Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
The Great Gatsby. B2 / Великий Гэтсби

© Темурян К. Т., адаптация, словарь, упражнения, 2024

© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2024

Chapter 1

In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father once gave me some valuable advice. His recommendation was to avoid criticizing others by reminding myself that not everyone has had the same advantages as me. This piece of advice made me a target for those who are too eager to share their personal problems. During college, I was often mistaken for a politician because I was well informed of other people's troubles. Most times, I would pretend to be asleep or busy to avoid hearing about them.

Despite my efforts not to judge anyone, this tolerance has its limits. After returning from the East last autumn, I wished for a world that was more morally strict, free from the chaotic emotions and indulgences of others. The only person who was free from this reaction was Gatsby, a man who, despite representing much of what I normally, possessed an extraordinary sense of hope that I had never seen before and probably never would again.

My family, the Carraways, have been prominent and well-to-do in our Midwestern city for three generations. Our line begins with my great-uncle who came to America in 1851, started a successful business made a fortune. As for me – after graduating from university in 1915, I joined the military during World War I. The experience left me restless and disillusioned with Midwest, so I decided to move east and learn the bond business. My family agreed to finance my endeavor for a year, and after several delays, I finally moved to the East Coast in the spring of 1922.

I rented a modest bungalow in a town on Long Island. I shared it with my dog that ran away days later and a Finnish woman who took care of the house. Although the first few days were lonely, chanceencounters made me feel like a part of the community, and the summer felt like a new beginning filled with the promise of fresh air and new books.

My house was located in West Egg, a less fashionable part of Long Island. Despite their similar shapes, West Egg and East Egg are vastly different in character. My humble home was overshadowed by the extravagant mansions that surrounded it, including a colossal mansion next door, owned by the mysterious Mr. Gatsby.

One day, I was invited to dinner at the home of Tom and Daisy Buchanan in East Egg. Daisy was my cousin, and I had met Tom in college. The Buchanans had recently moved East after spending some time traveling through Europe. Tom used to be a skilled football player, but later became a restless and aggressive man, who lived off his enormous wealth and always searched for excitement. Their home in East Egg was a grand mansion with a lawn that stretched to the beach. When I arrived, I was greeted by Tom, whose appearance and commanding voice were as intimidating as ever.

Inside the house, I was introduced to a young woman named Jordan Baker, who was a friend of Daisy's. Miss Baker was lying on a couch, motionless, while Daisy greeted me warmly. Her voice was filled with excitement and charm. She was the kind of person who could captivate others with just a few words.

As we were talking, Tom asked about my career in the bond business. He sounded skeptical, but I assured him that he would hear of my company soon enough. At this point, Miss Baker, who had been silent, suddenly exclaimed, “Absolutely!” It surprised both Tom and me. I looked at her again, and I realized that I had seen her before, or, perhaps, a picture of her.

“You live in West Egg,” she remarked arrogantly. “I know someone there. You must know him too. It's Gatsby.”

“Gatsby? What Gatsby?” Daisy demanded.

Before I could respond, dinner was announced, and Tom led me into the dining room. When the phone rang inside, and the butler went to answer it, Daisy leaned toward me, eager to share a family secret. “It's about the butler's nose. Want to hear?”

“That's why I came over tonight,” I joked.

She explained that the butler had once worked for a wealthy New York family until the work ruined his nose, forcing him to quit. As she spoke, the butler whispered something to Tom, who frowned and left the table without saying a word. Daisy excused herself.

I was about to speak to Miss Baker when she suddenly whispered, “Shh! Don't talk. I want to hear what happens.”

“Is something happening?” I asked innocently.

“Don't you know?” she said, surprised. “I thought everyone knew. Tom's got some woman in New York. And she doesn't have enough decency not to call him during dinner.”

Before I could fully understand the meaning, Tom and Daisy returned. Daisy sat down, tense but trying to appear cheerful. She mentioned something romantic about a bird singing on the lawn, but Tom seemed uninterested. The telephone rang again, disrupting the conversation. Daisy shook her head at Tom. I wanted to look at everyone but also avoid all eyes. I couldn't tell what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but even Miss Baker seemed unable to ignore the fifth guest.

Tom and Miss Baker wandered back to the library, while I followed Daisy to the front porch.

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

“I wasn't back from the war.”

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

She told me that after she had a baby, the nurse said it was a girl, and Daisy cried.

“I'm glad it's a girl,” she said. “And I hope she'll a beautiful little fool.”

Inside, Tom and Miss Baker were sitting on the couch, and she was reading aloud from a magazine. When we entered, she paused for a moment and then stood up.

