Атлант расправил плечи
The Concerto of Deliverance
Hesawitinthecollapseofherface,inthesuddenslackeningoffeatures,asiftherewerenothingtoholdthemtogether,intheeyes,blind,yetstaring,staringinward,filledwiththatterrorwhichnoouterthreatcanequal.Itwasnotthelookofapersonlosinghermind,butthelookofamindseeingtotaldefeatand,inthesameinstant,seeingherownnatureforthefirsttime—thelookofapersonseeingthatafteryearsofpreachingnon-existence,shehadachievedit.
Heturnedtogo.Hismotherstoppedhimatthedoor,seizinghisarm.Withalookofstubbornbewilderment,withthelastofhereffortatself-deceit,shemoanedinavoiceoftearfullypetulantreproach,"Areyoureallyincapableofforgiveness?"
"No,Mother,"heanswered,"I’mnot.Iwouldhaveforgiventhepast—if,today,youhadurgedmetoquitanddisappear."
Therewasacoldwindoutside,tighteninghisovercoatabouthimlikeanembrace,therewasthegreat,freshsweepofcountrystretchingatthefootofthehill,andtheclear,recedingskyoftwilight.Liketwosunsetsendingtheday,theredglowofthesunwasastraight,stillbandinthewest,andthebreathingredbandintheeastwastheglowofhismills.
Thefeelofthesteeringwheelunderhishandsandofthesmoothhighwaystreamingpast,ashespedtoNewYork,hadanoddlybracingquality.
