We had left the store some time ago, passed all the way down Canal Street, were coming to the Mississippi, and Mr. Adams was still muttering, as he groaned and moaned:
"No, gentlemen, let us not talk about it."
New Orleans is a beautiful city. It appealed to us. But the feeling of indifference and boredom, which overcame our automobile group after New Year's Eve in San Antonio, like a never-ceasing rain pouring constantly from an ever-cloudy sky, did not even think of leaving us. We had skimmed the cream off the journey. Man is not equipped to enjoy himself eternally. Therefore, all the beauty of New Orleans was appreciated only with our minds. The heart was speechless.
On a large square at the Mississippi it was quite deserted. Automobile ferries, the same kind as in San Francisco, were leaving the wooden docks for the other side. On a parapet, his legs hanging down toward the river, a Negro sat sadly, in a straw hat pulled over his nose. Beside him stood a crazy old man, a black coat flung around his shoulder, who directed the departing and approaching ferries. While doing this, he emitted cries of command. A street photographer came to us and, listlessly, as if he had seen us yesterday and the day before, asked in Russian whether we did not wish to have our pictures taken. He had arrived here twenty years ago from Kovno to become a millionaire, and one sensed such scepticism in his face and in the figure of this Kovno photographer that we did not even ask him how business was and what were his further prospectives.
Unexpectedly, from beyond the wooden dock moved a high long white structure which one could not at once recognize as a steamship. It went past us up the river. Quite close to its prow stood two high stacks, placed side by side across the deck, decorated in curlicues and looking like cast-iron poles of some monumental fence. The steamer was set in motion by the movement of one huge wheel placed astern.
"The last of the Mohicans," said Mr. Adams. "Now people ride on such ships only for rest and recreation, and that very rarely. Mississippi has come to an end!"
We looked at the river on which at one time floated barges with merchandise and slaves. It was on this river that Harriet Beecher Stowe introduced Tom to her readers. On it moved the raft of Huckleberry Finn, who hid the Negro, Jim, from his pursuers. Now the river is dead, river transport having proved too slow for the United States. Trains and automobiles have taken possession of all the cargoes of the river. Speed —that is the slogan under which the economy of the United States has developed in recent years. Speed at any price!
And there are no longer any slaves in the United States. By law the slaves have become free men with equal rights. But let a Negro so much as dare to enter a Southern motion-picture theatre, a street car, or a church where white men sit!
In the evening, wandering over the old streets of New Orleans, we saw the Palace Motion Picture Theatre, over which was this lighted inscription:
Splendid Southern Theatre.
For Coloured Folks Only.
44 Negroes
THE FARTHER we moved through the Southern states, the more frequently we met with all kinds of limitations designed for Negroes. Sometimes they were separate comfort stations " for the coloured," or a special bench at an autobus stop, or a special section of the street car. Here even the churches were separate; for example, one for the white Baptists and another for the black Baptists. When the Baptist God several years hence returns to earth, in order to destroy Soviet atheists who help one another, he will be delighted with his establishments in the south of America.
When leaving New Orleans we saw a group of Negroes working on swamp reclamation. The work was carried on in the most primitive manner. The Negroes had nothing but spades.
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Adams, " this should be especially interesting to you. Common ordinary spades in the land of the greatest mechanization ! It would be foolish to think that in the United States there are no machines for draining swamps. The labour of these people is almost thrown away. These are unemployed who receive a little relief. For that relief they must be given some kind of work, they must be occupied in some way. So they have been given spades. Let them dig. The productivity of labour here is equal to zero."
Our further route lay along the Gulf of Mexico, through the states of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama. We passed through all these states in one day, and stopped in Florida. Then from Florida—to the shore of the Atlantic Ocean—into Georgia, then through South Carolina, North Carolina, and Virginia—to Washington.
The first part of our route along the Gulf of Mexico was made by us with great speed. American technique delivered a new blow to our imagination. It is hard to astonish people after they have seen Ford's plant, Boulder Dam, the San Francisco bridges, and the New Orleans bridge. But in America everything proved possible. The fight against water—this is what occupied technique here. For scores of miles, bridges and dams alternate. At times it seemed that our automobile was a motor-boat, because all around, as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but water, and across it in some marvellous way a broad concrete road stretched. Then a bridge appeared, then again a dam, and then again a bridge. What effort, what money were needed to build it all! Most astonishing of all was the fact that twenty miles from here was an excellent parallel road, and there was really no pressing necessity for the road on which we were travelling, the construction of which was a technical wonder of the world and cost hundreds of millions of dollars. We learned that during prosperity this road was built in order to attract tourists to these places. The very shore of the Gulf of Mexico was covered with a quay that stretched for hundreds of miles. We regret that we did not write down the exact figure, but we do remember distinctly that it was several hundreds of miles. It is hard to believe, but we drove an entire day alongside the sea, which was separated from us by a solid and beautiful quay.
We spent the night in the small port and summer resort town of Pensacola, in Florida. Rain poured down all night. Our automobile stood under the open sky, and in the morning it was impossible to start the motor. Mr. Adams walked around the machine and, throwing his hands up in despair, said:
"Our battery has gone to the devil! Our battery has gone to the devil!" The rain annoyed and perplexed Mr. Adams, and he redoubled his usual automobile cautiousness.
It was our luck that our battery had not even thought of going to the devil. The wires had become a bit damp, and as soon as they dried out he motor began to work.
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Adams, looking at the murky sky, "I ask you to be as careful as possible. I suggest that we postpone getting out of here. Suppose the rain should start again."
"But suppose it doesn't start again?" said Mrs. Adams. "You don't expect us to stay here in Pensacola for the rest of our lives!"
"Oh, Becky, you don't know what Florida is. Here the climate is changeable and dangerous. Anything can happen here."
"Well, what can happen?"
"Seriously, Becky, you talk like a little girl. Anything can happen here."
"At the worst, if we should run into rain, we will drive in the rain."
All of us were so eager to get on our way that we paid no attention to Mr. Adams, and, taking advantage of a lull in the downpour, set out along the Gulf across the hew dams and the new bridges.
An hour after driving out of Pensacola, we ran into a tropical storm (rather, this was a subtropical storm, but at the time it seemed so frightful to us that we regarded it as a tropical storm). Everything happened according to Jules Verne—thunder, lightning, and a Niagara pouring out of the skies. Now everything was covered with water. We moved ahead blindly. At times the water was so deep that we seemed to be driving along the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. At each clap of thunder Mr. Adams jumped and muttered: