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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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- Стр. 347/348
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His
mind
turned
a
corner
suddenly
and
he
found
himself
thinking
of
the
Catholic
Church
.
The
idea
was
strong
in
him
that
there
was
a
certain
intrinsic
lack
in
those
to
whom
orthodox
religion
was
necessary
,
and
religion
to
Amory
meant
the
Church
of
Rome
.
Quite
conceivably
it
was
an
empty
ritual
but
it
was
seemingly
the
only
assimilative
,
traditionary
bulwark
against
the
decay
of
morals
.
Until
the
great
mobs
could
be
educated
into
a
moral
sense
some
one
must
cry
:
"
Thou
shalt
not
!
"
Yet
any
acceptance
was
,
for
the
present
,
impossible
.
He
wanted
time
and
the
absence
of
ulterior
pressure
.
He
wanted
to
keep
the
tree
without
ornaments
,
realize
fully
the
direction
and
momentum
of
this
new
start
.
The
afternoon
waned
from
the
purging
good
of
three
o'clock
to
the
golden
beauty
of
four
.
Afterward
he
walked
through
the
dull
ache
of
a
setting
sun
when
even
the
clouds
seemed
bleeding
and
at
twilight
he
came
to
a
graveyard
.
There
was
a
dusky
,
dreamy
smell
of
flowers
and
the
ghost
of
a
new
moon
in
the
sky
and
shadows
everywhere
.
On
an
impulse
he
considered
trying
to
open
the
door
of
a
rusty
iron
vault
built
into
the
side
of
a
hill
;
a
vault
washed
clean
and
covered
with
late-blooming
,
weepy
watery-blue
flowers
that
might
have
grown
from
dead
eyes
,
sticky
to
the
touch
with
a
sickening
odor
.
Amory
wanted
to
feel
"
William
Dayfield
,
1864
.
"
He
wondered
that
graves
ever
made
people
consider
life
in
vain
.
Somehow
he
could
find
nothing
hopeless
in
having
lived
.
All
the
broken
columns
and
clasped
hands
and
doves
and
angels
meant
romances
.
He
fancied
that
in
a
hundred
years
he
would
like
having
young
people
speculate
as
to
whether
his
eyes
were
brown
or
blue
,
and
he
hoped
quite
passionately
that
his
grave
would
have
about
it
an
air
of
many
,
many
years
ago
.
It
seemed
strange
that
out
of
a
row
of
Union
soldiers
two
or
three
made
him
think
of
dead
loves
and
dead
lovers
,
when
they
were
exactly
like
the
rest
,
even
to
the
yellowish
moss
.
Long
after
midnight
the
towers
and
spires
of
Princeton
were
visible
,
with
here
and
there
a
late-burning
light
--
and
suddenly
out
of
the
clear
darkness
the
sound
of
bells
.
As
an
endless
dream
it
went
on
;
the
spirit
of
the
past
brooding
over
a
new
generation
,
the
chosen
youth
from
the
muddled
,
unchastened
world
,
still
fed
romantically
on
the
mistakes
and
half-forgotten
dreams
of
dead
statesmen
and
poets
.
Here
was
a
new
generation
,
shouting
the
old
cries
,
learning
the
old
creeds
,
through
a
revery
of
long
days
and
nights
;
destined
finally
to
go
out
into
that
dirty
gray
turmoil
to
follow
love
and
pride
;
a
new
generation
dedicated
more
than
the
last
to
the
fear
of
poverty
and
the
worship
of
success
;
grown
up
to
find
all
Gods
dead
,
all
wars
fought
,
all
faiths
in
man
shaken
...
Amory
,
sorry
for
them
,
was
still
not
sorry
for
himself
--
art
,
politics
,
religion
,
whatever
his
medium
should
be
,
he
knew
he
was
safe
now
,
free
from
all
hysteria
--
he
could
accept
what
was
acceptable
,
roam
,
grow
,
rebel
,
sleep
deep
through
many
nights
...
There
was
no
God
in
his
heart
,
he
knew
;
his
ideas
were
still
in
riot
;
there
was
ever
the
pain
of
memory
;
the
regret
for
his
lost
youth
--
yet
the
waters
of
disillusion
had
left
a
deposit
on
his
soul
,
responsibility
and
a
love
of
life
,
the
faint
stirring
of
old
ambitions
and
unrealized
dreams
.
But
--
oh
,
Rosalind
!
Rosalind
!
...
"
It
's
all
a
poor
substitute
at
best
,
"
he
said
sadly
.
And
he
could
not
tell
why
the
struggle
was
worth
while
,
why
he
had
determined
to
use
to
the
utmost
himself
and
his
heritage
from
the
personalities
he
had
passed
...
He
stretched
out
his
arms
to
the
crystalline
,
radiant
sky
.
