Part 9

What very deceptive things maps are, anyway. Do you remember the day we looked up Denfert-Rochereau on the map? We all hunted for it, and finally located it, surrounded with stations, morgue, catacombs, orphan asylums, and goodness knows what else. I wonder if you have the same picture that I had of it before I arrived? As a matter of fact, I only discovered the station a few weeks ago--so you can see how well it is hidden. The other cheering institutions do not exist, as far as I can see, and I don't care to look them up. What does exist is a large square, with a big statue of the Lion of Belfort in the middle. He is our landmark, as it were, when we are coming home. From any direction, there he stands, or rather lies, and that means "home" in a certain sense to us. There is a perfectly lovely garden in front of our house, and another beside us--between our block and Mrs. Shurtleff's. Both gardens have Japanese apple trees or cherry trees, and at night, when we lie on our balcony, the scent is perfectly lovely. As we are only two flights up, we are just at the height of the tree-tops, so it is deliciously cool, and, except for the children in the park, one can hardly believe one is in the city. Having these two parks and a square beyond, you can imagine what very good air we get, and that makes such a difference here. Besides the æsthetic qualities, this house is located at the end of a taxi-stand, which we can see by standing on a chair on the balcony. As taxis are few and far between here these days, it is pretty cute for us to have our own stand!

You may notice that I am following your excellent advice and am numbering this letter No. one. Meant to begin last week, but forgot, so here goes. Heaven help me if I miss out and forget what was the last number I used! I am trying to get time to re-write the Bordeaux trip. My bad words are all worn out from thinking of that beautiful letter going to the fishes. I am so very glad that you called my attention to the lack of periods and capitals in my letters. I intend to go over this cahier very carefully! It pretty near scares me to death when I think of your showing my notes to any one, for they are usually written hurriedly, and I simply say what I think and feel without any regard to phrases or literary value; not that I could do anything in that line if I wanted to. Still, it does please me to feel that I have been able to tell you enough, and in such a way that it has interested you. After all, it is simply because everything is so vital here, and when one has something to say, it is usually easy to say it.

Almost every day now, big, new, beautiful, creamy-colored dirigibles sail over the city. They are so marvelous-looking, with the sun on them. I do not quite know what they are for, but they are lovely to look at.

Having been scared into believing that the pastry-shops are really closing, Rootie and I bought lots of crackers, only to find them all flourishing to-day, and with no immediate prospects of closing! That is the way things go here. Lots of talk about shortage of this and that, and yet we all have everything.

The last few days a very large number of soldiers--a remarkable number in fact--have come home for "permission"--I cannot imagine why. An oldest son--one of three at the front--came home this morning while we were making a call. I hated to stay on and ask questions, when I knew how much the woman wanted to talk with her boy. When he came in, both the mother and father stopped talking, and simply stared at him. Then she said, "Well, I am glad to see you alive," and kissed him on each cheek. The man said nothing, but pounded him on the back. Then the woman turned to us and explained that he was the eldest, and asked him if he had news of his brother, wounded in a hospital near Arras. The simplicity of their greeting, the wonderful control of the woman, who is having a very hard time,--her husband is dying of T.B.; she has three sons at the front; her daughter of thirty is insane, the result of the bombardment; and she herself is not strong. I think that it is interesting to see how people usually say commonplace things when they are greatly stirred.

Rootie has finished writing, and is now waiting for me to come in and play "halma." Did you ever? We have bought a board, and I expect to be licked all to pieces, but here goes.

Your very loving daughter, MARJE.

Friday, A.M.

Am writing this while waiting in the car for Mrs. Shurtleff, who is in the American Clearing House, looking up lost cases--your paper among others. I feel pretty important lined up with all the military cars, and I backed into the place perfectly, which is great, for soldiers look down on girl drivers. Am hoping one of them will crank for me! Letters from you and Dad arrived for breakfast, all about seeing the Roots. Thanks so much for them.

M.

XVII

FROM ESTHER

Paris, Monday, May 28, 1917.

DEAREST MOTHER:--

I am so bursting full of the good time that we have had during the past two days that I am going to dash a line off to you--an inconsequential line--even when I know that what you want is a letter full of statistics and answers to questions. (Funny thing, I always think that I am the one who is wonderful about answering everything that you ask!) I will be good to-morrow.

