have so much to say,
I simply cannot stop. That is why I only write once a week or so,
because I had so much rather take a long time to it, when I get started,
than to write a lot of hasty notes. Well, this is over now. I am going
into Rootie's room to listen to her play. She is so wonderful. She just
takes care of me, and to-night, to finish off a wonderful day, Mrs.
Shurtleff has just been in and was too nice. I adore that lady more
every time I see her. We all do, and that is, of course, the secret of
the success of her work here! We all adore her so. She made me promise
that I would not come back to the work until I felt really like it, and
my headache was all gone, and so forth. Then we planned out my work in
the future, now that the catalogue is done, and it just sounds too good
to be true--just enough visiting to keep in touch, and some office work
and some automobiling, and calling with Rootie, which is, of course, a
perfect lark. I am so happy to-night, so much more so than I have been,
since I got Daddy's cable on Sunday. Well, lots and lots and lots of
love to you all,
MARJE.
XIV
FROM ESTHER
Place Denfert-Rochereau, Paris XIV^e,
April 8, 1917.
DEAREST AUNT ESTHER:--
It is curious that gloom is so absolutely gloomy and that happiness is
so happy and full. There are times when I cast about for something to
write home about without finding anything--or rather nothing that isn't
so black that it seems only selfishness to sit down and enlarge upon it.
To-night, on the contrary, I have spent a most wonderful Easter, and
looking backward and forward I can see a thousand things that I should
love to tell you about. It can be only a few for the moment, for the
electricity will be turned off in a few minutes.
This morning Marjorie, my new but very dear friend who lives here at the
pension, woke me up and said that the sun was shining. It has rained and
snowed without a break lately and the sunlight seemed a glorious
novelty.
We had breakfast together, then went to the patriotic service at the
American Church, where Dr. Shurtleff preached. The long-waited-for news
of our actually going to war had rejoiced us all yesterday, but it was
more thrilling than we ever could have imagined to drive past the big
French Administration Buildings and see the Stars and Stripes waving
with the other Allies' flags in the Easter sunshine! To be one of the
Allies at last! To have our flag and the French flag flying side by side
as they should be, to have our great country wake up and fight its own
fight--it is not only Easter but Thanksgiving to-day.
The American Church was full--men from the American Ambulance Service
sat in uniform in the front rows and the church was decorated in flowers
and flags. Dr. Shurtleff preached a fine sermon. He said that to lose
life was to gain it, and that this war was fought that war should
cease--that the world should know Christ's peace.
A lovely primrose plant was waiting for us here. After all the cold and
snow, flowers, especially the pink primrose, are heavenly. In the
afternoon Mrs. Shurtleff came over to say that the pianist who was to
play at Dr. Shurtleff's little Sunday evening meeting had been taken
ill, and would I play. Fortunately I had given a short programme last
Monday at the last meeting of a woman's club, so that I was glad to be
able to fill in.
I must tell you about last Monday. Not long ago I exchanged the little
old upright that I have had all winter for a wonderful Pleyel (French
make corresponding to Steinway). This piano seems to me to be the most
wonderful instrument I ever heard, and I love it and pat it and dust it
and play it, never tiring. It has saved my life these past weeks.
Knowing that I have been playing more of late, Mrs. Baldwin asked me to
play for the woman's club that I spoke of. I couldn't think of much to
play, and of course I have no music with me, but I was glad to have
something to make me practice, and I accepted.
The club meets every Monday afternoon to sew and knit garments for the
war orphans--Mrs. Cassette, a dear lady who used to live in Chicago, is
the president, and when it was time for me to play, she made the
announcement, and proceeded to enlarge on the Root family in general and
grandfather in particular. She spoke of his influence during the Civil
War, and of his and Uncle Fred's help in establishing good music in
Chicago. She spoke beautifully and gave me an at-home sort of feeling to
think of her knowing my relatives; but it was hard for me when she
started speaking of me as the third generation, etc. After I had played
I met a great many interesting people, among them the girl who wrote
that little book of letters called "Mademoiselle Miss." Do you remember
reading it with Mother at Bailey's last summer? The letters are full of
imagination, and charming, as is Miss Dare herself. We went off in a
corner together and talked over our experiences at a great rate.
