Much love.
Esther.
II
FROM ESTHER
Paris, Monday, October 23, 3 A.M.
Dearest Mother:—
This day has been so eventful, so utterly new and remarkable to me, that I can’t bear to think of its being crowded out of my mind by the immediate to-morrows. These experiences in fact have been so remarkable and the after-dinner coffee so absolutely noir, that after a few hours of fitful slumber I seem to be done for the night. After I have described this place you will not wonder that ink is not provided, but you will forgive pencil, I hope (it’s the nice black one out of Father’s writing-case which I love so, and its maiden trip), although I know that writing in pencil holds a place with you alongside of messing the top bureau drawer and neglecting to wear a fully equipped sewing-bag always about the neck.
The last night on the steamer was thrilling. I stood way out on the bow with one of the Ambulance men (the nicest one) and watched the lights way off on the horizon grow brighter and brighter. We watched the pilot row out from the pilot ship in a little boat, and although the sea looked perfectly calm compared to what it had been, it was like climbing mountains in a hickory shell. All dark night everywhere with a few flickering lights and men calling hoarse things in French back and forth from the ships—can’t you see how weird it was?
It was too bad to go down the Gironde at night because they say it is a grand sight, but we were glad enough to wake up in Bordeaux. We got up at 5.30 and looked out on the wide flat river, the many boats, and the picturesque water’s edge of the harbor. We packed our last things, had a farewell tour de force with the femme de chambre, flew around saying good-bye to everybody, and then stood in line to see the préfet de police. Right here I want to say that of all the fairy tales that were told me, the ones about the difficulties of getting to Paris were the most fantastic. There were a good many tiresome details: I had to show our passports everywhere, but everything went smoothly, and every one was most polite. I wish I could tell you the thousand and one funny things that happened in leaving the boat. How we hated to leave that darling stateroom and the still darlinger Espagne. You know my penchant for everything Spanish, and I knew when I first heard that name at Bailey’s that it was the boat for me; and it was.
You remember the confusion and perfect riotousness of landing. I managed my own things, which in itself is no joke. I had to get my stuff together, have it examined, weighed, and checked, send my cable, and telegraph Miss Curtis, pay my excess, and buy my railroad ticket, find a carriage, and leave that dock. It sounds simple, but with a million people all hurrying to do it at once and nothing but rapid-fire French going on,—I got a few short circuits that were disastrous,—it was dreadful (but often very funny) and took nearly two hours.
The customs inspector was a woman and pleasant as anything. I never even unlocked my trunk and she just poked at my suitcases.