LETTERS FROM PARIS AND BERLIN.
From Miss Julia Kean to Mrs. Edwin Green.
Paris, and no idea of the date.
No fixed address, but the American
Club might reach me.
Molly darling:
Things are moving so fast that even I can't quite catch on, and you know
I am some mover myself. Jo and I came to Paris as I wrote you we would,
but I haven't seen her since. She told me in as polite words as she
could command that she couldn't be bothered with me any more. At least
that was the trend of her remarks. She has the business before her of
making up to look as much like a man as possible and then of being taken
into the aviation school.
I met an art student from Carlo Rossi's on the street and he told
me Polly was already the proud driver of an ambulance. Lots of the
American art students have enlisted or joined the Red Cross. If I liked
sick folks or nursing, I think I'd join myself. I feel that I should be
doing something while I wait to hear from Bobby. I hope to see the
American Ambassador next week. He is simply floored under with duties
just now. I don't want any help from him, but just to find out something
about Bobby and Mamma.
If you could see Paris now! Oh, Molly, our gay, beautiful, eternally
youthful city has grown suddenly sad and middle-aged. There is no gaiety
or frivolity now. Her step has changed from a dance to a march. Her
laughter has turned to weeping, but silent weeping--she makes no outcry
but one knows the tears are there. Her beautiful festive clothes are
laid away and now there is nothing but khaki and mourning. The gallant
little soldier is to discard his flaming red trousers and blue coat for
khaki. The German finds him too easy a mark.
I begin to tremble for Paris, but strange to say I have no fear for
myself.
I have seen the Ambassador! He was very grave when I told him about
Bobby. There was some English capital involved in the railroad that
Bobby was to build in Turkey, and for that reason there may be some
complication. He is to communicate with Gerard immediately. In the
meantime, he advises me to go home. I told him I had no home, but would
wait here until I found out something. He asked me if I had plenty of
money and I told him yes, indeed, my letter of credit was good for
almost any amount. I had not had to draw on it as I had stocked up
before I went to G---- to keep house with the Polly Perkinses. The
Ambassador actually laughed at me. Do you know, I can't get any more
money? What a fool I have been! I have been so taken up with Paris and
the sights and sounds that money has never entered my head. I have quite
a little left, though, and I intend to live on next to nothing.
The Bents have left for America and have given me their key to use their
studio as I see fit. Mrs. Bent wanted me to go with them, but I can't
go until we hear from Gerard. Now I am back in the Rue Brea! It seems
strange to be there again where we had such a glorious winter. The
studio where Kent and Pierce Kinsella lived all last year is vacant. I
don't know where Pierce is. Gone to war, perhaps!
I spend the days on the streets, walking up and down, listening to the
talk and watching the regiments as they move away. I ran across some old
friends yesterday. You remember a wedding party I butted in on at St.
Cloud that day I scared all of you so when I took the wrong train from
Versailles and landed at Chartres? Well, I ran plump against the bride
on Montparnasse (only she is no longer a bride but had a rosy infant
over her shoulder). She came out of a little delicatessen shop and her
husband in war togs followed her, and there I witnessed their parting. I
seem fated to be present at every crisis in their lives. The girl did
not recognize me but the young man did. I had danced with him in too mad
a whirl for him to forget me. Then came the old father and his wife who
looked like a member of the Commune. They keep the little shop, it
seems. I shook hands with them and together we waited for the young
man's regiment to come swinging down the street. With another embrace
all around, even me, he caught step with his comrades and was gone. The
bonnemere clasped her daughter-in-law to her grenadier-like bosom and
they mingled their tears, the rosy baby gasping for breath between the
two. The old father turned to me:
"This is different from the last time we met, ma'mselle!"
"Yes, so different!"
