Великий Гэтсби / The Great Gatsby. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

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      We all turned and looked around for Gatsby.

      The first supper – there would be another one after midnight – was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her around a table on the other side of the garden.

      “Let's get out,” whispered Jordan, after half an hour.

      We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host.

      The bar, where we went first, was crowded but Gatsby was not there. She couldn't find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn't on the veranda. We opened a heavy door, and walked into a library.

      A stout, middle-aged man with enormous spectacles was sitting on the edge of a great table, staring at the shelves of books. As we entered he turned around and examined Jordan from head to foot.

      “What do you think?” he demanded impetuously.

      “About what?”

      He waved his hand toward the book-shelves.

      “About that. They're real.”

      “The books?”

      He nodded.

      “Absolutely real – have pages and everything. I thought they were unreal. But they're absolutely real. Pages and – Here! Let me show you.”

      He rushed to the bookcases and returned with a big volume.

      “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It's a masterpiece. But he didn't cut the pages. What do you want? What do you expect?”

      He took the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf.

      “Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.”

      Jordan looked at him cheerfully without answering.

      “I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I've been drunk for about a week now, and I decide to sit in a library.”

      “And?”

      “I can't tell yet. I've only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They're real. They're…”

      “You told us.”

      We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors.

      I tried to find the host. I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a girl who was laughing all the time. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two glasses of champagne.

      The man looked at me and smiled.

      “Your face is familiar,” he said, politely. “Weren't you in the Third Division during the war?”

      “Why, yes. I was in the Ninth Battalion.”

      “Oh! And I was in the Seventh Battalion. I knew I'd seen you somewhere before.”

      He told me that he had just bought a hydroplane and was going to try it out in the morning.

      “Want to go with me, old sport?”

      “What time?”

      “Any time that suits you best.”

      I wanted to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled.

      “Are you having a good time?” she inquired.

      “Yes, I am.” I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an unusual party for me. I haven't even seen the host. I live over there, and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.”

      For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand.

      “I'm Gatsby,” he said suddenly.

      “What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”

      “I thought you knew, old sport. I'm afraid I'm not a very good host.”

      He smiled. It was one of those rare smiles, that you may come across four or five times in life. Almost at the moment when Mr. Gatsby identified himself a servant hurried toward him with the information that Chicago was calling him on the wire. He excused himself with a small bow.

      “If you want anything just ask for it, old sport,” he urged me. “Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.”

      When he was gone I turned immediately to Jordan.

      “Who is he?” I demanded. “Do you know?”

      “He's just a man named Gatsby.”

      “Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?”

      “Well, he told me once he was an Oxford man. However, I don't believe it.”

      “Why not?”

      “I don't know,” she insisted, “I just don't think he went there”.

      Something in her tone reminded me of the other girl's “I think he killed a man.”

      “Anyhow he gives large parties,” said Jordan, changing the subject. “And I like large parties. They're so intimate. At small parties there isn't any privacy.”

      There was the boom of a bass drum, and the voice of the orchestra leader was heard.

      “Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried. “At the request of Mr. Gatsby we are going to play for you Mr. Vladimir Tostoff's latest work which attracted so much attention at Carnegie Hall[3] last May. If you read the papers you know there was a big sensation – 'Jazz History of the World.'”

      Gatsby was standing alone on the marble steps and looking from one group to another. I could see nothing sinister about him. Maybe he was not drinking at all.

      “I beg your pardon.”

      Gatsby's servant was standing beside us.

      “Miss Baker?” he inquired. “I beg your pardon but Mr. Gatsby would like to speak to you alone.”

      “With me?” she exclaimed in surprise.

      “Yes, madame.”

      She got up slowly, and followed the servant toward the house. I noticed that she wore her evening dress, all her dresses, like sports clothes.

      I was alone and it was almost two o'clock. The large room was full of people. One of the girls in yellow was playing the piano and beside her stood a tall, red haired young lady. That lady was singing. She had drunk a quantity of champagne and she was not only singing, she was weeping too. Whenever there was a pause in the song she filled it with broken sobs. The tears coursed down her cheeks. Soon she sank into a chair and went off into a deep sleep.

      “She had a fight СКАЧАТЬ