منتديات ابو علي الثقافية

موقع يهتم بالثقافة والابداع والترجمة

 

الأخوة أعضاء منتديات ابو علي الثقافية تشكركم ادارة المنتديات لتسجيلكم في المنتديات ولكي يستفيد الجميع نرجو منكم وضع إقتراحاتكم  في تحسين المنتديات أو اضافة منتدى او قسم جديد فلا تبخلوا ولكم جزيل الشكر والتقدير 

 

الأخوة الأعضاء وبالأخص الاعضاء الجدد نرحب بكم في منتدياتكم منتديات الثقافة والابداع ونستسمحكم العذر في تأخر تفعيل عضوياتكم  والان اذا واجهتكم مشكلة في الدخول او في حال نسيان كلمة السر او اي مشكلة او استفسار لا تبخلوا بإعلامنا بذلك بإي طريقة اما من خانة اتصل بنا الموجودة في اعلى صفحة المنتدى او بالكتابة في منتدى الاقتراحات والشكاوي او بأرسال رسالة عبر الأيميل الى مدير المنتديات ولكم جزيل الشكر

المواضيع الأخيرة

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» الموندِيـال العائلي .. للدكتورة مها محمد شحاته
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» الفم ..دار البلسم للدكتورة مها شحاته
الإثنين أغسطس 04, 2014 7:03 am من طرف ماهر امين

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» إدراكات ولكن ليست كالإدراكات ! للدكتورة مها محمد شحاته
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الإثنين أغسطس 04, 2014 6:02 am من طرف ماهر امين

» أهكذا قسم الترجمة
السبت سبتمبر 21, 2013 11:04 am من طرف سلمى الغرياني

» فرصة عظيييمة أول مدرسة عربية لدراسة فن الترجمة
الخميس مارس 28, 2013 12:03 am من طرف المدرسة العربية للترجمة

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الساعة الأن بتوقيت (اليمن)
جميع الحقوق محفوظة لـمنتديات ابو علي الثقافية

حقوق الطبع والنشر©2011 - 2010

    The Great Gatsby

    شاطر

    هناء
    عضو

    الجنس : انثى
    عدد المساهمات : 106
    تاريخ التسجيل : 13/08/2010

    The Great Gatsby

    مُساهمة من طرف هناء في الأحد سبتمبر 09, 2012 6:40 pm

    Chapter 1 West Egg and
    East Egg





    Last autumn, after only six months in New York, I came
    back to this Midwestern city where I grew up. There have been Carraways living
    here for seventy years: the first one was my grandfather’s brother, who came
    here in 1851 and started the business that my father carries on today. I never
    saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him.



    I
    finished my studies at New Haven University in 1915, just a quarter of a
    century after my father, and a little later I went over to Europe to take part
    in the Great War. I liked Europe so much that I came back to the United States
    feeling restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle
    West now seemed like its rough edge. so I decided to go East and learn the bond
    business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could
    support one more single man. Father agreed to pay my living costs for a year,
    and after various delays I came East in the spring of 1922-for ever, I thought.



    I
    intended to find rooms in New York City, but it was the beginning of summer and
    I had just left a country of green lawns and friendly trees, so when a young
    man at the office suggested that we take a house together in the country, it
    sounded like a great idea. He found a small house to rent at only eighty
    dollars a month. But at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and
    I went out to the country alone. A Finnish woman from the village came in to
    make my bed and cook my breakfast. It was lonely for a few days until one
    morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.



    “How
    do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.



    I
    told him. And as I walked on, I was lonely no longer. I was not a newcomer any
    more, I was a guide, a pathfinder.



    And
    so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, I had
    the feeling that life was beginning over again with the summer.



    There
    was so much to read, for one thing. I bought a lot of books about banking and
    money matters, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold, promising to unfold
    the shining secrets of wealth. And I had the intention of reading many other
    books besides. When I was at college I was interested in literature, and now I
    was going to bring back all such things into my life.