"Come in and have a bite and sup with us. There is still something to
eat in Paris besides horse flesh." His wife and daughter-in-law joined
him in the invitation and so I went in. I enjoyed the meal more than
I can tell you. The grenadier is some cook and although the fare was
simple, it was so well seasoned and appetizing that I ate as I have not
done since I got back to Paris. The truth of the matter is, I am living
so cheap for fear of getting out of money and I am afraid I have been
neglecting my inner man. I can't cook a thing myself, which is certainly
trifling of me, and so have depended on restaurants for sustenance. I
dressed the salad (you remember it is my one accomplishment) and it met
with the approval of host and hostess.
I told them of my trouble and how I felt I must wait until I heard
something definite of my mother and father, and they were all sympathy.
I have promised to come to them if I get into difficulty, and you don't
know the comfortable feeling I have now that I have some adopted folks.
I might go to the Marquise d'Ochte, but I know she has all on her hands
and mind that she can attend to. I don't need anything but just
companionship. I am such a gregarious animal that I must have folks.
I am dying to hear from you and to know if Kent landed his job. Is
he--well, angry with me for staying over? I would not have missed
staying for anything, even if he should be put out. I can't believe he
is, though. I had rather hoped for letters when the American mail came
in this morning, but the man at the bank was very unfeeling and had
nothing. Nobody seems to be getting any mail. I wonder if they are
stopping it for some reason or other. I have a great mind to take this
to some American who is fleeing and have it mailed in New York. I will
do that very thing. Good by, Molly--don't be uneasy about me. You know
my catlike nature of lighting on my feet.
Your own,
Judy.
From Mr. Robert Kean to his Daughter Julia.
Berlin.
My dear Judy:
I know you are intensely uneasy about us, but down in your heart you
also know that we never get into scrapes we can't get out of, and we
will get out of this. This letter will probably be postmarked Sweden
but that does not mean I am there. In fact, I am in durance vile here
in Berlin. I am allowed to walk around the streets and to pay my own
living expenses but leave Berlin I cannot. Your mother can't leave,
either--not that she would. You know how she thinks that she protects me
and so she insists that she will stay. I am allowed to write no letters
and can receive none. I am getting this off to you by a clever device of
your mother's, which I shall not divulge now for fear it might be seized
and thus get an innocent person in bad with this remarkable Government.
I am kept here all because I know too much about the geography and
topography of Turkey. Of course I have made careful maps of the proposed
railroad from Constantinople, the one we have been trying to get the
concessions for. Well, they have naturally seized the maps. But before I
dreamed of the possibility of this war, for, like all of us fool Anglo
Saxons, I have been nosing along like a mole, I had a talk with a high
Prussian Muckamuck at dinner one evening about this proposed road and I
drew the blame thing on the table cloth, and with bits of bread and salt
cellars and what not I explained the whole topography of the country and
the benefit it would be to mankind to have this particular railroad
built, financed by my particular company. That was where I "broke my
'lasses pitcher." Of course, having surveyed the country and made the
maps, at least, having had a finger in the pie from the beginning, I can
reproduce those maps from memory, if not very accurately, at least,
accurately enough to get the Germans going if that particular
information should be needed by the Allies.
Do you know what I see in this? Why, Turkey will be in this war before
so very long.
I am hungry for news. I feel that I will go mad if I can't get some
information besides what is printed in these boot licking newspapers
of Berlin. They speak of their soldiers as though they were avenging
angels--avenging what? Avenging the insult Belgium offered them for
not lying down and making a road of herself for them to walk over.
Avenging France for not opening wide her gates and getting ready the
Christmas dinner the Kaiser meant to eat in Paris. I'd like to prepare
his Christmas dinner, and surely I would serve a hors-d'oeuvre of
rough-on-rats, an entree of ptomaines, and finish off with a dessert
of hanging, which would be too sweet for him. Now just suppose this
letter is seized and they see this above remark--what then? I must not
be allowed to write my opinion of their ruler to my own daughter, but
these Prussians who go to United States and get all they can from our
country, feel at perfect liberty to publish newspapers vilifying our
President and to burst into print at any moment about our men who are
high in authority.
