May. But April seems ages ago. The mail from America is just coming with
stories of the massacres, and what I read seems unreal. Most of it is.
The stories about us are absurd. We never "fled to the coast." We sent
but one cablegram to Philadelphia, and none at all to Hartford. That
cablegram contained only the single word "safe" to relieve your anxiety.
I see now what that anxiety must have been. So you read that Tarsus was
wiped off the map? It would have been--had not the wind changed that
night.
Since I have been quietly resting, stretched out on my back, I have
decided to put April, 1909, out of my life. Herbert and I do not want to
share each other's memories. We have not told each other all we have
seen--nor even all we felt and all we did. I cannot get Herbert's full
story from him. He does not ask for mine.
Of course, we cannot escape the result of the events we have lived. Just
as Herbert's hair has become so white, there must be something inside of
us changed, too. Time alone will tell that. Only one thing we do realize
right now,--our responsibility to the Armenians. We must work in Egypt,
in France, in Germany, in England--and, perhaps later, in America--to
let the world know how the Armenians have suffered and what their lot
must always be under Turkish rule. We see too--oh, so clearly--how
heartless and cynical the diplomats of Europe are. They are the cause,
as much as the Turks, of the massacres. Not the foreign policy of Russia
or Germany alone. As far as the Near East goes, the Great Powers are
equally guilty. No distinction can be drawn between them. In England, in
Germany and in France, people do not care--because these horrible things
are done so far away. They are indifferent to their own solemn treaty
obligations. They are ignorant of the cruelty and wickedness of the
selfish policy pursued by the men to whom they entrust their foreign
affairs. I see blood when I think of what is called "European
diplomacy"--for blood is there, blood shed before your eyes.
We are looking forward eagerly to having you join us in France next
month. We shall not talk of the massacres, to you or to any one, except
so much as is necessary to help the Armenian Relief Fund and to show the
wickedness and faithlessness of the diplomacy of the Powers in Turkey.
Herbert and I have been saved, and we have our blessed baby. Our life is
ahead of us--we are glad to have it ahead--and we want to spend our time
and energy in meeting new duties, in solving new problems. Perhaps that
is the spirit of youth. But then we are young, and what interests us is
our baby's generation. The new life dates from May 5th, when she came to
us.
Dear, dear, you would never guess from this long letter I am writing
what is going to happen this afternoon. I am able to write only because
of the stern orders I got from the boss this morning. He has immobilized
me. I am lazily resting in bed just as if I hadn't been up yet at all.
My bed is an island, entirely surrounded by luggage. Suitcases are
nearest me. Trunks and steamer bundle are by the door. A Russian steamer
is due to leave this evening. Herbert has taken passage on her as far as
Beirut. There we shall catch the Italian leaving Saturday, or perhaps
the Messageries _Portugal_, scheduled for Monday. Fancy going to Egypt
to get cool in summer! Most people go there to get warm in winter.
Our year is finished. We meant to go early in June, anyway. It is a good
thing I am feeling so well, and got my strength back so quickly. The
heat is coming on, and we fear quarantine at Beirut and Port Said, if an
epidemic breaks out here. This is an urgent reason for our going
immediately. Herbert turned over night from a college professor to a
newspaper man. He has managed to send dispatches by little boats to
Cyprus and they have gone uncensored to Paris. But now he has done all
that needs to be done here in the way of getting news out. Much good has
been accomplished by publicity. If you didn't have me here to think
about when you opened your newspaper at the breakfast table, you would
just read headlines, and say, "the Armenians are in trouble again." By
"you" I mean the average person at home. Now what Herbert and I must do
is to tell our story and give our testimony as convincingly as we can,
and then put it where the most people can see it. We detest the
advertisement from a personal standpoint, but cannot consider that now.
_S.S. "Assouan"
Off the Cilician Coast,
Friday night,
May twenty-seventh._
It wasn't a Russian steamer after all, but an old tub of a Khedivial. It
is a palace to us, however, and the British flag looks good to
Americans.
The last thing that happened to us in Turkey was to have Scrappie
christened. Dr. Christie and Mother Christie came down to say good-by,
and Socrates with them. The new American Consul had just arrived from
Patras. (He turned out to be a college classmate of Herbert's!) A
christening party was improvised for our farewell. So Scrappie got her
name, Christine Este, and the Consul gave a combination birth and
baptismal certificate, with the Eagle stamped upon it. I wore my blue
dimity dress. Herbert put a big rocking-chair behind me, so that I could
flop down in it the first minute I felt tired. Scrappie wore the
prettiest of her long dresses, and under her chin was tucked an Indian
embroidered handkerchief that Mrs. Doughty-Wylie had long ago given me
against the christening day.
