Jon Bouman to the Bouman Family
Title
Jon Bouman to the Bouman Family
Creator
Bouman, Jon Anthony, 1873-1958
Identifier
WWP23064
Date
1919 September 7
Description
Letter from Jon Bouman to his family.
Source
Gift of William C. and Evelina Suhler
Subject
Correspondence
Paris Peace Conference (1919-1920)
Contributor
Rachel Dark
Denise Montgomery
Language
English
Provenance
Evelina Suhler is the granddaughter of Jon Anthony Bouman and inherited the family collection of his letters from the years of World War I. She and her husband gave the letters to the Woodrow Wilson Presidential Library & Museum in 2013.
Text
13 Place de la Bourse
Paris Sunday evening Sept 7
Dearest
I went to the office this evening because I felt it in my bones there must be a letter from you, and of course there was. I am sorry to hear your arm isn’t better yet, somehow I thought it was a cold that had gripped you there and that it would have cured itself long ago. You must tell me how it is going on as it should not be allowed to give you pain all the time. I wonder you didn’t get it attended to before. Also about the children’s deafness, are you sure you had competent advice? Because that has been going on too long also. You must tell me frankly if it is giving way to treatment, and especially if you think it has anything to do with Mary’s trouble at Xmas 1915. I do hope they will be allright when they go back to school.
I am paying Thorpe, the Prudential agent, the premium on your insurance, and will ask him to acknowledge receipt to Stanhope Rd.
I must introduce you to the Gumps, Mr. Andy Gump and his wife ”Min” who contribute to the gaiety of nations in the Paris edition of the Chicago Tribune every day. They are American suburbanites and are always having fearful rows. They have just had a holiday away from each other, and all sorts of dreadful things have happened: Andy came home first, to a “house full of mothballs and an empty ice chest”, so he felt very sorry for himself, and now he is very glad “Min” has come back.
Last Friday I went on an exploration of the valley of the Yerres, a small winding tributary of the Seine in most beautiful country, a string of old world villages, one of which is called Yerres. It is far from the madding crowd indeed and in the church are some marvellous old paintings by Italian masters, and a statue of a saint called St. Expedit who looks exactly like King George. Opposite the church was an inn where I went to lunch. I had taken a N.Y. Herald with me to read and the woman of the house turned out to have been a nurse in an American hospital and a great friend of Americans generally, so she made a great fuss over me and gave me a fine meal, because I was connected with the American press. She wanted me to come back to tea, but I had made up my itinerary and preferred to follow it. There was a villa close by called “Tipperary” a new house, probably owned by a war profiteer. I went specially to see a most romantically situated old mill, a place well known to artists; called the Moulin de Jarcy, an extraordinary jumble of old buildings, thirteenth century, formerly a convent; and most interesting, situated on an island in the river. All this country is marvellously beautiful and it only is about half an hours rail from the Gare de Lyon, and especially on week days, peace and quietude itself, and the weather was perfect. The days are however beginning to draw and the trees in town are dropping their foliage. This afternoon I have just been drifting about aimlessly through some of the old parts of Paris enjoying the site of the people in the narrow tortuous – often malodorous – streets; in fine weather of course the Parisians of the poorer classes spend their days on their doorsteps with all their household arrangements open to view. And when I stood on the Pont des Arts, in a perfectly glorious sunset with the almost full moon out, enjoying the enchanting view both down and upstream, I came to the conclusion there is no city that can match Paris for impressive beauty.
I want to thank the girls for their industrious effort. Both Betty and Bill (in his earlier letter) seem to be changing their handwriting; but Mary’s remains the same, her is very neat and looks quite grown up, and she spells the difficult word rigmarole correctly – quite a feat! I will write them soon. Thanks for letting me know about the fare; I thought that would be about right. I received a letter from Mr. Roberts from Nova Scotia dated Aug. 17: he had then not yet settled the date of his return, but I am beginning to want to get back to London now, at any rate to have something settled. But I suppose that will not be until he returns.
With all my love dearest, and kisses to the bairns, Thine always, Jack
Paris Sunday evening Sept 7
Dearest
I went to the office this evening because I felt it in my bones there must be a letter from you, and of course there was. I am sorry to hear your arm isn’t better yet, somehow I thought it was a cold that had gripped you there and that it would have cured itself long ago. You must tell me how it is going on as it should not be allowed to give you pain all the time. I wonder you didn’t get it attended to before. Also about the children’s deafness, are you sure you had competent advice? Because that has been going on too long also. You must tell me frankly if it is giving way to treatment, and especially if you think it has anything to do with Mary’s trouble at Xmas 1915. I do hope they will be allright when they go back to school.
I am paying Thorpe, the Prudential agent, the premium on your insurance, and will ask him to acknowledge receipt to Stanhope Rd.
I must introduce you to the Gumps, Mr. Andy Gump and his wife ”Min” who contribute to the gaiety of nations in the Paris edition of the Chicago Tribune every day. They are American suburbanites and are always having fearful rows. They have just had a holiday away from each other, and all sorts of dreadful things have happened: Andy came home first, to a “house full of mothballs and an empty ice chest”, so he felt very sorry for himself, and now he is very glad “Min” has come back.
Last Friday I went on an exploration of the valley of the Yerres, a small winding tributary of the Seine in most beautiful country, a string of old world villages, one of which is called Yerres. It is far from the madding crowd indeed and in the church are some marvellous old paintings by Italian masters, and a statue of a saint called St. Expedit who looks exactly like King George. Opposite the church was an inn where I went to lunch. I had taken a N.Y. Herald with me to read and the woman of the house turned out to have been a nurse in an American hospital and a great friend of Americans generally, so she made a great fuss over me and gave me a fine meal, because I was connected with the American press. She wanted me to come back to tea, but I had made up my itinerary and preferred to follow it. There was a villa close by called “Tipperary” a new house, probably owned by a war profiteer. I went specially to see a most romantically situated old mill, a place well known to artists; called the Moulin de Jarcy, an extraordinary jumble of old buildings, thirteenth century, formerly a convent; and most interesting, situated on an island in the river. All this country is marvellously beautiful and it only is about half an hours rail from the Gare de Lyon, and especially on week days, peace and quietude itself, and the weather was perfect. The days are however beginning to draw and the trees in town are dropping their foliage. This afternoon I have just been drifting about aimlessly through some of the old parts of Paris enjoying the site of the people in the narrow tortuous – often malodorous – streets; in fine weather of course the Parisians of the poorer classes spend their days on their doorsteps with all their household arrangements open to view. And when I stood on the Pont des Arts, in a perfectly glorious sunset with the almost full moon out, enjoying the enchanting view both down and upstream, I came to the conclusion there is no city that can match Paris for impressive beauty.
I want to thank the girls for their industrious effort. Both Betty and Bill (in his earlier letter) seem to be changing their handwriting; but Mary’s remains the same, her is very neat and looks quite grown up, and she spells the difficult word rigmarole correctly – quite a feat! I will write them soon. Thanks for letting me know about the fare; I thought that would be about right. I received a letter from Mr. Roberts from Nova Scotia dated Aug. 17: he had then not yet settled the date of his return, but I am beginning to want to get back to London now, at any rate to have something settled. But I suppose that will not be until he returns.
With all my love dearest, and kisses to the bairns, Thine always, Jack
Original Format
Letter
To
Bouman Family
Files
Collection
Citation
Bouman, Jon Anthony, 1873-1958, “Jon Bouman to the Bouman Family,” 1919 September 7, WWP23064, Jon Anthony Bouman Collection, Woodrow Wilson Presidential Library & Museum, Staunton, Virginia.