«Великий Гэтсби» и другие лучшие произведения Ф.С. Фицджеральда

Do you see?’

There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him anymore. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.

�I’ll tell you a family secret,’ she whispered enthusiastically. �It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?’

�That’s why I came over to-night.’

�Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people.

He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose —’

�Things went from bad to worse,’ suggested Miss Baker.

�Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.’

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened – then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.

�I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a – of a rose, an absolute rose.

Doesn’t he?’ She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: �An absolute rose?’

This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said �Sh!’ in a warning voice.

A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.

�This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour —’ I began.

�Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.’

�Is something happening?’ I inquired innocently.