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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 409/416
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The
roses
,
the
lilies
,
the
carnations
,
the
hyacinths
,
the
poppies
,
the
violets
,
the
mignonette
,
all
these
had
vanished
,
the
little
valley
was
without
colour
;
where
once
it
had
exhaled
the
most
delicious
perfume
,
it
was
now
odourless
.
Under
the
blinding
light
of
the
day
it
stretched
to
its
hillsides
,
bare
,
brown
,
unlovely
.
The
romance
of
the
place
had
vanished
,
but
with
it
had
vanished
the
Vision
.
It
was
no
longer
a
figment
of
his
imagination
,
a
creature
of
dreams
that
advanced
to
meet
Vanamee
.
It
was
Reality
—
it
was
Angele
in
the
flesh
,
vital
,
sane
,
material
,
who
at
last
issued
forth
from
the
entrance
of
the
little
valley
.
Romance
had
vanished
,
but
better
than
romance
was
here
.
Not
a
manifestation
,
not
a
dream
,
but
her
very
self
.
The
night
was
gone
,
but
the
sun
had
risen
;
the
flowers
had
disappeared
,
but
strong
,
vigorous
,
noble
,
the
wheat
had
come
.
In
the
wheat
he
waited
for
her
.
He
saw
her
coming
.
She
was
simply
dressed
.
No
fanciful
wreath
of
tube
-
roses
was
about
her
head
now
,
no
strange
garment
of
red
and
gold
enveloped
her
now
.
It
was
no
longer
an
ephemeral
illusion
of
the
night
,
evanescent
,
mystic
,
but
a
simple
country
girl
coming
to
meet
her
lover
.
The
vision
of
the
night
had
been
beautiful
,
but
what
was
it
compared
to
this
?
Reality
was
better
than
Romance
.
The
simple
honesty
of
a
loving
,
trusting
heart
was
better
than
a
legend
of
flowers
,
an
hallucination
of
the
moonlight
.
She
came
nearer
.
Bathed
in
sunlight
,
he
saw
her
face
to
face
,
saw
her
hair
hanging
in
two
straight
plaits
on
either
side
of
her
face
,
saw
the
enchanting
fulness
of
her
lips
,
the
strange
,
balancing
movement
of
her
head
upon
her
slender
neck
.
But
now
she
was
no
longer
asleep
.
The
wonderful
eyes
,
violet
blue
,
heavy
-
lidded
,
with
their
perplexing
,
oriental
slant
towards
the
temples
,
were
wide
open
and
fixed
upon
his
.
From
out
the
world
of
romance
,
out
of
the
moonlight
and
the
star
sheen
,
out
of
the
faint
radiance
of
the
lilies
and
the
still
air
heavy
with
perfume
,
she
had
at
last
come
to
him
.
The
moonlight
,
the
flowers
,
and
the
dream
were
all
vanished
away
.
Angele
was
realised
in
the
Wheat
.
She
stood
forth
in
the
sunlight
,
a
fact
,
and
no
longer
a
fancy
.
He
ran
forward
to
meet
her
and
she
held
out
her
arms
to
him
.
He
caught
her
to
him
,
and
she
,
turning
her
face
to
his
,
kissed
him
on
the
mouth
.
“
I
love
you
,
I
love
you
,
”
she
murmured
.
Upon
descending
from
his
train
at
Port
Costa
,
S
.
Behrman
asked
to
be
directed
at
once
to
where
the
bark
“
Swanhilda
”
was
taking
on
grain
.
Though
he
had
bought
and
greatly
enlarged
his
new
elevator
at
this
port
,
he
had
never
seen
it
.
The
work
had
been
carried
on
through
agents
,
S
.
Behrman
having
far
too
many
and
more
pressing
occupations
to
demand
his
presence
and
attention
.
Now
,
however
,
he
was
to
see
the
concrete
evidence
of
his
success
for
the
first
time
.
He
picked
his
way
across
the
railroad
tracks
to
the
line
of
warehouses
that
bordered
the
docks
,
numbered
with
enormous
Roman
numerals
and
full
of
grain
in
bags
.
The
sight
of
these
bags
of
grain
put
him
in
mind
of
the
fact
that
among
all
the
other
shippers
he
was
practically
alone
in
his
way
of
handling
his
wheat
.
They
handled
the
grain
in
bags
;
he
,
however
,
preferred
it
in
the
bulk
.
Bags
were
sometimes
four
cents
apiece
,
and
he
had
decided
to
build
his
elevator
and
bulk
his
grain
therein
,
rather
than
to
incur
this
expense
.
Only
a
small
part
of
his
wheat
—
that
on
Number
Three
division
—
had
been
sacked
.
All
the
rest
,
practically
two
-
thirds
of
the
entire
harvest
of
Los
Muertos
,
now
found
itself
warehoused
in
his
enormous
elevator
at
Port
Costa
.
