I have been out with Agathe, the maid at the Vestiaire, almost every afternoon, sending off packages, and then later returning Mrs. S. to Neuilly. She stayed out there all the time with Gertrude, sleeping in a horrid little hotel where there was no heating, but she got comfort from being with Gertrude in the afternoons and evenings. By the time I got the office work done, and did some chores and extra leaving and calling for bundles, I found that it was after seven before I put the car finally to bed, covered up and locked up, with the precious bidons of essence standing in tidy rows behind the car. Then letter-writing in the evenings, and making reports, extra typing for Mrs. Newson, and all the hundred and one things that come up every day, reading and listening to Rootie play,—which she does so very wonderfully,—this was getting to be too long a day, so I have cut it out. Monday was my last day to go for Mrs. S., as she brought Gertrude in yesterday. Just think, only eight days from the operation. I hope that they are not going to let her do too much, but I do not believe that they will.
Yesterday I was a little tired, anyway, and had a headache, and I was told to take a Mrs. Jackson, one of the workers, off for all day in the car, calling, as usual. I had no idea where I was going, or what I was going to do, but I was given the address and told that it was an all-day job—lunching with Mrs. J. too. I adore Mrs. J., she is such a sport, and, like all the rest of the people over here, has been so good to me. I got lost on the way to her house. I never saw such an elusive street. I swear it moved on the map, while I was watching out for taxis. You have no idea what sport it is trying to find one’s way about Paris with a map in one hand and driving with the other. Fortunately, my sense of direction is fairly good, and after a time I arrived on the street—going in the wrong direction, of course. If any one can tell me the French system of numbering their streets, I would be obliged.
I used to think that Boston streets were mixey, because they changed names once in a while, and Summer Street becomes Winter after it crosses Washington, for some reason best known to itself. In Paris, a street is one thing on one side of a lamp-post, and then suddenly adopts the name of the nearest square on the other side of the post. The odd and even numbers of a street run entirely differently on the two sides of the street, so that when looking for forty and you see thirty-seven, you think that forty is apt to be fairly near on the opposite side of the street, but no, no, it is a couple of blocks ahead or past, for the numbers do not run evenly, and twelve faces thirty-seven! Of course, all the numbers are put up good and high, so that they won’t be stolen, I suppose, and also so that when you want to see them, and are walking, you can turn your face skywards and, walking ahead, fall off the sidewalk and amuse the children! Also in the car, with this body, one has to lean out the side and crane, and I can tell you my swanlike neck comes in handy, to say nothing of my eyes, for the ingenuity shown by whoever hides the numbers on the houses—just behind a blind or beneath a scroll, or to right or left or beside the doorway—is wonderful!
As I started to say, before I got off on this feeling dissertation on 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’œuvres, 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!