It was an odd gathering, missionaries, English and American naval
officers, sailors from the warships, Armenian friends, some of our boys,
including Socrates, and others I did not know who came to help eat the
cake and drink the sherbet. In the Orient, one's door is open to all
the world at a feast. I got nervous only when they wanted to kiss the
baby. Scrappie howled, and I was glad of the excuse to withdraw her.
When I went downstairs to the carriage, one of the officers of the
_North Carolina_ carried my bag, and drove me to the _scala_. Mother
Christie held Scrappie. The _North Carolina's_ launch was waiting. Out
we went to the great ship, where I was to spend the afternoon. The
Christies and others were coming later to say good-by. Herbert was to
spend the afternoon rounding up the baggage with the help of Socrates,
and row it out to the _Assouan_. A London war correspondent had just
arrived, too--the first of the newspaper men--and Herbert had to pilot
him around.
The sky-line of Mersina, broken by the minarets, gleamed white in the
sunshine. I did not dare to think too hard about what I was leaving. My
mind flew back to the day I left Tarsus, how the Armenian women pressed
my hands, touched my dress as I passed, and made me promise to come
back. I cheered up by looking at the American flag waving from the stern
of the launch. Only a year ago, and that was the _natural_ sight. I did
not know that Tarsus and Mersina existed. Turkey was something I thought
would forever be vague. And now--it has become a part of my life. All
right to talk about banishing memories. But could we? The sunshine of
the East they say casts its spell forever over those who have lived in
it. Would we ever come back?
We steamed for a mile straight out to sea. The officers told me I was in
command, and jollied along as if I were not a matron with a baby. One
ensign, a Southerner, of course, called me "Miss" with that inimitable
drawl. He was just the kind who would have made it "sweetheart" in an
hour. I felt a bit shaky when the launch drew up beside the gleaming
white cruiser. As we reached the ladder and then fell away, I imagined
my baby falling into the water. First touch of maternal worry,
which I suppose I shall now have for the rest of my life. The
lieutenant-commander took the baby. Two ensigns carried me up. Once on
that ship I was at home.
The captain was waiting to greet the youngest girl who had ever been
entertained on the _North Carolina_. Scrappie was fixed up in an
officer's bunk, where I knew she would sleep just as placidly as ashore
until it was time for her next meal. I was invited into the wardroom. A
leather arm-chair and--I ought to write a cup of tea, but it
wasn't--awaited me. The officers, of course, knew lots of my friends. My
mind went waltzing back to dancing days in the Armory and to my birthday
dinners at the old Bellevue after Army-Navy games. I was living in the
anti-Herbert period, when parsons and missionaries and Turkey and babies
did not claim me.
There was a soft knock at the steel door that stood ajar. A big negro
put in his head, and announced: "Missus, dat chile am cryin'."
I hurried to my responsibility. Beside the bunk, looking down at the
tiny mite, stood a coon in white linen. "Missus," he said, "de cap'n
tole me to keep mah eye on dis li'l baby, an' not even let a fly walk
'cross dat chile's face. I wants yoh t' know, lady, dem's de bes' awdahs
dis coon's had sence he lef' home. But I couldn't stop it cryin' jes'
now."
As I picked up Scrappie, whose great blue eyes shelter no shadow of the
hell that came so near, I realized, with a wave of happiness
overwhelming me, that I alone could quiet her.
Late in the afternoon Herbert came with Miss Talbot and the Dodds and
Christies. They accompanied us to the _Assouan_ in the launch. It was
hard to say good-by to the women who had been nearest during the days of
danger and suffering. Mother Christie held Scrappie to the last moment.
Miss Talbot, my faithful nurse, who had stuck by me for seven weeks
with unwavering devotion when there was so much larger and so much more
tempting a field in nursing the wounded--what could I say to her? Jeanne
Imer and Mary Rogers had been with me constantly. I expected to see them
soon again in Europe. But Mrs. Dodds, who had taken me in and done for
me as if I were one of her own family--was I just to say "Thank you!"? I
said to Mrs. Dodds: "What can I ever do for you to--to--" She gently
interrupted. "You don't know life, dear, if you think you can do
anything for me. You will probably never see me again. If you ever meet
a woman having a baby under difficult circumstances--just help her!"