Великий Гэтсби / The Great Gatsby (на русском и английском языках)

Daisy took her face in her hands.

“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” said Daisy. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”

“I wasn’t back from the war.”

“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”

I waited but she didn’t say any more, and after a moment I decided to talk about her daughter.

“I suppose she talks, and-eats, and everything.”

“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”

“Very much.”

“Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool-that’s the best thing for a girl in this world, a beautiful little fool.”

“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on. “Everybody thinks so-the most advanced people. And I KNOW. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.”

Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat on the long couch and she read aloud to him from the newspaper.

When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.

“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table. She stood up.

“Ten o’clock,” she remarked. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”

“Jordan’s going to play at Westchester tomorrow,” explained Daisy.

“Oh-you’re Jordan Baker!”

I knew now why her face was familiar-it had looked out at me from many pictures of the sporting life.

“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you?”

“But you won’t get up.”

“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you.”

“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll make it. You know-push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing…”

“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard anything.”

“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “And her family…”

“Her family!” cried Daisy. “Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Nick will look after her, won’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”

Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.

“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.

“From Louisville. She’s a friend from my girlhood.”

“Did you talk much to Nick on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.

“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t remember, but I think we talked about something. Yes, I’m sure we did. “

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.

I said that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side. As I started my motor Daisy called “Wait! I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were going to marry?”

“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”

“It’s nonsense. I’m too poor.”

“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy. “We heard it from three people so it must be true.”

Of course I knew what they were talking about, but I wasn’t engaged. Indeed, I had an old friend, but I had no intention to marry.

When I reached my house, I sat for a while in the yard. I turned my head and I saw that I was not alone-fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the stars. It was Mr. Gatsby himself.

I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that could be the beginning of our conversation. But I didn’t call to him: when I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone in the darkness.

Chapter 2

One day I met Tom Buchanan’s mistress. Yes, Tom Buchanan had a mistress. He visited popular restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, wandered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire to meet her-but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon and when we stopped he jumped to his feet and forced me from the car.

“We’re getting off!” he insisted. “I want you to meet my girl.”

He definitely decided to have my company. He thought that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low white-washed railroad fence. I saw a garage-Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars Bought and Sold-and I followed Tom inside.

The interior was bare; the only automobile visible was the dust-covered Ford which stood in a dim corner. The proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blonde, spiritless, faintly handsome man.

“Hello, Wilson, old man,” said Tom, slapping him on the shoulder. “How’s business?”

“I can’t complain,” answered Wilson. “When are you going to sell me that automobile?”

“Next week. My man is working on it now.”

“He is working pretty slow, right?”

“No, he isn’t,” said Tom coldly. “And if you think so, maybe I’d better sell it somewhere else after all.”

“I don’t mean that,” explained Wilson quickly. “I just meant…”

Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs and saw a woman. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. She smiled slowly and walking through her husband as if he were a ghost shook hands with Tom. Then she spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice:

“Get some chairs, why don’t you, so somebody can sit down.”