Lanny had to be polite at all hazards, so after a moment he said: “It interests me because it tells about the slums, which I don't know about.”
“But wouldn't it be better,” asked the uncle, “if you went and looked at them, instead of reading sentimental nonsense about them?”
“I'd be interested,” replied the lad; “but of course there aren't any slums on the Riviera.”
Uncle Jesse wanted to laugh again, but there was such an earnest look in his nephew's eyes that he checked himself. “It happens that I'm going to pay a visit in a slum this afternoon. Would you like to come?”
The boy was much excited. It was exactly what he had been longing for, though without having formulated it. A “cabbage patch” in Cannes — imagine such a thing! And a woman who lived there for the same noble and idealistic reasons that Lanny had been dreaming about! “This woman is poor,” his uncle explained, “but she doesn't need to be. She is highly educated and could make money, but she prefers to live among the working people.”
Leese gave them some lunch, and then they walked to the tram and rode cheaply into the city. When they got off, they walked into the “old town,” picturesque and fascinating to tourists. They turned into a lane where the tall buildings came closer together at the top, and very little light got down. There are thousands of such tenements in towns all along the Mediterranean shore; built of stone, several stories high, and having been there for a hundred years or more. There will be steps in the street, and many turns, and archways, and courts with balconies above, and at the end perhaps a dead wall, or a glimpse of an old church, prompting the tourist to unsling his camera.
Of course Lanny knew that people lived in such tenements. Babies swarmed on the steps, with flies crawling over their sore eyes; chickens dodged beneath your feet, donkeys jostled you with their loads, and peddlers shouted their wares into your ears. But somehow when you were thinking about antiquities you forgot about human beings; things that are ancient and artistic are lifted into a different realm. The son of Beauty Budd might have walked through such “old towns” for years and never once had the idea of going inside for a visit. But now Uncle Jesse turned into one of the small doorways. It was dark inside, no electric light, not even gas; the steps felt as if they were made of rotten boards, and the odors seemed as old as the house. Doors were left ajar and fresh smells came out; food cooking, and clothes — “Let's hope they're in separate kettles,” said the sardonic visitor. Babies squalled, and one very nearly got caught between their legs. Yes, it was a “cabbage patch”!
VIII
The man knocked on a door, a voice called, and they went in. There appeared to be only one room; it had one window, and a woman was sitting near it. She seemed to be old, and was wrapped in a shawl; the light made a silhouette of her face, which was emaciated, and yellow in hue, as happens when the blood goes out of the skins of these swarthy Mediterranean people. Her face lighted when she saw who it was, and she greeted Jesse Blackless in French and held out to his nephew a hand in which he could feel all the bones.
The woman's name was Barbara Pugliese; pronounced Italian fashion, Pool-yay-say. They were evidently old friends, but had not met for some time. Uncle Jesse was anxious about her cough, and she said it was about the same; she was well taken care of, since many here loved her, and brought her food. She asked about Jesse's health, and then about his painting; he said that nobody paid any attention to it, but it kept him out of mischief — but perhaps that was just his way of making a joke.