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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 213/416
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Once
in
so
often
he
submitted
his
room
to
a
vigorous
inspection
;
setting
it
to
rights
,
removing
everything
but
the
essentials
,
the
few
ornaments
which
,
in
a
way
,
were
part
of
his
life
.
His
writing
had
by
this
time
undergone
a
complete
change
.
The
notes
for
his
great
Song
of
the
West
,
the
epic
poem
he
once
had
hoped
to
write
he
had
flung
aside
,
together
with
all
the
abortive
attempts
at
its
beginning
.
Also
he
had
torn
up
a
great
quantity
of
“
fugitive
”
verses
,
preserving
only
a
certain
half
-
finished
poem
,
that
he
called
“
The
Toilers
.
”
This
poem
was
a
comment
upon
the
social
fabric
,
and
had
been
inspired
by
the
sight
of
a
painting
he
had
seen
in
Cedarquist
’
s
art
gallery
.
He
had
written
all
but
the
last
verse
.
On
the
day
that
he
had
overheard
the
conversation
between
Dyke
and
Caraher
,
in
the
latter
’
s
saloon
,
which
had
acquainted
him
with
the
monstrous
injustice
of
the
increased
tariff
,
Presley
had
returned
to
Los
Muertos
,
white
and
trembling
,
roused
to
a
pitch
of
exaltation
,
the
like
of
which
he
had
never
known
in
all
his
life
.
His
wrath
was
little
short
of
even
Caraher
’
s
.
He
too
“
saw
red
”
;
a
mighty
spirit
of
revolt
heaved
tumultuous
within
him
.
It
did
not
seem
possible
that
this
outrage
could
go
on
much
longer
.
The
oppression
was
incredible
;
the
plain
story
of
it
set
down
in
truthful
statement
of
fact
would
not
be
believed
by
the
outside
world
.
He
went
up
to
his
little
room
and
paced
the
floor
with
clenched
fists
and
burning
face
,
till
at
last
,
the
repression
of
his
contending
thoughts
all
but
suffocated
him
,
and
he
flung
himself
before
his
table
and
began
to
write
.
For
a
time
,
his
pen
seemed
to
travel
of
itself
;
words
came
to
him
without
searching
,
shaping
themselves
into
phrases
,
—
the
phrases
building
themselves
up
to
great
,
forcible
sentences
,
full
of
eloquence
,
of
fire
,
of
passion
.
As
his
prose
grew
more
exalted
,
it
passed
easily
into
the
domain
of
poetry
.
Soon
the
cadence
of
his
paragraphs
settled
to
an
ordered
beat
and
rhythm
,
and
in
the
end
Presley
had
thrust
aside
his
journal
and
was
once
more
writing
verse
.
He
picked
up
his
incomplete
poem
of
“
The
Toilers
,
”
read
it
hastily
a
couple
of
times
to
catch
its
swing
,
then
the
Idea
of
the
last
verse
—
the
Idea
for
which
he
so
long
had
sought
in
vain
—
abruptly
springing
to
his
brain
,
wrote
it
off
without
so
much
as
replenishing
his
pen
with
ink
.
He
added
still
another
verse
,
bringing
the
poem
to
a
definite
close
,
resuming
its
entire
conception
,
and
ending
with
a
single
majestic
thought
,
simple
,
noble
,
dignified
,
absolutely
convincing
.
Presley
laid
down
his
pen
and
leaned
back
in
his
chair
,
with
the
certainty
that
for
one
moment
he
had
touched
untrod
heights
.
His
hands
were
cold
,
his
head
on
fire
,
his
heart
leaping
tumultuous
in
his
breast
.
Now
at
last
,
he
had
achieved
.
He
saw
why
he
had
never
grasped
the
inspiration
for
his
vast
,
vague
,
IMPERSONAL
Song
of
the
West
.
At
the
time
when
he
sought
for
it
,
his
convictions
had
not
been
aroused
;
he
had
not
then
cared
for
the
People
.
His
sympathies
had
not
been
touched
.
Small
wonder
that
he
had
missed
it
.
Now
he
was
of
the
People
;
he
had
been
stirred
to
his
lowest
depths
.
His
earnestness
was
almost
a
frenzy
.
He
BELIEVED
,
and
so
to
him
all
things
were
possible
at
once
.
Then
the
artist
in
him
reasserted
itself
.
He
became
more
interested
in
his
poem
,
as
such
,
than
in
the
cause
that
had
inspired
it
.
He
went
over
it
again
,
retouching
it
carefully
,
changing
a
word
here
and
there
,
and
improving
its
rhythm
.
For
the
moment
,
he
forgot
the
People
,
forgot
his
rage
,
his
agitation
of
the
previous
hour
,
he
remembered
only
that
he
had
written
a
great
poem
.
Then
doubt
intruded
.
After
all
,
was
it
so
great
?
Did
not
its
sublimity
overpass
a
little
the
bounds
of
the
ridiculous
?
Had
he
seen
true
?
Had
he
failed
again
?
He
re
-
read
the
poem
carefully
;
and
it
seemed
all
at
once
to
lose
force
.