    By chance I had rented a house in one of the
    strangest societies in North America. It was on Long Island, which stretches
    more than sixty miles east of New York. Between Long Island and the mainland
    lies a narrow part of the sea called Long Island sound. On the coast, twenty
    miles from the city, there are two unusual formations of land, almost exactly
    egg-shaped. They stick out into the sound like a pair of great eggs, separated
    by a small bay. But though they are so similar in shape and size, they are
    quite different in other ways.



    I
    lived at West Egg, the less fashionable of the two. My little house was near
    the sea, between two enormous houses. The one on my right was very grand by any
    standard. It was a copy of some French town hall, with a tower on one side, a
    beautiful swimming pool and a large area of lawns and garden. I knew that a
    gentleman called Mr Gatsby lived there. My own house was small and ugly, but I
    had a view of the water, a view of part of my neighbour’s lawn, and the
    comforting nearness of wealthy people —all for eighty dollars a month.



    Across
    the bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg shone along the water, The
    history of the summer really begins on the day I drove over there to have
    dinner with the Tom and Daisy Buchanan. Daisy
    was a distant relative of mine, and I’d known Tom in college. And just
    after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.



    Tom
    was one of the most powerful football players there had ever been at New Haven
    University. His family was extremely wealthy. Now he’d left Chicago and come
    East, bringing his polo horses with him. It was hard to realize that a man of
    my own age was wealthy enough to do that.



    I
    don’t know why they came East. They had spent a year in France for no special
    reason, and then wandered here and there, wherever people played polo and were
    rich together. This time they were going to stay, said Daisy over the
    telephone, but I didn’t believe it. I felt that Tom would keep moving on, as if
    for ever searching for the excitement of some long-lost football game.



    And
    so it happened that on a warm and windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see
    two friends I hardly knew. Their house was even grander than I had expected, a
    large nineteenth-century house looking out over the bay. The lawn started where
    the sand ended and ran all the way up to the front door. Along the front of the
    house was a line of tall windows, wide open now to the warm wind. Tom Buchanan,
    in riding clothes, was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.



    He
    had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a strongly built man of
    thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a scornful manner. His riding clothes
    could not hide the great strength of that body- you could see the muscles
    moving when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body of great
    power—a cruel body.



    The
    rough quality of his speaking voice added to the effect of bad temper which he
    gave. There were men at New Haven who had hated him. He and I had never been
    close friends, but I always had the feeling that he approved of me and wanted
    me to like him.



    We
    talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.



    “I’ve
    got a nice place here,” he said. Turning me around by one arm, he pointed a
    wide, flat hand at the lawns, the rose gardens and motorboat tied up on the
    beach.



    'I
    bought it from Demaine, the oil man.' He turned me around again suddenly.
    “We’ll go inside.”



    We
    walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured room, with long
    windows at each end. The windows were open and shining white against the fresh
    grass outside. A wind blew through the room, blowing curtains in at one end and
    out at the other like pale flags, and then it moved over the wine-coloured
    floor, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.



    The
    only completely still object in the room was an enormous sofa on which two
    young women were lying. They were both in white, and their dresses were moving
    in the wind as if they had just been blown into the room after a short flight
    around the house. I stood there for a moment listening to the curtains blowing.
    Then Tom shut the back windows and the curtains and the two young women became
    still.



    The
    younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was stretched out full -length at
    her end of the sofa, and she didn't move at all when I came in. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes
    she gave no sign of it.



    The
    other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise. Then she laughed, a lovely little
    laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.



    “I’m
    too, too happy to see you.' She laughed again, as if she had said something
    very funny, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face as if there
    was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She
    told me in a soft voice that the name of the other girl was Baker. Now Miss
    Baker’s lips moved a little, and she bent her head very slightly in my
    direction.



    My relative
    began to ask me questions in her low, exciting voice. Her face was sad and
    lovely with bright eyes and a beautiful mouth, but it was the excitement in her
    voice that men found most difficult to forget.



    I told
    her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a lot of
    people there had asked me to give her their love.



