Kitobni o'qish: «The Great Gatsby. B2 / Великий Гэтсби»

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© 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.”