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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 375/416
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There
was
no
place
to
sit
down
;
but
one
thing
was
left
,
walk
.
Ah
,
that
via
dolorosa
of
the
destitute
,
that
chemin
de
la
croix
of
the
homeless
.
Ah
,
the
mile
after
mile
of
granite
pavement
that
MUST
be
,
MUST
be
traversed
.
Walk
they
must
.
Move
,
they
must
;
onward
,
forward
,
whither
they
cannot
tell
;
why
,
they
do
not
know
.
Walk
,
walk
,
walk
with
bleeding
feet
and
smarting
joints
;
walk
with
aching
back
and
trembling
knees
;
walk
,
though
the
senses
grow
giddy
with
fatigue
,
though
the
eyes
droop
with
sleep
,
though
every
nerve
,
demanding
rest
,
sets
in
motion
its
tiny
alarm
of
pain
.
Death
is
at
the
end
of
that
devious
,
winding
maze
of
paths
,
crossed
and
re
-
crossed
and
crossed
again
.
There
is
but
one
goal
to
the
via
dolorosa
;
there
is
no
escape
from
the
central
chamber
of
that
labyrinth
.
Fate
guides
the
feet
of
them
that
are
set
therein
.
Double
on
their
steps
though
they
may
,
weave
in
and
out
of
the
myriad
corners
of
the
city
’
s
streets
,
return
,
go
forward
,
back
,
from
side
to
side
,
here
,
there
,
anywhere
,
dodge
,
twist
,
wind
,
the
central
chamber
where
Death
sits
is
reached
inexorably
at
the
end
.
Sometimes
leading
and
sometimes
carrying
Hilda
,
Mrs
.
Hooven
set
off
upon
her
objectless
journey
.
Block
after
block
she
walked
,
street
after
street
.
She
was
afraid
to
stop
,
because
of
the
policemen
.
As
often
as
she
so
much
as
slackened
her
pace
,
she
was
sure
to
see
one
of
these
terrible
figures
in
the
distance
,
watching
her
,
so
it
seemed
to
her
,
waiting
for
her
to
halt
for
the
fraction
of
a
second
,
in
order
that
he
might
have
an
excuse
to
arrest
her
.
Hilda
fretted
incessantly
.
“
Mammy
,
where
’
re
we
gowun
?
Mammy
,
I
’
m
tired
.
”
Then
,
at
last
,
for
the
first
time
,
that
plaint
that
stabbed
the
mother
’
s
heart
:
“
Mammy
,
I
’
m
hungry
.
”
“
Be
qui
-
ut
,
den
,
”
said
Mrs
.
Hooven
.
“
Bretty
soon
we
’
ll
hev
der
subber
.
”
Passers
-
by
on
the
sidewalk
,
men
and
women
in
the
great
six
o
’
clock
homeward
march
,
jostled
them
as
they
went
along
.
With
dumb
,
dull
curiousness
,
she
looked
into
one
after
another
of
the
limitless
stream
of
faces
,
and
she
fancied
she
saw
in
them
every
emotion
but
pity
.
The
faces
were
gay
,
were
anxious
,
were
sorrowful
,
were
mirthful
,
were
lined
with
thought
,
or
were
merely
flat
and
expressionless
,
but
not
one
was
turned
toward
her
in
compassion
.
The
expressions
of
the
faces
might
be
various
,
but
an
underlying
callousness
was
discoverable
beneath
every
mask
.
The
people
seemed
removed
from
her
immeasurably
;
they
were
infinitely
above
her
.
What
was
she
to
them
,
she
and
her
baby
,
the
crippled
outcasts
of
the
human
herd
,
the
unfit
,
not
able
to
survive
,
thrust
out
on
the
heath
to
perish
?
To
beg
from
these
people
did
not
yet
occur
to
her
.
There
was
no
pride
,
however
,
in
the
matter
.
She
would
have
as
readily
asked
alms
of
so
many
sphinxes
.
