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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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- Великий Гэтсби
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- Стр. 161/165
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I
'd
never
seen
him
since
then
.
I
do
n't
know
how
he
knew
about
the
funeral
,
or
even
his
name
.
The
rain
poured
down
his
thick
glasses
,
and
he
took
them
off
and
wiped
them
to
see
the
protecting
canvas
unrolled
from
Gatsby
's
grave
.
I
tried
to
think
about
Gatsby
then
for
a
moment
,
but
he
was
already
too
far
away
,
and
I
could
only
remember
,
without
resentment
,
that
Daisy
had
n't
sent
a
message
or
a
flower
.
Dimly
I
heard
someone
murmur
,
"
Blessed
are
the
dead
that
the
rain
falls
on
,
"
and
then
the
owl-eyed
man
said
"
Amen
to
that
,
"
in
a
brave
voice
.
We
straggled
down
quickly
through
the
rain
to
the
cars
.
Owl-eyes
spoke
to
me
by
the
gate
.
"
I
could
n't
get
to
the
house
,
"
he
remarked
.
"
Neither
could
anybody
else
.
"
"
Go
on
!
"
He
started
.
"
Why
,
my
God
!
they
used
to
go
there
by
the
hundreds
.
"
He
took
off
his
glasses
and
wiped
them
again
,
outside
and
in
.
"
The
poor
son-of-a-bitch
,
"
he
said
.
One
of
my
most
vivid
memories
is
of
coming
back
West
from
prep
school
and
later
from
college
at
Christmas
time
.
Those
who
went
farther
than
Chicago
would
gather
in
the
old
dim
Union
Station
at
six
o'clock
of
a
December
evening
,
with
a
few
Chicago
friends
,
already
caught
up
into
their
own
holiday
gayeties
,
to
bid
them
a
hasty
good-by
.
I
remember
the
fur
coats
of
the
girls
returning
from
Miss
This-or-that
's
and
the
chatter
of
frozen
breath
and
the
hands
waving
overhead
as
we
caught
sight
of
old
acquaintances
,
and
the
matchings
of
invitations
:
"
Are
you
going
to
the
Ordways
'
?
the
Herseys
'
?
the
Schultzes
'
?
"
and
the
long
green
tickets
clasped
tight
in
our
gloved
hands
.
And
last
the
murky
yellow
cars
of
the
Chicago
,
Milwaukee
and
St.
Paul
railroad
looking
cheerful
as
Christmas
itself
on
the
tracks
beside
the
gate
.
When
we
pulled
out
into
the
winter
night
and
the
real
snow
,
our
snow
,
began
to
stretch
out
beside
us
and
twinkle
against
the
windows
,
and
the
dim
lights
of
small
Wisconsin
stations
moved
by
,
a
sharp
wild
brace
came
suddenly
into
the
air
.
We
drew
in
deep
breaths
of
it
as
we
walked
back
from
dinner
through
the
cold
vestibules
,
unutterably
aware
of
our
identity
with
this
country
for
one
strange
hour
,
before
we
melted
indistinguishably
into
it
again
.
That
's
my
Middle
West
--
not
the
wheat
or
the
prairies
or
the
lost
Swede
towns
,
but
the
thrilling
returning
trains
of
my
youth
,
and
the
street
lamps
and
sleigh
bells
in
the
frosty
dark
and
the
shadows
of
holly
wreaths
thrown
by
lighted
windows
on
the
snow
.
I
am
part
of
that
,
a
little
solemn
with
the
feel
of
those
long
winters
,
a
little
complacent
from
growing
up
in
the
Carraway
house
in
a
city
where
dwellings
are
still
called
through
decades
by
a
family
's
name
.