“It's ten o'clock,” she noted. “Time for me to go to bed.”

“Jordan's playing in a tournament tomorrow,” Daisy explained.

I realized who she was, remembering her face from many pictures of the sporting life.

“Good night,” she said softly before leaving the room.

As I was starting my car, Daisy called out, “Wait! I forgot to ask you something important. We heard you were getting married.”

“It's not true,” I denied. “I'm too poor.”

I didn't explain any further. They didn't need to know the full story, just as I had no intention of clearing up the rumor. I had expected Daisy to call me to meet her child. Surprisingly, that did not happen.

Glossary

arrogantly ['ærəɡəntli] – adv высокомерно

assure [ə'ʃɔ:] – v заверять

bond [bɒnd] – n облигация

butler ['bʌtlə] – n дворецкий

captivate ['kæptɪveɪt] – v пленять, очаровывать

chance [tʃɑ:ns] – adj случайный

decency ['di:sənsi] – n порядочность

delay [dɪ'leɪ] – n задержка

deny [dɪ'naɪ] – v отрицать

disillusioned [,dɪsɪ'lu:ʒənd] – adj разочарованный

disrupt [dɪs'rʌpt] – v прерывать

eager ['i:ɡə] – adj стремящийся, нетерпеливый

encounter [ɪn'kaʊntə] – n неожиданная встреча

endeavor [ɪn'devə] – n попытка

exclaim [ɪks'kleɪm] – v восклицать

fortune ['fɔ:tʃu:n] – n состояние

humble ['hʌmbl] – adj скромный

indulgence [ɪn'dʌldʒəns] – n излишества

intimidating [ɪn'tɪmɪdeɪtɪŋ] – adj пугающий

lawn [lɔ:n] – n газон

mansion ['mænʃən] – n особняк

mistake [mɪ'steɪk] – v ошибочно принять за кого-то другого

modest ['mɒdɪst] – adj скромный

motionless ['məʊʃənləs] – adj неподвижный

overshadow [,əʊvə'ʃædəʊ] – v затмевать

perhaps [pə'hæps] – adv возможно

porch [pɔ:tʃ] – n крыльцо

possess [pə'zes] – v обладать

prominent ['prɒmɪnənt] – adj выдающийся

resent [rɪ'zent] – v возмущаться

restless ['restləs] – adj беспокойный

rumor ['ru:mə] – n слух

stretch [stretʃ] – v тянуться

strict [strɪkt] – adj строгий

tense [tens] – adj напряженный

vulnerable ['vʌlnərəbl] – adj уязвимый

wander ['wɒndə] – v бродить

well-to-do [,weltə'du:] – adj состоятельный

Chapter 2

About halfway between West Egg and New York, there was an area known as the valley of ashes. It was a wasteland where ash seemed to grow like crops, forming monstrous hills and gardens. It was observed by the watchful eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. Doctor T. J. Eckleburg was some ophthalmologist who placed his advertisement on a billboard and, apparently, forgot about it later. Blue and gigantic, with enormous glasses, his eyes stayed above the desolate land. After many days under sun and rain, these eyes were now dull, but the gave the area an eeriepresence.

This dreary place is where I first encountered Tom Buchanan's mistress. The bridge over the small foul river that borders the valley often causes delays for trains. It was during one of them, when I was on a train to New York with Tom, that he suddenly insisted that I “meet his girl”. I was curious to see what she looked like, but I had absolutely no desire to meet her. Tom grabbed my elbow and dragged me out of the train.

We walked back to a yellow brick building which housed a few businesses. One of them was a garage that belonged to George B. Wilson, a pale, spiritless man who looked full of hope as he greeted Tom. Tom started to ask him about cars to mask the true purpose of the visit.

Everyone got quiet when Myrtle Wilson, George's wife, descended the stairs. She was a plump woman in her mid-thirties and was glowing with vitality. Ignoring her husband, Myrtle immediately shook hands with Tom. “Get some chairs!” she instructed George and, while he was away, moved closer to Tom. He told her to get on the next train, and we left the garage. We were waiting for Myrtle when Tom spoke about his mistress again. “It's good for her to get away. Her husband thinks she is going to visit her sister. What a dumb man!”

Tom, Myrtle, and I got on a train, though Myrtle sat in a different train car to avoid drawing attention to their affair. When we arrived, Myrtle bought a magazine, some cream and perfume. “I want a dog for the apartment,” she said. The dog she got, not quite the police breed she wanted, excited her.

