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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 217/416
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The
great
magazine
gives
me
such
—
a
—
background
;
gives
me
such
weight
.
”
“
Gives
YOU
such
weight
,
gives
you
such
background
.
Is
it
YOURSELF
you
think
of
?
You
helper
of
the
helpless
.
Is
that
your
sincerity
?
You
must
sink
yourself
;
must
forget
yourself
and
your
own
desire
of
fame
,
of
admitted
success
.
It
is
your
POEM
,
your
MESSAGE
,
that
must
prevail
,
—
not
YOU
,
who
wrote
it
.
You
preach
a
doctrine
of
abnegation
,
of
self
-
obliteration
,
and
you
sign
your
name
to
your
words
as
high
on
the
tablets
as
you
can
reach
,
so
that
all
the
world
may
see
,
not
the
poem
,
but
the
poet
.
Presley
,
there
are
many
like
you
.
The
social
reformer
writes
a
book
on
the
iniquity
of
the
possession
of
land
,
and
out
of
the
proceeds
,
buys
a
corner
lot
.
The
economist
who
laments
the
hardships
of
the
poor
,
allows
himself
to
grow
rich
upon
the
sale
of
his
book
.
”
But
Presley
would
hear
no
further
.
“
No
,
”
he
cried
,
“
I
know
I
am
sincere
,
and
to
prove
it
to
you
,
I
will
publish
my
poem
,
as
you
say
,
in
the
daily
press
,
and
I
will
accept
no
money
for
it
.
”
They
talked
on
for
about
an
hour
,
while
the
evening
wore
away
.
Presley
very
soon
noticed
that
Vanamee
was
again
preoccupied
.
More
than
ever
of
late
,
his
silence
,
his
brooding
had
increased
.
By
and
by
he
rose
abruptly
,
turning
his
head
to
the
north
,
in
the
direction
of
the
Mission
church
of
San
Juan
.
“
I
think
,
”
he
said
to
Presley
,
“
that
I
must
be
going
.
”
“
Going
?
Where
to
at
this
time
of
night
?
”
“
Off
there
.
”
Vanamee
made
an
uncertain
gesture
toward
the
north
.
“
Good
-
bye
,
”
and
without
another
word
he
disappeared
in
the
grey
of
the
twilight
.
Presley
was
left
alone
wondering
.
He
found
his
horse
,
and
,
tightening
the
girths
,
mounted
and
rode
home
under
the
sheen
of
the
stars
,
thoughtful
,
his
head
bowed
.
Before
he
went
to
bed
that
night
he
sent
“
The
Toilers
”
to
the
Sunday
Editor
of
a
daily
newspaper
in
San
Francisco
.
Upon
leaving
Presley
,
Vanamee
,
his
thumbs
hooked
into
his
empty
cartridge
belt
,
strode
swiftly
down
from
the
hills
of
the
Los
Muertos
stock
-
range
and
on
through
the
silent
town
of
Guadalajara
.
His
lean
,
swarthy
face
,
with
its
hollow
cheeks
,
fine
,
black
,
pointed
beard
,
and
sad
eyes
,
was
set
to
the
northward
.
As
was
his
custom
,
he
was
bareheaded
,
and
the
rapidity
of
his
stride
made
a
breeze
in
his
long
,
black
hair
.
He
knew
where
he
was
going
.
He
knew
what
he
must
live
through
that
night
.
Again
,
the
deathless
grief
that
never
slept
leaped
out
of
the
shadows
,
and
fastened
upon
his
shoulders
.
It
was
scourging
him
back
to
that
scene
of
a
vanished
happiness
,
a
dead
romance
,
a
perished
idyl
,
—
the
Mission
garden
in
the
shade
of
the
venerable
pear
trees
.