To come back to Sunday evening. I played at the meeting the same
programme as on Monday. To my surprise, Dr. Shurtleff also made a speech
about grandfather, whom he knew in Chicago when he (Dr. Shurtleff) was a
young man. Many people came up and spoke to me afterwards, and I found
that lots of them knew the family in Chicago. Their enthusiasm was quite
exciting and made me feel almost like writing war songs myself. Wouldn't
it be wonderful to hear grandfather's "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp," sung in
France!
Yesterday--Easter Monday--we all gave up our holiday to go to the
Vestiaire and help to move our ouvroir department into a little store up
the street. I have explained that the work is carried on in an apartment
on the ground floor at 18 rue Ernest Cresson--one room is the women's
vestiaire, another, the men's vestiaire, a third Mrs. Shurtleff's
office, and a fourth, the ouvroir, where sewing and all kinds of work is
given out to the refugees. We have been crowded always, but of late it
has been almost impossible to work in the front two rooms with so many
people doing different things at once. People would keep running in and
out of Mrs. Shurtleff's office while she was dictating, to look up
records, or to get down reserve stock from the shelves; the officer of
the day would have to interview refugees in a corner of the ouvroir,
while lines of other refugees were waiting to call for, and hand in,
work--the confusion was impossible. The two rooms together are not as
big as the den at home.
Well, Mrs. Shurtleff, who goes around this world with her eyes open, I
can tell you, discovered a little store that had been closed since the
beginning of the war. It had been rented by a German. He was chased away
in 1914, his windows broken, and the place roughly boarded up. Mrs.
Shurtleff sought out the proprietor, rented it, and had it repaired.
Saturday word came that we could move in. We have been so crazy to
spread out a little that when some one suggested that all hands should
report on Easter Monday,--one of the great holidays here,--and get the
moving actually done, we all volunteered. At nine o'clock we started. We
took things down off shelves, stood in line and passed them through the
window, where Miss Curtis received them and stuffed them into the Ford.
When the poor little car was so laden down with clothes and materials
and bundles that it looked as though it would burst a blood vessel, it
started off and we all ran along beside it up to the new shop. There we
formed another line, and unloaded the car and put the things on the
waiting shelves.
There were tons of stuff--it was like moving R. H. Macy and Company, but
I can't tell you what fun it was. Dr. Shurtleff and each one of our
workers, who usually work at their own special jobs, pitched in to sort
out bundles of clothes, or carry yards and yards of worsted, or do
whatever turned up. Dr. Shurtleff started us singing "Tipperary" as we
worked, and we had a splendid time and accomplished wonders.
This morning when work began, there were the two front rooms all neatly
arranged, with plenty of space and everybody happy.
Well, I must close, but I shall have enough to tell you when I come home
to outlast many a wood fire, and I am looking forward to the day when we
can sit down together and talk, with the clock faced toward the wall!
Much love to you always.
Your niece,
ESTHER.
XV
FROM MARJORIE
Sunday.
DEAREST FAMILY:--
Here I go again in one of these cahier affairs. It seems to be the best
and only way to write you. I am this minute out at Saint-Germain--an
hour outside of Paris. It is the place where Ibby Coolidge nurses. Her
hospital is closed down now, so she is in at the "Invalides" for a few
months. Although she lives in Paris, I don't see much of her, for she
works from eight to eight, and is too tired to dine out after that.
