Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія
Chapter II
Hissavageabuseandopenridiculeoftheneatlyphrasedrondeauxandsestinasandchansonettesofthelittlemagazineswastohermindawantonanduncalled-forcruelty.ShefoundhisHomer,withitsslaughtersandhecatombsandbarbaricfeastingsandheadstrongpassions,violentandcoarse.Shecouldnotseewithhimanyromance,anypoetryinthelifearoundher;shelookedtoItalyforthat.His“SongoftheWest,”whichonlyonce,incoherentandfierce,hehadtriedtoexplaintoher,itsswift,tumultouslife,itstruth,itsnobilityandsavagery,itsheroismandobscenityhadrevoltedher.
“But,Presley,”shehadmurmured,“thatisnotliterature.”
“No,”hehadcriedbetweenhisteeth,“no,thankGod,itisnot.”
Alittlelater,oneofthestablemenbroughtthebuggywiththeteamofbaysuptothestepsoftheporch,andHarran,puttingonadifferentcoatandablackhat,tookhimselfofftoGuadalajara.Themorningwasfine;therewasnocloudinthesky,butasHarran’sbuggydrewawayfromthegroveoftreesabouttheranchhouse,emergingintotheopencountryoneithersideoftheLowerRoad,hecaughthimselflookingsharplyattheskyandthefaintlineofhillsbeyondtheQuienSaberanch.TherewasacertainindefinitecasttothelandscapethattoHarran’seyewasnottobemistaken.Rain,thefirstoftheseason,wasnotfaroff.
“That’sgood,”hemuttered,touchingthebayswiththewhip,“wecan’tgetourploughstohandanytoosoon.
