Lanny found himself watching the woman again. He had never seen so much grief in a face. To him suffering was a theme for art, so he found himself remembering Christian martyrs as painted by the Italian primitives; he kept trying to recall one of the saints of Cimabue. The woman's voice was soft and her manner gentle, and he decided that she was truly a saint; yes, she lived in this terrible place out of pity for the poor, and must be an even more wonderful person than Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch.
When they went out Lanny hoped that Uncle Jesse would tell him about her; but the painter was an unsatisfying sort of companion. All he said was: “Well, you've seen a slum.”
“Yes, Uncle Jesse,” replied the boy humbly. Presently he added: “Don't you think we ought to take her some food, or something?”
“It wouldn't do any good. She'd just give it away.”
The man appeared to be wrapped up in his own thoughts, and Lanny hesitated to disturb him. But finally he asked: “Uncle Jesse, why do there have to be poor people like those?”
The other replied at once: “Because there are rich people like us.” That was confusing to the boy, who had always been led to believe that it was the rich people who gave the poor people work; he knew of cases in which they had done it out of kindness, because they were sorry for the poor.
Lanny tried again. “Why doesn't somebody clean up places like that?”
“Because somebody is making money out of them.”
“I don't mean the landlords,” Lanny explained. “I mean the city officials.”
“Maybe they're the landlords; or else they're collecting graft.”
“In France, Uncle Jesse?” Lanny had been given to understand that that happened only in America.
The painter laughed one of his disagreeable laughs. “They don't publish it here,” he said. They were in front of the Mairie, and he waved his hand toward it. “Go dig in there, and you'll find all you want.” As they walked on, he added: “As much as in the munitions industry.”
Of course Lanny couldn't discuss that, and perhaps his uncle knew it. Perhaps Uncle Jesse had argued too much in his life, and had grown tired of it. Anyhow, they had come to the tram, where their ways parted. The boy would ride home alone, because his uncle's home lay to the west, and a long way off. Lanny thanked him and said he had enjoyed the visit, and would think over what he had seen and heard. Uncle Jesse smiled another of his twisted smiles, and said: “Don't let it worry you.”
IX
Walking from the tram in Juan, Lanny had got to the gate of his home when a car tooted behind him, and there was Robbie just arriving. They greeted each other, and Robbie said: “Where have you been?” When Lanny replied: “I went to Cannes with Uncle Jesse,” the father's manner changed in an unexpected way.
“Does that fellow come here?” he demanded. The boy answered that it was the first time in a long while. Robbie took him into, the house, and called Beauty into her room, and Lanny also, and shut the door.
It.was the first time the boy had ever seen his father really angry. Lanny was put through a regular cross-examination, and when he told about Barbara Pugliese, his father exploded in bad language, and the boy learned some of the things that Uncle Jesse had not chosen to explain to him.
The woman was a prominent leader of the “syndicalist” movement. That was a long word, and Lanny didn't know what it meant, until Robbie said that for practical purposes it was the same as anarchism. The boy had heard enough about that, for every once in a while a bomb would go off and kill some ruler or prime minister or general, and perhaps some innocent bystanders. It had happened in Russia, in Austria, Spain, Italy, even in France; it was the work of embittered and deadly conspirators, nihilists, terrorists, men and women seeking to destroy all organized government. Only last year a band of them had been robbing banks in Paris and had fought a regular battle with the police. “There are no more depraved people living!” exclaimed the father.
Lanny broke in: “Oh, surely, Robbie, she isn't like that. She's so gentle and kind, she's like a saint.”
Robbie turned upon the mother. “You see! That snake in the grass, imposing upon the credulity of a child!”
He couldn't blame Lanny, of course. He controlled his anger, and explained that these people were subtle and posed as being idealists, when in their hearts were hatred and jealousy; they poisoned the minds of the young and impressionable.
Beauty began to cry, so the father talked more quietly. “I have always left Lanny's upbringing to you, and I have no fault to find with what you've done, but this is one thing on which I have to put down my foot. The black sheep of your family — or perhaps I had better say the red sheep of your family — is certainly not going to corrupt our son.”
“But, Robbie,” sobbed the mother, “I hadn't the least idea that Jesse was going to call.”
“All right,” said Robbie. “Write him a note and tell him it's not to happen again and Lanny is to be let alone.”
But that caused more weeping. “After all, he's my brother, Robbie. And he was kind to us; he was the only one who didn't raise a row.”
“I've no quarrel with him, Beauty. All I want is for him to keep away from our son.”
Beauty wiped her eyes and her nose; she knew that she looked ugly when she wept and she hated ugliness above all things. “Listen, Robbie, try to be reasonable. Jesse hasn't been here for half a year, and the last time he came Lanny didn't even know it. It will probably be as long before he'll be moved to come again. Can't we just tell Lanny not to have anything to do with him? I'm sure this child isn't interested in him.”
“No, really, Robbie!” The boy hastened to support his mother. “If I'd had any idea that you objected, I'd have made some excuse and gone away.”
So the father was persuaded to leave it that way; the lad gave his promise that never again would he let his Uncle Jesse take him anywhere, and there would be no more slumming tours with anybody. The concern of his father, who was usually so easygoing, made an indelible impression on the boy. Robbie behaved as if his son had been exposed to leprosy or bubonic plague; he probed Lanny's mental symptoms, looking for some infected spot which might be cut out before it had time to spread. Just what had Jesse Blackless said, and what had that Pugliese woman said?
Some inner voice told Lanny not to mention the remark about graft in the munitions industry; but he quoted his uncle's explanation of why there had to be poor people — because there were rich people.
“There's a sample of their poison!” exclaimed the father, and set out to provide Lanny with the proper antidote. “The reason there are poor is because most people are shiftless and lazy and don't save their money; they spend it on drink, or they gamble it away, and so of course they suffer. Envy of the good fortune of others is one of the commonest of human failings, and agitators play upon it, they make a business of preaching discontent and inciting the poor to revolt. That is a very great social danger, which many people fail to realize.”
Robbie became a bit apologetic now for having lost his temper and scolded Lanny's mother in Lanny's presence. The reason was that it was his duty to protect a child's immature mind. Lanny, who adored his handsome and vigorous father, was grateful for this protection. It was a relief to him to be told what was true and thus be saved from confusion of mind. So in the end everything became all right again; storm clouds blew over, and tears were dried, and Beauty was beautiful as she was meant to be.