To-night, I am tired and dusty, but miles and miles of white French roads bordered by forests, and meadows, and houses, and towns, and children, and horses, and castles, and flags, are going round in my head.

"There ne'er were such thousands of leaves on a tree, Or of people in church or the park...."

To-day is a holiday, being the day after Pentecost (Whit-Monday in England), and Marje and I decided to go off for two days somewhere in the country. Miss Curtis had planned to move a family to-day in the Association car,--forgetting that Mrs. Shurtleff had promised us that we could go out in it,--so she handed us over her Ford touring-car, which was perfectly wonderful for us.

Yesterday morning we started off in dazzling sunshine with a clear blue sky overhead. We took the road to Fontainebleau, which is long and straight and bordered all the way--fifty kilometres--with great evergreen trees. We took our hats off and talked, and laughed, and sang, and whistled, and watched the countryside go flying by; the trees and fields were the most luscious green, and everywhere were huge patches of mustard, growing dense and brilliant yellow. Little towns, red-roofed, with a single church spire and a few pointed haystacks, would huddle to themselves far off on the horizon, and always we kept tearing along between the trees, leaving Paris and carking care behind.

We stopped for luncheon under a particularly splendid tree and laid out our store on the thick grass. Sardines, fresh bread, cheese, preserved plums, strawberries, olives stuffed with anchovies, Cailler's chocolate and orangeade. I never had anything taste so good, and no salt air any nearer than Havre to account for it. You can't imagine what fun we had. Finally when we were replete, we lay down and looked up into the leaves and listened to the most heavenly birds.

We reached Fontainebleau at about two. The "New York Herald" had said something about its being American day at F. that Sunday, but we weren't prepared for such an exhibition of American flags as greeted us on all the houses and shops, and on the palais itself. We knew, however, that all this demonstration meant that the hotels were full, so we looked to getting a room for the night before seeing anything. Not a thing to be had. Thank fortune we were in a car and could go on to the next town.

There was a special invitation for all Americans to visit the Fontainebleau golf course, so we made tracks out in that direction, as the palais and grounds were overrun with permissionnaires and the usual holiday crowds.

Arrived at the gates of the golf club we were ashamed at first to go in. We were tired and dusty and blown to pieces, and the paths and hedges looked too neat and dressy for words. But we did hop out and walk up to a gentle-looking gray-bearded Frenchman with a black straw hat, and asked if we could go in. He said he was enchanté to have Americans come to the club, and took us himself up to the first tee. I looked wistfully at the little piles of sand and thought of the many hours spent under an electric light between four walls of fish-net on Seventy-second Street, and longed for my driver.

We wandered up to some fir trees in the rough about halfway to the first green and flopped down on the ground. We were both pretty tired and didn't know where we could spend the night, or what, in fact, the next move would be. Marje said that she couldn't go another step until she had a nap, and as we didn't know when we should see a bed, we crawled under the low branches of the fir tree, spread our coats over us, and went to sleep.

It was twenty minutes of four when we woke up. We jumped out of the bushes and so startled a man who was driving off that he sliced his shot and the ball went whizzing between our heads. It was surprising to see men caddies in battered French uniforms--probably réformés for tuberculosis--and also young husky girl caddies toting around armfuls of clubs. These were the only reminders of war, for on the veranda were Americans and French people in white tennis shoes and blazers playing bridge. You can't imagine the thrill of seeing good-looking people wearing clothes and jewelry, sitting around and calling out "No trumps"--after what this winter has been in Paris.

My, but we felt good after our nap! We met our friend with the black hat and he took us inside the clubhouse. He showed us most especially the mural decorations--scenes in Fontainebleau--which were from his brush. One of the silver loving-cups in the glass case had "Compliments of Charles Crocker" on it, and Marje discovered that he is a relation of hers in Fitchburg.

We became very chummy with graybeard, and I mentioned in passing that we couldn't find a place to stay. He gave us his card--M. Paul Tavernier--and said that he knew an old couple who had a lovely house which they rented furnished for the summer, beginning July 1st. Just now they rented rooms overnight and would serve the petit déjeuner. It was nice of him to recommend us, not knowing us at all, but he must have known we were nice, we looked so innocent and unattractive. It seems funny that over here when I'm traveling I spend my time trying to look utterly unattractive and I meet with dazzling success; but such a difference as it makes when choosing hats!