Although I tried to leave, we proceeded to a modest apartment that Tom had arranged for their secret meetings. It was small and over-furnished:the living room, for example, was crowded with heavy furniture, and the only decoration was a huge ugly-looking photograph. Soon Myrtle's sister, Catherine, joined us, along with the McKees, a peculiar couple from an apartment downstairs. Mr. McKee told me he was an artist, and I assumed he was the photographer who had made the terrible photograph on the wall.

“Do you live down on Long Island, too?” Catherine asked me.

“I live at West Egg.”

“Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. It was hosted by a man named Gatsby. Do you know him?”

“I live next door to him,” I replied, surprising her.

“I'm scared of him,” she confessed, and changed the topic.

“Neither of them can stand the person they married,” Catherine whispered to me, “Tom's wife is the one keeping them apart. She's a Catholic and they don't believe in divorce. Anyway, when Tom and Myrtle get married, they will move away.”

Confused by the fact that Daisy was a Catholic, I tried to carry on with our chat. At the same time, the rest of the guests were discussing love and marriage. Myrtle regretted marrying George Wilson.

“No one forced you to do it,” her sister noted, “you were crazy about him.”

“I only married George because I thought he was a gentleman, but then I found out he had borrowed the suit for our wedding!”

Then, she sat down beside me and started sharing how she had first met Tom:it had happened on a train, and she was immediately captivated by his appearance and manners. They left the station together, which led to an affair that, for Myrtle, was an escape from her dull life with George Wilson.

The afternoon turned into evening. Myrtle's behaviour with Tom grew louder, and the nature of their relationship was now obvious to everyone present. I looked around. It was ten o'clock, and Mr. McKee was asleep. The little dog was sitting on a table, groaning from time to time.

It was almost midnight when Tom and Myrtle had an argument about whether or not Myrtle had the right to mention his wife.

“Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!' Mrs. Wilson shouted, 'I'll say it whenever I want to! Daisy!”

With a quick movement of his hand, Tom hit her in the face, breaking her nose.

Mr. McKee awoke while his wife and Catherine were trying to help Myrtle. The bathroom floor was covered with bloody towels, and I could hear the arguing despite Myrtle's cries.

“Come to lunch some day,” Mr. McKee invited me as we were going down in an elevator.

“Where?” I asked curiously.

“Anywhere.”

Glossary

affair [ə'feə] – n роман

ash [æʃ] – n пепел

assume [ə'sju:m] – v предполагать

breed [bri:d] – n порода

confess [kən'fes] – v признаваться

crop [krɒp] – n урожай

curious ['kjʊəriəs] – adj любопытный

descend [dɪ'send] – v спускаться

desolate ['desələt] – adj пустынный

drag [dræɡ] – v тащить

dreary ['drɪəri] – adj тоскливый

dumb [dʌm] – adj глупый

eerie ['ɪəri] – adj жуткий

force [fɔ:s] – v заставлять

foul [faʊl] – adj вонючий

grab [ɡræb] – v хватать

groan [ɡrəʊn] – v стонать

halfway [,hɑ:f'weɪ] – adv на полпути

host [həʊst] – v организовывать

house [haʊz] – v содержать

insist [ɪn'sɪst] – v настаивать

instruct [ɪn'strʌkt] – v давать инструкции

interrupt [,ɪntə'rʌpt] – v прерывать

mask [mɑ:sk] – v скрывать

mistress ['mɪstrəs] – n любовница

peculiar [pɪ'kju:liər] – adj своеобразный

plump [plʌmp] – adj полный, пухлый

presence ['prezəns] – n присутствие

proceed [prə'si:d] – v продолжать

regret [rɪ'ɡret] – v сожалеть

spiritless ['spɪr.ɪt.ləs] – adj вялый

train car [treɪn kɑ:] – n вагон

vitality [vaɪ'tæləti] – n энергичность

wasteland ['weɪstlænd] – n пустырь

watchful ['wɒtʃfəl] – adj бдительный

Chapter 3

In the summer, my neighbor's house was always filled with music and laughter. Every week, boxes of lemons and oranges were delivered to his house from New York. Every two weeks, servants brought in enough Christmas lights to decorate every tree in Gatsby's garden. On buffet tables, there were always dozens of salads and roast turkeys, and so many beverages that it was hard to remember the name of each. The orchestra would arrive in the evening with their musical instruments and entertain the guests who had just returned from the pool. Every Monday, a team of eight servants and a gardener worked tirelessly to clean up the mess.

Guests usually arrived at Gatsby's house uninvited, drawn by the luxury of his gatherings. They introduced themselves to a couple of people they met there and started acting as if they were in an amusement park.

