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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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- Великий Гэтсби
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- Стр. 94/165
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He
broke
off
and
began
to
walk
up
and
down
a
desolate
path
of
fruit
rinds
and
discarded
favors
and
crushed
flowers
.
"
I
would
n't
ask
too
much
of
her
,
"
I
ventured
.
"
You
ca
n't
repeat
the
past
.
"
"
Ca
n't
repeat
the
past
?
"
he
cried
incredulously
.
"
Why
of
course
you
can
!
"
He
looked
around
him
wildly
,
as
if
the
past
were
lurking
here
in
the
shadow
of
his
house
,
just
out
of
reach
of
his
hand
.
"
I
'm
going
to
fix
everything
just
the
way
it
was
before
,
"
he
said
,
nodding
determinedly
.
"
She
'll
see
.
"
He
talked
a
lot
about
the
past
,
and
I
gathered
that
he
wanted
to
recover
something
,
some
idea
of
himself
perhaps
,
that
had
gone
into
loving
Daisy
.
His
life
had
been
confused
and
disordered
since
then
,
but
if
he
could
once
return
to
a
certain
starting
place
and
go
over
it
all
slowly
,
he
could
find
out
what
that
thing
was
...
.
...
One
autumn
night
,
five
years
before
,
they
had
been
walking
down
the
street
when
the
leaves
were
falling
,
and
they
came
to
a
place
where
there
were
no
trees
and
the
sidewalk
was
white
with
moonlight
.
They
stopped
here
and
turned
toward
each
other
.
Now
it
was
a
cool
night
with
that
mysterious
excitement
in
it
which
comes
at
the
two
changes
of
the
year
.
The
quiet
lights
in
the
houses
were
humming
out
into
the
darkness
and
there
was
a
stir
and
bustle
among
the
stars
.
Out
of
the
corner
of
his
eye
Gatsby
saw
that
the
blocks
of
the
sidewalks
really
formed
a
ladder
and
mounted
to
a
secret
place
above
the
trees
--
he
could
climb
to
it
,
if
he
climbed
alone
,
and
once
there
he
could
suck
on
the
pap
of
life
,
gulp
down
the
incomparable
milk
of
wonder
.
His
heart
beat
faster
and
faster
as
Daisy
's
white
face
came
up
to
his
own
.
He
knew
that
when
he
kissed
this
girl
,
and
forever
wed
his
unutterable
visions
to
her
perishable
breath
,
his
mind
would
never
romp
again
like
the
mind
of
God
.
So
he
waited
,
listening
for
a
moment
longer
to
the
tuning-fork
that
had
been
struck
upon
a
star
.
Then
he
kissed
her
.
At
his
lips
'
touch
she
blossomed
for
him
like
a
flower
and
the
incarnation
was
complete
.
Through
all
he
said
,
even
through
his
appalling
sentimentality
,
I
was
reminded
of
something
--
an
elusive
rhythm
,
a
fragment
of
lost
words
,
that
I
had
heard
somewhere
a
long
time
ago
.
For
a
moment
a
phrase
tried
to
take
shape
in
my
mouth
and
my
lips
parted
like
a
dumb
man
's
,
as
though
there
was
more
struggling
upon
them
than
a
wisp
of
startled
air
.
But
they
made
no
sound
,
and
what
I
had
almost
remembered
was
uncommunicable
forever
.
It
was
when
curiosity
about
Gatsby
was
at
its
highest
that
the
lights
in
his
house
failed
to
go
on
one
Saturday
night
--
and
,
as
obscurely
as
it
had
begun
,
his
career
as
Trimalchio
was
over
.
Only
gradually
did
I
become
aware
that
the
automobiles
which
turned
expectantly
into
his
drive
stayed
for
just
a
minute
and
then
drove
sulkily
away
.
Wondering
if
he
were
sick
I
went
over
to
find
out
--
an
unfamiliar
butler
with
a
villainous
face
squinted
at
me
suspiciously
from
the
door
.
