"Seriously, gentlemen," he said to us piteously, "I cannot bear it any longer. These motion pictures will finally drive me crazy. In New York I never go to the movies, and it is very hard for me to bear it, because I am not used to it. No, truly, I wanted to shoot at the screen—widi a machine-gun."
The couple quickly made it up and the evening ended with a heart-to-heart talk at the gas fireplace of the tourist home.
It was only a hundred miles to New Orleans. On a sunny morning we started on our journey. It was soft, almost summery weather. We drove! along a new but rather narrow concrete road, along a quiet little river. On the other side stretched reddish fields of cotton, on which here and there could be seen pieces of white cotton tuft and fields of sugar-cane where Negroes in large groups were chopping down its dry stalks with machetes.
Frequently across the river were flung protuberant and narrow little suspension bridges.
In the course of several hours we met the monotonous and pathetic board huts of Negro farm workers. Here was the devastating monotony of limitless poverty, a kind of standard of poverty. In the doorless entrances, surrounded by wattles almost falling apart, one could see not only no cows, pigs, or chickens, but not even a wisp of straw. This was the very lowest stage of poverty, before which the picturesque poverty of the Indians may seem the height of well-being, even of luxury. This was in south United States, in one of the most fruitful places on the globe.
Before us again appeared a large, smooth and completely deserted river, which reminded us of the Volga, although perhaps it was not so broad.
"This is the Mississippi," said Mrs. Adams triumphantly.
Mr. Adams sighed heavily. He would have paid a high price that the river should bear some other name. But there was no doubt. There was the bridge, the famous new silvery bridge with its side roads for automobiles and its central part designated for trains. Again American nature and American technique met in a contest of strength. The longest river in the world was crossed by the longest bridge in the world resting on abutments. It was opened only five days ago, had been three years under construction, and cost fifteen million dollars. Beyond the bridge began the widest express highway, and cottages appeared. We were driving into New Orleans.
New Orleans might have been called tne American Venice (after all, like Venice it has risen out of water), if its innumerable canals had not been hidden underground.
The city is widely spread on a low promontory between the Mississippi and Lake Pontchartrain. From the place where the Mississippi enters into the Gulf of Mexico to the city it was ninety miles. Closer to the Gulf, not another place could be found where a city might be built. But even where it has been built the soil is alluvial, slimy clay. The city has always suffered from floods and fevers. The water which brought it its good fortune at the same time brought it misfortune. In the course of its entire life the city has been fighting itself, fighting against the soil on which it is built and the water which surrounds it on all sides. It is fighting even now. But the main work has already been done. Pontchartrain is separated from the city by a concrete embankment which drops toward the lake step by step. The approaches to the city for many miles around are covered with a system of dams, on top of which pass faultless highways. In the long battle between man and nature, man has come out the victor.
The city is planned with extraordinary simplicity. The streets which go parallel to the river follow the bend which the river makes at that place, and assume the shape of a crescent. They are crossed by completely straight and very long streets. Under one of these, located approximately in the centre of the city, is hidden the largest canal. In honour of this unseen canal the street itself is called Canal Street. This is the main street. It divides the city into two parts—the French, which is as careless as old Paris, with its little streets, its small arches on the wooden posts, its stores, its restaurants of unprepossessing appearance with first-class French cooking, its port inns, cobbled streets, and street stands filled with vegetables and fruits, the beauty of which stands out particularly, thanks to the proximity of dirt and slops thrown right out into the streets —and the new American part, which adds nothing to the character of the American cities already known to the readers.
At one time Louisiana belonged to France, and New Orleans was founded by Frenchmen. It is difficult to say to what extent the French spirit has been preserved in New Orleans, but on to Canal Street emerge the streets of the Dauphin, Toulouse, Royale, and there is even a Champs-Elysees, while in the old city in the Restaurant Arnot they serve the kind of filet that surely cannot be found anywhere else in America.
The city lies a little more than a metre below the level of the river. There is not a single dry spot in it where the dead might be buried. No matter where they try to dig the ground, they unfailingly find water. Therefore, people here always bury their dead in the manner of the ancient Egyptians, in sarcophagi, above the earth.
We went to the cemetery, which is located in the French part of the town, and for a while wandered through this white and tedious city of the dead. The quadrangular vaults are made of brick, and painted white. The coffin is placed in the front opening, which is then closed in with bricks. One vault is built on top of the other, and occasionally a third one on top of that. Its two-storied brick dullness makes the cemetery reminiscent of a small American town. It even had its Main Street.
From the cemetery we went to a photographer's supply store to have our camera repaired. While Mr. Adams was talking with the woman in charge about the prospects of the city's future development (the prospects were bad), and about trade (the trade likewise was bad), there entered a handsome young man with black eyes and a beaked French nose.
"May I see the manager of the store?" he asked.
"He is not here now," answered the lady, a thin, red-haired woman in spectacles, "but if you need anything, you may tell me."
"But I should like to talk to the owner," muttered the young man, looking appealingly at us.
"Is it a very important matter?" asked the lady.
"Yes ... that is, it is not so important, but I thought ... however, you also, of course ... I can tell you what it is."
He came close to the lady and very quietly said:
"I should like to wash the show window in your store for only five cents."
The lady said she was very sorry, but she did not need that kind of work. The young man apologized, and, stumbling several times, ran out of the store.
We were silent for some time; then Mr. Adams ran out into the street. He returned ten minutes later.
"Gentlemen," he said, shaking his round head," this is terrible ! You can't imagine to what stage of pauperism he has descended. I caught up with him with difficulty, he ran so fast down the street. I had a talk with him. He is an unemployed, artist. He has had no orders for a long time and he does not expect any in the future. The boy no longer counts on his profession. He is ready to do any kind of work, but this is also hopeless. Yes, gentlemen, that nice boy has been hungry for several years. He would not take a dollar from me for anything in the world. He was even angry with me."
"What? And you did not manage to give him ... "
"No, don't say I could not give it to him. It is simply foolish to think so. Let us not talk about it."