Berlin is wild with enthusiasm and joy over her victories. Every Belgian
village that is razed to the ground makes them think it is cause for a
torch-light procession. I can't understand them. They can hardly be the
same kindly folk we have so often stayed among. They are still kind,
kind to each other and kind in a way to us and to all the strangers
within their gates, but how they can rejoice over the reports of their
victories I cannot see.
They one and all believe that they were forced to fight. They say
France was marching to Berlin for the President to eat Christmas dinner
here, and that Belgium had promised they should go straight through her
gates unmolested and did not regard the agreement of neutrality. I say
nonsense to such statements. At least I think nonsense. I really say
very little for one who has so much to say. I am bubbling over to talk
politics with some one. Your poor little mumsy listens to me but she
never jaws back. I want some one to jaw back. I have promised her to
keep off the subject with these Prussians. They are so violent and so
on the lookout for treason. There is one thing I am sure of and that is
that no Frenchman would want to eat Christmas dinner or any other kind
of dinner here if he could eat it in Paris. I am sick of raw goose and
blood pudding and Limburger cheese.
As I write this tirade, I am wondering, my dear daughter, where you are.
Did you go back to America with Kent Brown, who, you wrote me in your
last letter, was sailing in a week, or are you in Paris? I hope not
there! Since I see the transports of joy these law-abiding, home-loving
citizens, women and men, can get in over an account of what seems to me
mere massacre, I tremble to think what the soldiers are capable of in
the lust of bloodshed.
From the last bulletin, the Germans are certainly coming closer and
closer to Paris. I hope they are lying in their report. They are capable
of falsifying anything.
I am trying to get hold of our Ambassador to get me out of this mess,
but he is so busy it is hard to see him. I think he is doing excellent
work and I feel it is best for me to wait and let the Americans who are
in more urgent need get first aid. I have enough money to tide us over
for a few weeks with very careful expenditure. Of course I can get no
more, just like all the rest of, the Americans who are stranded here.
I feel terribly restless for work. I don't know how to loaf, never
did. I'd go to work here at something, but I feel if I did, it would
just mean that these Prussians could then spare one more man for
their butchery, and I will at least not help them that much. Your
mother and I are on the street a great deal. We walk up and down and
go in and out of shops and sit in the parks. I keep moving as much as
possible, not only because I am so restless but because I like to keep
the stupid spy who is set to watch over me as busy as possible. He has
some weird notion that I do not know he is ever near me. I keep up the
farce and I give him many anxious moments. Yesterday I wrote limericks
and nonsense verses on letter paper and made little boats of them and
sent them sailing on the lake in the park. If you could have seen this
man's excitement. He called in an accomplice and they fished out the
boats and carefully concealing them, they got hold of a third spy to
take them to the chief. I wonder what they made of:
"The Window has Four little Panes:
But One have I.
The Window Panes are in its Sash,--
I wonder why!"
or this:
"I wish that my Room had a Floor--
I don't so much care for a Door,
But this walking around
Without touching the ground
Is getting to be quite a bore!"
I only wish I could see the translations of these foolish rhymes that
must have been made before they could decide whether or not I had a bomb
up my sleeve to put the Kaiser out with. Fancy this in German:
"The poor benighted Hindoo,
He does the best he kindo;
He sticks to caste
From first to last;
For pants he makes his skindo."
Some of the ships sank and they had to get a boat hook and raise them.
My nonsense seems to have had its effect. I saw in this morning's paper
that some of the foreigners held in Berlin have gone crazy. I believe
they mean me. I must think up some more foolishness. I feel that the
more I occupy this spy who has me in charge, the better it is for the
Allies. I try to be neutral but my stomach is rebelling at German food,
and who can be neutral with a prejudiced stomach?