I was one of the few who had actually received an invitation.

That morning, a driver in a uniform delivered a note from Gatsby himself, inviting me to join his party that evening. After seven, I made my way to Gatsby's house, and felt out of place when I arrived, as I wandered among the throngs of well-dressed strangers. People moved from one group to another, forming and dissolving connections in an instant. I asked some of them if the knew where I could find the host, but they just stared at me with amazement in their eyes. Feeling embarrassed, I bumped into Jordan Baker, who was looking down the garden. Maybe I wasn't welcome, but I joined her anyway, as I wanted to attach myself to someone in this chaotic crowd.

Soon, I heard the wildest rumors about Gatsby. Some said that he had killed a man once, that he was a German spy, and other speculations.

We wandered around the mansion and walked into the library. There, a plump man couldn't stop admiring the collection of books. Jordan and I sat down at another table. Among the guests, I saw a man of about my age. He approached me politely, asking me if had been in the Third Division during the war. I had – that's why the man looked familiar to me. We spoke about our military past, and he invited me to join him for a walk tomorrow. Excited that I found someone to talk to, I mentioned that I couldn't find Gatsby.

“I'm Gatsby,” he said, “I'm afraid I haven't been a very good host, old sport.”

I apologized, but he just smiled at me. His smile was rare. It was full of reassurance that you do not come across often. However, when a butler hurried towards him to say someone from Chicago was on the phone, the smile vanished, and Gatsby excused himself.

I turned immediately to Jordan.

“Who is he really?”

“Just some man named Gatsby. He told me he had studied in Oxford, but I don't believe it,” she shrugged her shoulders.

Jordan's tone was similar to the girls' who shared stories of Gatsby being a spy, but it stimulated my curiosity. I wanted to know how he appeared out of nowhere and was able to purchase a house on Long Island.

“Anyway, he hosts huge parties, and I like them. At small parties, there just isn't any privacy,” Jordan noted.

Suddenly, Gatsby's butler appeared next to us.

“Miss Baker? Mr. Gatsby would like to speak to you in private.”

Astonished, Jordan followed the butler into the house.

I was waiting in the hall when the door of the library opened, and Jordan and Gatsby walked out together. He was saying something to her, but his excitement disappeared as soon as other guests started coming up to him to say goodbye. Jordan's friends were rushing her, but she stopped next to me and lingered for a while.

“I have just heard the most amazing thing,” she whispered, “how long were we in there?”

“About an hour, why?”

“Well, I promised not to tell anyone. But it's simply amazing! So here I am, teasing you… Come and see me! Find my aunt's name in the phone book,” she spoke quickly before disappearing in the crowd.

The party was fading away into the early morning hours. Feeling embarrassed that I had been staying for so long, I went to find Gatsby to apologize one more time.

“Don't mention it,” he said kindly and put a hand on my shoulder, “and don't forget we're going for a walk tomorrow.”

The butler appeared once again to tell Gatsby someone from Philadelphia was calling. He wished me goodnight, and I felt glad to be one of the last to leave.

Now that I think of that summer, it may look like I was completely absorbed by these parties, but it wasn't so. I spent most of my time working in New York, where I had a routine that involved working at a place called the Probity Trust. I knew other employees and salesmen pretty well, and we often had lunch in dark crowded restaurants, where I ordered sausages and mashed potatoes and drank coffee. Apart from that, I started a relationship with a girl from the accounting department, but her brother disliked me, so our relationship didn't last long. I dined at the Yale Club and studied investments in the library. My days were filled with work, but I found myself increasinglydrawn to the city's energy at night. I liked the adventurous feel of New York after dark, walking through the streets, imagining the lives of the people I passed, and feeling a connection to the city's restless spirit. However, this sense of connection was often paired with loneliness, especially when I saw others actively enjoying the city's nightlife while I remained an observer.

During the summer, I found Jordan Baker again. I was flattered to be seen with her because she was a famous golf champion and everyone knew her name, but my feelings grew more complex. I wasn't in love, but I felt a tender curiosity about her. When we went out one time, she left a rented car with the roof down, and it started raining. Jordan lied about it, and I recalled a story I read about her in the press. The newspapers and magazines claimed that during her first big golf tournament, she cheated by moving the golfball a little. I discovered that she was a dishonest person in general. She avoided clever, observant men because she felt safer in situations where her dishonesty wouldn't be noticed. She could not stand being at a disadvantage. This trait didn't bother me much – I was only briefly sorry before forgetting about it.

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