SALONICA, December 18th.
[DEAREST WIFE AND SWEETHEART:]
I am very blue tonight, and never was so homesick.
Yesterday just to feel I was in touch with you I sent a cable
through the fog, it said, "Well, homesick, all love to you
both." I did not ask if you and Hope were well, because I
know the good Lord will not let any harm come to you. I
am certainly caught by the
heels this time. And it will be the last time. As you know,
I meant only to go to France where no time would be wasted in
travel, and I would be able to get back soon. But the
blockade held up the ship and on the other one the captain
stayed at anchor, and, then when I got here, the Allies
retreated, and I had to stay on to cover what is to come next.
What that is, or whether nothing happens, you will know by the
time this reaches you. So, here I am. For
ten days until
this morning we have never seen the sun. In sixty years
nothing like it has happened. The Salonicans said the English
transports brought the fog with them. Anyway, I got it. My
room is right on the harbor. I never thought I would
love
an oil stove. I always thought they were ill-smelling,
air-destroying. But this one saved my life. I wrote with it
between my knees, I dry my laundry on it, and use the tin pan
on top of it to take the dampness out of the bed. The fog
kept everything like a sponge. Coal is thirty dollars a ton.
To get wood for firewood the boatmen row miles out, and wait
below the transports to get the boxes they throw overboard. I
go around asking
everybody if this place is not now a dead
duck for news. But they all give me no encouragement. They
say it is the news center of the world. I hope it chokes. I
try to comfort myself by thinking you are happy, because you
have Hope, and I have nobody, except John McCutcheon and Bass
and Jimmie Hare, and they are as blue as I am, and no one can
get any money. I cabled today to Wheeler for some via the
State Department. I went to the Servian camp for the little
orphans whose fathers have been killed, and they all knelt and
kissed my hands. It was awful. I thought of Hope, and hugged
a few and carried them around
in my arms and felt much better. Today for the first time, I
quit work and went to see an American film at the cinema to
cheer me. But when I saw the streetcars, and "ready to wear"
clothes, and the policemen I got suicidal. I went back and
told the others and they all rushed off to see "home" things,
and are there now. This is a yell of a letter, but it's the
only kind I can write. My stories and cables are rotten,
too. I have seen nothing — just traveled and waited for
something to happen. Goodnight, dearest one. I love you so.
You will never know how much I love you. Kiss my darling for
me, and, think only of the good days when we will be together
again. Such good days. Goodnight again — all love.
RICHARD.
HARBOR SALONICA, December 19th.
I am a happy man tonight! And that is the first time I
have been able to say so since I left you. The backbone of
the trip is broken! and my face is turned West — toward you and
Hope. John McCutcheon gave me a farewell dinner tonight of
which I got one half, as the police made me go on board at
nine, although we do not sail until five in the morning. So
there was time for only one toast, as I was making for the
door. Was it to your husband? It was not. It was to Hope
Davis, two weeks yet of being one year old, and being toasted
by the war correspondents in Salonica. They knew it would
please me. And I went away very choken and happy. Such a
boat as this is! I have a sofa in the dining-room, and at
present it is jammed with refugees and all smoking and not an
air port open. What a relief it will be to once more get
among clean people. We must help the
Servians, and God knows they need help. But, if they would
help each other, or themselves, I would like them better. I
am now on deck under the cargo light and, on the top floor of
the Olympus Hotel, can see John's dinner growing gayer and
gayer. It is like the man who went on a honeymoon alone. I
am so happy tonight. You seem so near now that I am coming
West.
How terribly I have missed you, and wanted you, and
longed for your voice and laugh, and to have you open the
door of my writing room, and say, "A lady is coming to call on
you," and then enter the dearest wife and dearest baby in the
world!
God bless you, and all my love.
RICHARD.