We are trying to cook in our room. You know what a wonder your little
mumsy is at knocking up an omelette and making coffee and what not, and
we also find it is much more economical to eat there all we can. When we
are there, we are out of sight of the spy, who, of course, can't help
his job, but neither can I help wanting to kick his broad bean. He is
such a block-head. He reminds me of the Mechanician Man, in our comic
papers: "Brains he has nix." He is evidently doing just exactly what he
has been wound up and set to do. I can't quite see why I should be such
an important person that I should need a whole spy to myself. I can't
get out of Berlin unless I fly out and I see no chance of that.
* * * * *
I have had my interview with the Ambassador. He sent for me, and the
wonderful thing was that it was because of the ball you had set rolling
in Paris. When one Ambassador gets in communication with another
Ambassador, even when it is about as unimportant a thing as I am, there
is something doing immediately. You must have made a hit, honey, with
the powers in France, they got busy so fast. It seems that the Imperial
Government is very leary about me. My being an American is the only
thing that keeps me out of prison. They are kind of scared to put me
there, but they won't let me go. I had to wait an hour even after I got
sent for, and I enjoyed it thoroughly because it was raining hard and
blowing like blazes and I knew that my bodyguard was having to take it.
Indeed I could see him all the time across the strasse looking anxiously
at the door where he had seen me disappear. I also had the delight of
reading a two weeks old American newspaper that a very nice young clerk
slipped to me. I suppose the American Legation gets its newspaper, war
or no.
Nothing can be done for me as yet. I have been very imprudent in my
behaviour, reprehensible, in fact. The paper boats were most ill
advised, especially the one that goes: "My Window has Four little
Panes." That is something to do with maps and a signal, it seems. "The
Window Panes are in its Sash," is most suggestive of information. Ah,
well! They can't do more than just keep us here, and if our money gives
out, it will be up to them to feed us. The time may come when I will be
glad to get even blood pudding, but I can't think it.
Your poor little mumsy, in spite of the years she has spent with me
roughing it, still has a dainty appetite, and I believe she would as
soon eat a live rat, as blood pudding or raw goose. She makes out with
eggs and salad and coffee and toast. So far, provisions are plentiful.
It is only our small purse that makes us go easy on everything. But if
the war goes on (which, God willing, it will do, as a short war will
mean the Germans are victorious), I can't see how provisions will remain
plentiful. What is England doing, anyhow? She must be doing something,
but she is doing it very slowly.
Your being in Paris is a source of much uneasiness to us, but I can't
say that I blame you. You are too much like me to want to get out of
excitement. I feel sure you will take care of yourself and now that the
French are waltzing in at such a rate, I have no idea that the Germans
will ever reach Paris. After all, this letter is to be taken by a lady
who is at the American Legation and mailed to Mrs. Edwin Green and
through her sent to you. They could not get it directly to you in
France, but no doubt it will finally reach you through your friend,
Molly. I am trusting her to do it and I know she will do it if any one
can, because she is certainly to be depended on to get her friends out
of trouble. In the meantime, the Ambassador here is to communicate
formally with the Ambassador in Paris, and he is to let you know that
all is well with your innocent if imprudent parents. Of course, your
mother could go home if she would, but you know her well enough to know
she won't. In fact, there is some talk of making her go home, and she
says if they start any such thing she is going to swear she can draw
any map of Turkey that ever was known to man, and can do it with her
eyes shut and her hands tied behind her.
We both of us wish you were safe in Kentucky with your friends. We spend
many nights talking of you and reproaching ourselves that we have left
you so much to yourself. I don't see how we could help it in a way, but
maybe I should have given up engineering and taken up preaching or been
a tailor or something. Then I might have made a settled habitation for
all of us. Your mumsy is writing you a long letter, too, so I must stop.
She is quite disappointed not to use her clever scheme for getting the
letter to you, and rather resents the lady at the Legation.
Yours,
BOBBY.