    “Do
    they miss me?” she cried happily.



    “The
    whole town is sad. All the cars have one wheel painted black.



    “How
    wonderful! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added to me, “You ought to see the baby.”



    “I’d
    like to.”



    “She’s
    asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”



    “Never.”


    “Well,
    you ought to see her. She’s—”



    Tom
    Buchanan, who had been moving restlessly around the room, stopped and placed
    his hand on my shoulder.



    “What
    are you doing at the moment Nick?”



    “I
    sell bonds.'



    “Who
    do you work for?”



    I
    told him.



    “Never
    heard of them,” he said firmly.



    This
    annoyed me. 'You will hear of them,' I answered.



    At
    this point Miss Baker suddenly came to life, and stood up.



    “I’m
    stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can
    remember.”



    “Don’t
    blame me,” Daisy said. “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”



    The
    butler brought in some drink, and offered them to us.



    “No,
    thanks,” said Miss Baker. “I’m in training.”



    Tom
    looked at her in disbelief. “You are?” He drank down his drink as if it were a
    drop in the bottom of the glass. I don't understand how you ever get anything
    done.'



    I looked
    at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her.
    Her gray eyes looked back at me with polite interest out of a pale, interesting
    face. I realized now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere
    before.



    “You
    live in West Egg,” she said. “I know somebody there.”



    “I
    don’t know a single—”



    “You
    must know Gatsby.”



    Before
    I could reply that he was my neighbour, the butler came in to tell us that
    dinner was ready. Tom put his hand under my arm and moved me from the room.



    The
    two young women went out before us onto a rosy-coloured porch, open towards the
    sunset, where a table was laid for dinner. There was less wind now.



    “In
    two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” Said Daisy. She looked at us
    all brightly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then
    miss it? I always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it.”



    “We
    ought to plan something,” said Miss Baker, in a tired sitting down at the table
    as if she were getting into bed. She and Daisy talked together, in a manner
    that was as cool as their white dresses .They were here, and they accepted Tom
    and me, making only a polite effort to entertain or to be entertained. They
    knew that soon dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be
    over and carelessly put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an
    evening was hurried through its various stages.



    “You
    make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I admitted. “Can’t you talk about crops or
    something?”



    This
    remark had a strange effect on Tom.



    “Civilization’s
    breaking down!' he burst out. Have you read ‘The Rise of the Coloured Empires?”



    “Why,
    no,” I answered, surprised.



    “Well,
    it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. It says that if we don’t look
    out the white race will be pushed under by the coloured races.'



    “Tom’s
    getting very serious,” said Daisy, “He reads deep books with long words in
    them.



    “Well,
    these books are all scientific,” said Tom, “This person has worked out the
    whole thing. Our race has produced all the things that make up civilization-oh,
    science and art and all that. And if we don't watch out, these other races will
    take control of things. Do you see?



    At
    this moment the telephone rang and the butler went to answer it.



    He
    came back and said something close to Tom’s ear. Tom looked annoyed, and
    without a word he went inside.



    Daisy leaned forward.


    “I
    love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose. Doesn’t he?”
    She turned to Miss Baker.



    This
    was untrue. I am not even a little like a rose. She was saying the first thing
    that came into her head-but a warmth flowed from her, and her voice was
    exciting. Then suddenly she excused herself and went into the house.



    Miss
    Baker and I looked at each other. I was
    about to speak when she sat up and said “Ssshh!” we could hear Tom talking on
    the telephone inside, but we couldn't hear what he was saying.



    Miss
    Baker leaned forward, trying to hear. Then the voice stopped.



    “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.



    “You
    mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, “I thought everybody knew.”



    “I
    don’t.”



    “Why—'Tom’s
    got some woman in New York.”



    “Got
    some woman?” I repeated stupidly.



    'Yes.
    “She shouldn't telephone him at dinner time. though.'