Rootie has been out here for ten days resting. The air is wonderful--so
different from Paris, although so near. It has been getting warmer, and
to-day we are sitting out under the trees writing. I can hardly believe
it. If spring has only come, it will make so much difference. I have
been working fairly hard these last two weeks, for Agathe, the maid, has
been off on a vacation, and I have had to open the four vestiaires in
the mornings--open the shutters, dust a little, arrange the chairs and
such, build the fires in the offices, and generally start things. This,
combined with doing Rootie's work,--at least certain parts that could
not be allowed to wait,--has made life fairly complicated. Mrs.
Shurtleff is letting me have my Monday off this week, so I have two
whole glorious days out here with Rootie. We do nothing but sleep, eat,
and walk. We have sticks, and so feel very safe, and wander far into the
woods. The youngest class is being trained out here,--at least, part of
it,--and they come home from their lessons every night at about
half-past six,--about five hundred of them, in every sort and
description of uniform, all out of step, four abreast, except when they
want to run ahead and speak to a friend a few rows in front; all singing
"poilu" songs like regular soldiers. They are such a bright-faced crew,
we love to go out to the terrace and watch them march to the center
court, and there line up, be counted more or less--and mostly
less--correctly, and then be dismissed. It makes you laugh to watch
their antics as they march along. They all smile and salute us now,
because we have been there so often. They are not fresh,--just
amusing,--but it also makes me a little sad to think what they are
training for--what is ahead of them. To think that these bright-faced
boys will, in all probability, turn into some of the sad-faced,
mutilated men that we see in the hospitals and on the streets. Although
it sometimes disgusts you to have a réformé talk about getting so much
for his arm, or lack of arm, or leg or eye, or so much more for a ball
in his neck,--still I can hardly blame them. They have served their
country when their country called them. They have given their health,
and perhaps their happiness, to the country. Why shouldn't they be paid
for it, and paid well?
[Illustration: Rootie in Park at Saint-Germain]
[Illustration: Marje in the Salon at No. 12 Place Denfert-Rochereau]
If Rootie were writing this letter, she would tell you all the facts of
historic interest about Saint-Germain, as she is well up in her
Baedeker, but, as I am not, I will have to let you live in ignorance. I
vaguely know that Henri IV was born in the pavillon here, and that
François something started to build the château, got disgusted, and
built Versailles instead. I can tell you, however, that the woods and
park here are wonderful, that the church bell that rings every half-hour
is most pleasing, and that there are many good restaurants here--one of
which we are sampling this evening.
Daddy writes that my letter about the trip has not arrived. I guess it
must have sunk,--isn't it just my luck? Well, I am going to send you the
pictures we took, and I will write another shorter and much less
interesting account. I will type it and send a carbon copy a week after
the original, and, if you don't get either, I give it up! I know I have
missed some of your letters, but I haven't been much over two weeks
without word, so I certainly must not complain.
Mrs. Willis, a friend of Rootie's, took over a few little things to you
which I was anxious for you to have. She had no room, so I could not
send several other things I wanted to. This letter and Eleanor's, a Mr.
Whiting, a friend of mine, is taking for me. I hope that you will get
them quicker than usual;--you ought to. I am also sending a couple of
posters which I thought you might like for the bungalow in Marion. Tell
Josey the little medal I sent her is a regular "croix de guerre," and
the palm leaf on the ribbon is the highest "citation" one can have.
If you get a spare minute, read Helen Davenport Gibbons's "Red Rugs of
Tarsus." It is Mrs. Gibbons's first book. In some ways it is more
interesting to read, when you do not know her. She is, of course, Dr.
Herbert Adams Gibbons's wife--the one Betty Colt is secretary to. Betty
grows more and more attractive. I see quite a lot of her. She has tea
every day in the studios after they stop work at half-past four. I blow
in pretty often, at about half-past five, and Betty, dear soul, brews me
a fresh cup of tea. There are usually interesting people there. Mr.
Ayrault drops in often, also Mr. Griffiths, although the latter has
broken my great heart by announcing that he has got to work so hard from
now until June, he does not expect to take any time off.