I have had a gnawing eagerness to see Moret. I believe it's where the Barnards used to live; and Professor Churchill, head of the art department in Northampton, knew George Gray Barnard there, and used to mention the town and its environs in his lectures. The road leads through the forest, and I can imagine nothing lovelier than the acres of velvet green grass and giant green trees. You feel so tiny in between.

We hurried back to Fontainebleau and found 25 rue de l'Arbre Sec to be a plain-looking house on a narrow, cobbled side street. Our ring was answered by a nice-looking little woman, who became cordial when we mentioned M. Tavernier's name. She led us through the house, which was dark and finely furnished, and upstairs to a bedroom done in pink, with white furniture. The windows looked out on a court and a heavenly garden--undreamed of from the street.

Mme. Moreau, our hostess,--I call her hostess for she seemed just like it,--made up the bed in fresh linen, hemstitched and monogrammed, put fresh towels in our private adjoining bathroom, and puttered around us adorably. She said that she didn't serve any meals except breakfast, but would we like eggs with our coffee? We jumped for joy. I haven't had an egg for breakfast since I was in Pau.

We sauntered out for dinner at 7.30. We went to the France et Angleterre, the chic-est hotel there, and ate on the Terrace with all the swells. A few of the very few members of Paris haute société that I know were there, and bowed quite informally over their pearls. I was becomingly gowned in my old brown felt hat, the coat of my winter suit, the little blue serge model, and a pair of men's shoes that I bought from the Vestiaire. No matter. We watched the officers and their lady friends and the Rolls Royces and Renaults and negotiated our asparagus with perfect nonchalance.

To bed in that wonderful room. The armoire was all lined with satin, and there was a plain gray velvet carpet, and canework let into the head and foot of the bed, and the bed was set in an alcove with a canopy. Oh, I tell you it was great; twelve francs, for the two of us.

And when we woke there were the eggs--and pain grillé. It was about the time when certain people that I know are usually on the way over to the Vestiaire, and we hugged ourselves and each other, I can tell you, to think that we were off in Fontainebleau in an elegant boudoir with trees whispering outside the window and boiled eggs before us.

We had luncheon in the forest. We decided to leave the palais and grounds until another day when there wouldn't be such a crowd and the sun would not be so hot.

Moret is the cutest place ever. A cobbled main street, with little stores and tiny streets leading off of it, and old stone towers over the city gates. It is on the Loire, and we crossed the bridge and sat down in the long grass at the water's edge and looked back at the town through the trees; cunning little houses with window-boxes leaning out over the river, children and ducks playing in the water; and topping the town, the tower of the lovely old twelfth-century church.

We went up to the church, and really it is the most romantic, irregular, moth-eaten, ancient of days that you can imagine. The inside is lovely in outline and general construction, but here and there it has been whitewashed and generally renovated in a deplorable way. Some one evidently died--as Marje remarked--and left to the church three brilliant cut-glass chandeliers, which give the most bizarre effect, hanging in the main aisle. We wandered around all alone--not a person in the place, not even a priest or choir-boy was to be seen.

We started home and went to Barbizon for tea. That is another cute place. Lovely villas, and tablets outside saying what artist lived there. There are several fine hotels. One was really very snappy, and we had tea there outdoors under a yellow-and-white striped awning. The country all about is lovely and just shrieks Millet. If it hadn't turned cold suddenly I should have wanted to get out and sketch and let Marje work on the car awhile. She always can find something to do, and if there's nothing in sight for me to draw, I always can draw her doing it.

I have just been playing over the easier of the Symphonic Études--if there are such--and here I am writing away and it's bedtime. Think of how wonderful it was to have that car, and find that lovely place to stay, and to have each other to go with, and then to come home to our salon and my darling piano!

I am waiting impatiently for the letter telling me what I'm to do in Switzerland. I am afraid you are quite unnecessarily worried about me. There was a time when I was pretty ill and tired, but I am much better now. Mrs. Shurtleff has given both Marje and me every other Monday off. I haven't written to you yet about our salon, but it makes all the difference in the world to our health and happiness.

Good-bye for now. I will write you a sensible letter soon, full of information and untouched by frivolity. I understand that one boat has skipped. I know I didn't get any mail. Heaven know when you'll get this.