    Almost
    before I had understood her meaning, Tom and Daisy were back at the table. I
    avoided looking at their eyes. A few minutes later we got up from the table,
    and Tom Miss Baker wandered inside. I followed Daisy to the front porch, where
    we sat down.



    Daisy
    looked out into the darkening garden.



    “We
    don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said. “Even if we are relatives.
    You didn’t come to my wedding.”



    “I
    wasn’t back from the war.”



    “That’s
    true.” She paused. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I feel pretty
    hopeless about everything.”



    Obviously
    she had reason to be. I waited, but she didn’t say any more. I began rather
    weakly to question her about her daughter.



    “I
    suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”



    “Oh,
    yes.” She looked at me. “Listen, Nick: let me tell you what I said when she was
    born. Would you like to hear?”



    “Very
    much.”



    “It’ll
    show you how I feel about—things. Well, I asked the nurse right away if it was
    a boy or girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and
    cried. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a
    fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little
    fool.”



    “You
    see ,I think everything’s terrible,” she went on. “Everybody thinks so—the cleverest people.
    And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.”



    As
    soon as her voice stopped, I felt the
    basic insincerity of what she had said. It worried me. I waited and, sure
    enough, in a moment she looked at me with a smile of satisfaction on her lovely
    face- she was pleased to think that she and Tom belonged. to this small group
    of 'clever people' who knew so much about the ways of the world.



    Inside,
    the rose-red room was full of light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of
    the long sofa, and she read out loud to him from the Saturday Evening Post.
    When we came in she stopped reading and stood up.



    “Ten o’clock,” she said. “Time for this good
    girl to go to bed.”



    “Jordan’s
    going to play in the match tomorrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”



    “Oh—you’re
    Jordan Baker.”



    I
    knew now why her face was familiar—she was a well-known golf player. Her face
    had looked out at me from many photographs of the sporting life at Hot Springs
    and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, an unpleasant story, but I
    had forgotten what it was.



    “Good
    night,” she said. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”



    “If
    you’ll get up.”



    “I
    will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you soon.' she went up the stairs.



    “Of
    course you will,” said Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come
    over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh, throw you together.



    “She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment.
    “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”



    “Who
    oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.



    “Her
    family.”



    “Her
    family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look
    after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of weekends out here
    this summer.



    “Is she from New York?” I asked.


    “From
    Louisville. My home town. We were girls together.' A few minutes later I got up
    to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful
    square of light.



    As I started my motor, Daisy called: “Wait! I forgot to
    ask you something. We heard you were engaged to marry a girl out West.”



    “That’s
    right,” Tom agreed. “We heard that you were engaged.”



    “It's
    not true. I’m too poor.”



    “But
    we heard it,” Daisy repeated. 'We heard it from three people, so it must be
    true.”



    Of
    course I knew what they were talking about. The fact that people were saying I was engaged
    was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend
    because people are talking, and on the other hand I had no intention of being
    talking into marriage.



    Their
    interest rather touched me. But as I drove away I felt confused about Daisy and
    Tom, and a little disgusted. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do in
    this situation was to rush out of the house with her child in her arms. As for
    Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York.” was really less surprising
    than that he had been upset by a book. He had never been concerned with the
    world of books and ideas, and didn't know how to deal with them.



    When
    I reached my house in West Egg, I put the car in the garage and sat for a while
    in the yard. The wind had dropped, leaving a bright, moonlit night. The dark
    shape of moving cat wandered across the moonlight, and turning my head to watch
    it, I saw that I was not alone. Twenty yards away a figure had come out from
    the shadow of my neighbour’s house, and was standing with his hands in his
    pockets looking up at the stars. Something in the way he stood suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby
    himself.



    I decided to
    call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an
    introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for suddenly he did something which
    showed he was glad to be alone—he stretched out his arms towards the dark
    water, and, as far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. I looked towards the sea myself, and could
    see nothing except a single green light, very small and far away, on the coast
    of East Egg. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had gone, and I was alone
    again in the darkness.

      الوقت/التاريخ الآن هو الأحد ديسمبر 17, 2017 1:30 am