Paris has seemed to me a little more sober these last weeks. Ever since
America entered the war, the enthusiasm has been mostly American, as far
as I can see. The French do not seem too hopeful as to the difference it
will make. Mr. Ayrault says that if Germany can hold out through August,
or until the next crops,--Heaven help the Allies. He says that the
German markets are pathetic now; that they are almost empty; that the
poor people are actually hungry, and not from high prices, but because
there isn't any food to be bought. He himself would have been hungry if
he hadn't had outside help. The embassy gets eggs and butter and some
meat from Norway, and also from Switzerland. Mr. A. also said that the
discipline is so good there, and law and order so much the ordinary run
of things, that the people are not likely to revolt. He feels that it is
only possible to finish the war soon if the United States can build
enough ships quickly to supply England, which, from all accounts, needs
food. There are, after all, only a limited number of submarines, and
each carries only seven or eight torpedoes, I believe. They do not get a
ship every time that they fire, so that, if the United States can build
enough ships, losing a hundred or more will not matter in the long run.
Mr. Simons, of the American Embassy here,--I mean consulate,--tells me
that no grain ship has come to Paris for fifteen days. That is why the
new regulation about the cakes and pastries has gone through so
suddenly. I personally am glad, for it does not seem quite right for us
to be eating so many foolish, unnecessary things if flour is scarce. I
suppose the shopkeepers will manage to get around the law somewhat, but
it seems to be a step in the right direction.
Harold Willis writes us the most thrilling accounts of the doings of the
aviators now. He sent us some of the cards, printed in German by the
French Government, which he and his fellow "flyers" drop by the
thousands while flying over German territory. The cards say that the
United States has joined the war, and recommend that the people
surrender, as they will be well fed and taken care of. They are not very
dignified, I think, and it is an amusing campaign, is it not? But in
some ways I would rather have them drop cards than bombs on the
villages, hadn't you?
It will seem queer to get home to Boston some day and go into street
cars and public buildings, and not read on all sides such notices as
"Taisez-vous, méfiez-vous, les oreilles ennemies vous écoutent." Also,
"Versez votre or pour le Gouvernement."
Sunday, while we were wandering through the woods, we came upon a
beautiful big tree,--a fairy oak,--all decorated with flags and flowers
and prayers for victory. It stood in the middle of a clear
space--benches around it. It was touching to see every passer-by take a
few flowers from the bunch they were carrying home and lay them devoutly
at the foot of the tree, praying as they did so. All the flags were
weather-beaten except the latest addition, the American, which looked
bright and hopeful in contrast to the others. I have never seen a tree
like this. Mark Twain tells of the one at Arc in his "Life of Joan of
Arc."
The terrace at night is in some ways more beautiful than in the daytime.
One can see the various searchlights playing in all directions. They are
really wonderful,--first one and then another combs the sky, as it were,
looking for hostile aircraft, which, by the bye, never get here.
The work continues to grow. Mrs. Sturgis is leaving us this next week,
unfortunately, and we are all dividing up her duties. Work in the Food
Department comes to me. I am both glad and scared. It will be
interesting handing out the food and keeping the shop shelves supplied;
but it requires lots of judgment to talk with the women each week, and
decide when to stop giving them food, and to try to advise them on all
sorts of questions. However, I am going to make a try at it. I think it
is pretty nice of Mrs. Shurtleff to ask me to do it.
I ran across a new thing the other day: one of the families we were
calling on showed us their linen,--sheets and underclothes,--which were
completely yellowed and rotted by the asphyxiating gases! They fell to
pieces when touched. Another result of this new kind of warfare.
Sometimes when I see so many children sick and diseased through the
results of their privations while under the German rule, I can't help
wondering what the coming generation will be like when they grow up.
They have had such hideous childhood. Gas-mask drills at school, lack of
food, no homes for many of them, and goodness knows no future.