The Living Present | Page 2

an ear tuned to nasal rhythms and to the rich
divergencies from the normal standards of their own tongue that
distinguish different sections of this vast United States of America.
But the American mind is, after all, an open mind. Such generalities as,
"The Frenchwomen are quite wonderful," "are doing marvelous things
for their country during this war," that floated across the expensive
cable now and again, made little or no impression on any but those who
already knew their France and could be surprised at no resource or

energy she might display; but Owen Johnson and several other men
with whom he talked, including that ardent friend of France, Whitney
Warren, felt positive that if some American woman writer with a public,
and who was capable through long practice in story writing, of
selecting and composing facts in conformance with the economic and
dramatic laws of fiction, would go over and study the work of the
Frenchwomen at first hand, and, discarding generalities, present
specific instances of their work and their attitude, the result could not
fail to give the intelligent American woman a different opinion of her
French sister and enlist her sympathy.
I had been ill or I should have gone to England soon after the outbreak
of the war and worked with my friends, for I have always looked upon
England as my second home, and I have as many friends there as here.
If it had not been for Mr. Johnson and Mr. Warren, no doubt I should
have gone to England within the next two or three months. But their
representations aroused my enthusiasm and I determined to go to
France first, at all events.
My original intention was to remain in France for a month, gathering
my material as quickly as possible, and then cross to England. It
seemed to me that if I wrote a book that might be of some service to
France I should do the same thing for a country to which I was not only
far more deeply attached but far more deeply indebted.
I remained three months and a third in France--from May 9th, 1916, to
August 19th--and I did not go to England for two reasons. I found that
it was more of an ordeal to get to London from Paris than to return to
New York and sail again; and I heard that Mrs. Ward was writing a
book about the women of England. For me to write another would be
what is somewhat gracelessly called a work of supererogation.
I remained in France so long because I was never so vitally interested
in my life. I could not tear myself away, although I found it impossible
to put my material into shape there. Not only was I on the go all day
long, seeing this and that oeuvre, having personal interviews with heads
of important organizations, taken about by the kind and interested
friends my own interest made for me, but when night came I was too

tired to do more than enter all the information I had accumulated during
the day in a notebook, and then go to bed. I have seldom taken notes,
but I was determined that whatever else my book might be it should at
least be accurate, and I also collected all the literature (leaflets,
pamphlets, etc.) of the various oeuvres (as all these war relief
organizations are called) and packed them into carefully superscribed
large brown envelopes with a meticulousness that is, alas, quite foreign
to my native disposition.
When, by the way, I opened my trunk to pack it and saw those dozen or
more large square brown envelopes I was appalled. They looked so
important, so sinister, they seemed to mutter of State secrets, war maps,
spy data. I knew that trunks were often searched at Bordeaux, and I
knew that if mine were those envelopes never would leave France. I
should be fortunate to sail away myself.
But I must have my notes. To remember all that I had from day to day
gathered was an impossibility. I have too good a memory not to distrust
it when it comes to a mass of rapidly accumulated information;
combined with imagination and enthusiasm it is sure to play tricks.
But I had an inspiration. The Ministry of War had been exceedingly
kind to me. Convinced that I was a "Friend of France," they had
permitted me to go three times into the War Zone, the last time sending
me in a military automobile and providing an escort. I had been over to
the War Office very often and had made friends of several of the
politest men on earth.
I went out and bought the largest envelope to be found in Paris. Into
this I packed all those