Much love, Mother dear, from

ESTHER.

XVIII

FROM MARJORIE

June 20, 1917.

DEAREST FAMILY:--

Having written you a short bum letter last week, I am now going to try to make it up to you this week. I certainly have enough material, and if this cahier is not interesting, it is because I am writing very hurriedly, and not on account of lack of things to tell you.

Ever since I arrived here in Paris, I have longed more or less, and mostly more, to get up to the "front," and to see what this war has done to the country and villages, and what modern warfare is like, anyway. I have hoped that I might get an opportunity some time, but have only hoped. It never occurred to me that I, Marjorie Crocker, would ever really get there, but I have! I warn you right now that this trip has changed my point of view in several ways, and I only hope that I shall be able to tell you what I saw in such a way that you will feel as I felt. (I am, by the bye, making a carbon copy of this letter, for I do not intend to have another "Bordeaux trip" letter experience.)

Mrs. Gage wrote to Miss Curtis some time ago, saying that she wanted to borrow her car for a few days' trip to the front, and would Miss C. be willing to drive it for her? You can imagine that Miss Curtis was willing. I happened to be there when she was reading the letter, and remarked at once that, if anything happened, not to forget that I could always go as a chauffeur too! Then I thought no more about it, until last Friday, the 8th, when Rootie blew in to luncheon, all agog about some Mrs. W---- who wanted Miss Curtis to drive her to the front the next day, and Miss C. was in the country for a few days' rest. As this sounded like a chance to me, I got busy, and with Rootie's help chased up the "chance" as quick as we could! Rootie, knowing how I felt, had suggested me in the morning as a substitute for Miss Curtis, but nothing very definite had been arranged. We tore around from Dr. Shurtleff's to the Vestiaire, and there by pure luck met Mrs. W---- and a Miss Upjohn, who was with her. After some discussions between Mrs. Shurtleff, Mrs. W. and M. X. C., as to whether I ought to try to go in Miss Curtis's place, for there was every possibility of her returning that night, Mrs. W---- said that I was there on the scene, and she would like to try to take me in place of Miss Curtis, and we must go at once to get the name changed on the papers,--so we hopped into the Association car and beat it for the Agence de la Presse, which is the place to get papers to go to the front. I was at this stage of the game as ignorant as you are as to who Mrs. W---- was, and why she was going to the front, and what the whole game was. The only thing I could think of was that I was really going to the front. We got the papers changed easily, and I came back to the house all excitement, ready to start at six in the morning. You can imagine how I felt, for it did seem as if I was cutting Miss Curtis out of her opportunity. We stopped at Miss C.'s house to discuss things with her, and found to our delight a telegram saying that she had decided to stay over one day more, so I felt much better. Incidentally I knew that she and Mrs. Shurtleff were going up to the front later on, and that they were to stay for a week or more. After going to Mrs. Shurtleff's and talking it over with her, we came back here and found a note saying the start was postponed until three in the afternoon. This I was glad of, for it gave me time to get ready, and also to attend the usual Saturday morning conference.

Rootie and I lunched at the Bon Marché, in celebration of the event, although I felt rottenly about going and not being able to take her along too. I thought that the ladies seemed a little vague, so I took some food with me, as I can keep going indefinitely if I am fed, as you know. I went to the Hotel Regina, as directed, at the hour set, and there met the rest of the mob. The party was to go in two cars, one a high-powered landaulet, French make, and our Ford. Mrs. W---- was the head of our party. She is about to found a work over here, has got an office, and, when she gets money and a committee, is going to have a "large work" for the Pays Envahis, so she says. She is English, and has written at times, and her excuse for going on the trip was to write up the country, send it to America, and raise money there for her work which is about to be. Miss U. is a friend. Mrs. W. was the next. I made the fourth, and chauffeur of the party. The other car contained Mr. and Mrs. Will Irwin, of "Saturday Evening Post" fame, Mrs. Norman Hapgood, and Mme. Perrin, the official guide, and her sister. Mlle. Bazin (they are daughters of one Léon Bazin, a well-known French author), and a chauffeur who looked at me in scorn! We started at about half-past three, our orders being to follow as closely as possible to the other car, and, if we lost them, to turn up at Compiègne, seventy-five kilometres distant, for dinner and to spend the night.