«Великий Гэтсби» и другие лучшие произведения Ф.С. Фицджеральда. Френсис Скотт Фицджеральд. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Френсис Скотт Фицджеральд
Издательство:
Серия: Иностранный язык: учимся у классиков
Жанр произведения: Зарубежная классика
Год издания: 2015
isbn: 978-5-699-77667-2
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mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought – frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

      And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East[1] last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction – Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the ‘creative temperament’ – it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No – Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

      My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War[2], and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

      I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him – with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven[3] in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic[4] migration known as the Great War[5]. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe – so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, ‘Why – ye-es,’ with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

      The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog – at least I had him for a few days until he ran away – and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

      It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

      ‘How do you get to West Egg village[6]?’ he asked helplessly.

      I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood.

      And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

      There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas[7] and Morgan[8] and Maecenas[9] knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college – one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News – and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the ‘well-rounded man.’ This isn’t just an epigram – life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

      It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York – and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound[10]. They are not perfect ovals – like the egg in the Columbus story[11], they are both crushed flat at the contact end – but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

      I lived at West Egg, the – well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards[12] from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard – it was a factual imitation of some Hotel de Ville[13] in Normandy[14], with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw


<p>1</p>

the East – here: the Eastern states of the USA

<p>2</p>

the Civil War – the American Civil War of 1861–1865 between the United States of America and the Confederate States of America (11 Southern states that seceded from the Union in 1860)

<p>3</p>

New Haven – Americans associate New Haven with Yale University – a private university in New Haven, Connecticut; the third oldest university in the United States, founded in 1701, it was named for Elihu Yale, a British philanthropist.

<p>4</p>

Teutonic = Germanic; Teutonic peoples were peoples of the Germanic group of the Indo-European family.

<p>5</p>

the Great War – World War I of 1914—1918

<p>6</p>

West Egg village – a residential area of Long Island

<p>7</p>

Midas – in Greco-Roman legend, a foolish and greedy king of Phrygia who wished everything he touched turn into gold

<p>8</p>

Morgan – John Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913), a prominent American financier and industrialist

<p>9</p>

Maecenas – Gaius Maecenas (70 BC—8 BC), a Roman diplomat, statesman and patron of Virgil and Horace, the most famous ancient Roman poets

<p>10</p>

Long Island Sound – the arm of the Atlantic Ocean between the states of New York and Connecticut in the north and Long Island in the south; Long Island is an island in the Atlantic Ocean in the southeast of New York state, parallel to the shore of Connecticut.

<p>11</p>

the egg in the Columbus story – the egg crushed flat at one end; here: the unusual shape of the formation of land.

<p>12</p>

yardsyard is a unit of length equal to 0.9144 metre

<p>13</p>

Hotel de Ville = city hall (French)

<p>14</p>

Normandy – a historic region in northern France with its own culture, and a long and rich history