Алмаз величиной с отель "Ритц". Избранные рассказы

УДК 
372.8
ББК 
81.2 Англ-93
 
Ф 66

ISBN 978-5-9925-0314-2

Фицджеральд Ф. С.
Ф 66 
Алмаз величиной с отель «Ритц». Избранные рассказы: Книга для чтения на английском 
языке. — СПб.: КАРО, 2009. — 288 с. (Серия 
«Classical Literature»).

ISBN 978-5-9925-0314-2

Наряду с романами «Ночь нежна», «Великий Гэтсби», 
«Последний магнат» Ф. С. Фицджеральд (1896–1940) известен своими рассказами, которые вошли в золотой фонд американской новеллистики.
Предлагаем вниманию читателей рассказы, созданные 
писателем в 1920-х годах. Неадаптированный текст снабжен 
комментариями и словарем. Книга адресована студентам языковых вузов и всем любителям американской литературы.

УДК 372.8
ББК 81.2Англ-93

© КАРО, 2009

«Это был американский писатель, который писал 
в начале двадцатых годов двадцатого века и позже, и некоторое время жил в Париже и за границей. Он написал 
две очень хорошие книги и одну не закончил, но те, кто 
хорошо знает его творчество, говорят, что она была бы 
очень хорошей. Кроме того, он написал несколько хороших рассказов», — написал Эрнест Хемингуэй о 
Фрэн сисе Скотте Фицджеральде через четырнадцать 
лет после его смерти.
Писатель родился 24 сентября 1896 года в г. СентПоле, штат Миннесота. Какое-то время учился в Принстоне, затем ушел в армию, но на фронте не бывал. 
Демобилизовался в 1919 году, поступил на работу в 
рекламное агентство, сочинял рассказы, стихи, тексты к песням, скетчи и киносценарии. В 1920 году вышел его первый роман «По эту сторону рая», имевший 
большой успех. В том же году Фицджеральд женился 
на Зельде Сейр, с которой они вели шикарный образ 
жизни на европейских курортах. Однажды он сказал: 
«Не знаю, реальные ли мы с Зельдой люди или персонажи одного из моих романов». За первой книгой 
последовали произведения «Прекрасные, но обреченные» (1922) и «Великий Гэтсби» (1925) — роман, который многие критики, да и сам Фицджеральд, считают 
шедевром американской литературы. В авто ритетном 
оксфордском списке «Сто главных книг столетия» 
этот роман обогнал «В поисках утраченного времени» 

F.  SCOTT FITZGERALD

Марселя Пруста и занял второе место, уступив только «Улиссу» Джойса. В эти годы также было написано 
много рассказов, с помощью которых Фицджеральд 
зарабатывал деньги, чтобы обеспечить свой роскошный образ жизни.
Последнее законченное произведение Фиц дже ральда — роман «Ночь нежна», в котором автор пытается 
проанализировать обратную сторону своей внешне 
красивой жизни, а также выразить горечь по поводу 
меркантильной морали. Сам Скотт назвал это произведение своей исповедью. Критика и читатели этот 
роман не приняли. Америке нужны были Хемингуэй и 
Фолк нер.
Последние годы жизни писателя были очень тяже лы ми. Зельда страдала шизофренией, сам он много 
пил, печатали его мало. Позднее творчество Фиц джераль да публика не смогла оценить по достоинству. 
В де кабря 1940 года он скончался от сердечного приступа в Калифорнии. Внезапная смерть прервала работу над романом о Голливуде «Последний магнат».
И, как это нередко бывает, после смерти писателя 
произошла переоценка ценностей — его возвели в ранг 
классиков американской литературы ХХ века.

THE DIAMOND 
AS BIG AS THE RITZ

I

John T. Unger came from a family that had 
been well known in Hades1 — a small town on the 
Mississippi River — for several generations.
John’s father had held the amateur golf championship through many a heated contest; Mrs. Unger 
was known “from hot-box to hot-bed,” as the local 
phrase went, for her political addresses; and young 
John T. Unger, who had just turned sixteen, had 
danced all the latest dances from New York before 
he put on long trousers. And now, for a certain time, 
he was to be away from home. Th at respect for a New 
England education which is the bane of all provincial places, which drains them yearly of their most 
promising young men, had seized upon his parents. 
Nothing would suit them but that he should go to 

1 Hades — Аид, в греческой мифологии загробное царство, преисподняя; кроме того, здесь пародируются экзотические названия американских городов, напр., Фе никс, 
Ной и пр.

F.  SCOTT FITZGERALD

6

St. Midas’ School1 near Boston — Hades was too 
small to hold their darling and gift ed son.
Now in Hades — as you know if you ever have 
been there — the names of the more fashionable preparatory schools and colleges mean very little. Th e 
inhabitants have been so long out of the world that, 
though they make a show of keeping up to date in 
dress and manners and literature, they depend to a 
great extent on hearsay, and a function that in Hades 
would be considered elaborate would doubtless be 
hailed by a Chicago beef-princess as “perhaps a little  
tacky.”
John T. Unger was on the eve of departure. 
Mrs. Unger, with maternal fatuity, packed his trunks 
full of linen suits and electric fans, and Mr. Unger 
presented his son with an asbestos pocket-book 
stuff ed with money.
“Remember, you are always welcome here,” he 
said. “You can be sure, boy, that we’ll keep the home 
fi res burning.”
“I know,” answered John huskily.
“Don’t forget who you are and where you come 
from,” continued his father proudly, “and you can 
do nothing to harm you. You are an Unger — from 
Hades.”

1 St. Midas’ School — школа святого Мидаса (пародия 
на названия многих американских учебных заведений); 
здесь автор возводит в ранг святого фригийского царя 
Мидаса, славившегося несметными богатствами и обращавшего в золото все, чего он касался

THE DIAMOND  AS BIG AS THE RITZ

7

So the old man and the young shook hands and 
John walked away with tears streaming from his 
eyes. Ten minutes later he had passed outside the 
city limits, and he stopped to glance back for the 
last time. Over the gates the old-fashioned Victorian 
motto seemed strangely attractive to him. His father 
had tried time and time again1 to have it changed to 
something with a little more push and verve about it, 
such as “Hades — Your Opportunity,” or else a plain 
“Welcome” sign set over a hearty handshake pricked 
out in electric lights. The old motto was a little depres sing, Mr. Unger had thought — but now...
So John took his look and then set his face resolutely toward his destination. And, as he turned 
away, the lights of Hades against the sky seemed full 
of a warm and passionate beauty.

St. Midas’ School is half an hour from Boston in a 
Rolls-Pierce motorcar2. Th e actual distance will never 
be known, for no one, except John T. Unger, had ever 
arrived there save in a Rolls-Pierce and probably no 
one ever will again. St. Midas’ is the most expensive 
and the most exclusive boys’ preparatory school in 
the world.
John’s fi rst two years there passed pleasantly. Th e 
fathers of all the boys were money-kings and John 

1 time and time again — (разг.) снова и снова
2 a Rolls-Pierce motorcar — автор иронически объединяет в одно название две марки роскошных автомобилей — Rolls-Royce и Pierce-Arrow

F.  SCOTT FITZGERALD

8

spent his summers visiting at fashionable resorts. 
While he was very fond of all the boys he visited, 
their fathers struck him as being much of a piece, and 
in his boyish way he oft en wondered at their exceeding sameness. When he told them where his home 
was they would ask jovially, “Pretty hot down there?” 
and John would muster a faint smile and answer, “It 
certainly is.” His response would have been heartier 
had they not all made this joke — at best varying it 
with, “Is it hot enough for you down there?” which 
he hated just as much.
In the middle of his second year at school, a quiet, 
handsome boy named Percy Washington had been 
put in John’s form. Th e newcomer was pleasant in 
his manner and exceedingly well dressed even for 
St. Midas’, but for some reason he kept aloof from 
the other boys. Th e only person with whom he was 
intimate was John T. Unger, but even to John he was 
entirely uncommunicative concerning his home or 
his family. Th at he was wealthy went without saying1, 
but beyond a few such deductions John knew little of 
his friend, so it promised rich confectionery for his 
curio sity when Percy invited him to spend the summer at his home “in the West.” He accepted, without 
hesitation.
It was only when they were in the train that Percy 
became, for the fi rst time, rather communicative. 
One day while they were eating lunch in the din
1 went without saying — (разг.) было и так понятно

THE DIAMOND  AS BIG AS THE RITZ

9

ing-car and discussing the imperfect characters of 
several of the boys at school, Percy suddenly changed 
his tone and made an abrupt remark.
“My father,” he said, “is by far the richest man in 
the world.”
“Oh,” said John, politely. He could think of no 
answer to make to this confi dence. He considered 
“Th at’s very nice,” but it sounded hollow and was on 
the point of saying, “Really?” but refrained since it 
would seem to question Percy’s statement. And such 
an astounding statement could scarcely be questioned.
“By far the richest,” repeated Percy.
“I was reading in the World Almanac1,” began 
John, “that there was one man in America with an 
income of over fi ve million a year and four men with 
incomes of over three million a year, and — ”
“Oh, they’re nothing.” Percy’s mouth was a halfmoon of scorn. “Catchpenny capitalists, fi nancial 
small-fry, petty merchants and money-lenders. My 
father could buy them out and not know he’d done it.”
“But how does he — ”
“Why haven’t they put down his income tax? 
Because he doesn’t pay any. At least he pays a little 
one — but he doesn’t pay any on his real income.”
“He must be very rich,” said John simply. “I’m glad. 
I like very rich people. “Th e richer a fella is, the better 

1 World Almanac — справочник, содержащий информацию из разных областей науки и техники, обычно сведенную в таблицы

F.  SCOTT FITZGERALD

10

I like him.” Th ere was a look of passionate frankness 
upon his dark face. “I visited the Schnlitzer-Murphys 
last Easter. Vivian Schnlitzer-Murphy had rubies as 
big as hen’s eggs, and sapphires that were like globes 
with lights inside them — ”
“I love jewels,” agreed Percy enthusiastically. “Of 
course I wouldn’t want any one at school to know 
about it, but I’ve got quite a collection myself — I 
used to collect them instead of stamps.”
“And diamonds,” continued John eagerly. “Th e 
Schnlitzer-Murphys had diamonds as big as walnuts — ”
“Th at’s nothing.” Percy had leaned forward and 
dropped his voice to a low whisper. “Th at’s nothing 
at all. My father has a diamond bigger than the RitzCarlton Hotel.”

II

Th e Montana sunset lay between two mountains 
like a gigantic bruise from which dark arteries spread 
themselves over a poisoned sky. An immense distance under the sky crouched the village of Fish, minute, dismal, and forgotten. Th ere were twelve men, 
so it was said, in the village of Fish, twelve somber 
and inexplicable souls who sucked a lean milk from 
the almost literally bare rock upon which a mysterious populatory force had begotten them. Th ey had 
become a race apart, these twelve men of Fish, like