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『グレート・ギャツビー』のカラフル対訳について

カラフル対訳で紹介している『グレート・ギャツビー』は、パブリックドメインの作品を出典としています。

このサイトで使われている作品は、F. Scott Fitzgerald による The Great Gatsby を出典としています。 原文は、著作権の切れた名作などの全文を電子化し、インターネット上で公開している Project Gutenberg(プロジェクト・グーテンベルク)、 朗読音声は LibriVox(リブリヴォックス/朗読図書館) の公開音声を出典としています。

原文はProject Gutenberg、音声はLibriVoxで公開されているパブリックドメイン作品を出典としています。

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『グレート・ギャツビー』英文/和訳 Chapter 8

『The Great Gatsby』Chapter 8 を、英語学習用に「英文→和訳」の順で読みやすく整理し、重要語句を多めに色分けしています。上部の操作パネルで、和訳・色分け・ミニ訳・カテゴリ別ハイライトを切り替えられます。

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カテゴリ別ハイライト
動作・変化 感情・心理 場面・描写 人物・性格 謎・不穏 重要表現

I couldn’t sleep all night; a fog-horn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams.

Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive, and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress.

I felt that I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning would be too late.

Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep.

“Nothing happened,” he said wanly. “I waited, and about four o’clock she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned out the light.”

His house had never seemed so enormous and empty as it did that morning when we went through the great rooms looking for cigarettes.

We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches.

Once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano.

There was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they hadn’t been aired for many days.

I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside.

Throwing open the French windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness.

“You ought to go away,” I said. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace your car.”

“Go away now, old sport?”

“Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.”

He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do.

He was clutching at some last hope, and I couldn’t bear to shake him free.

* * *

It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody.

He told it because “Jay Gatsby” had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played out.

I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy.

She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known.

In various unrevealed capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with indiscernible barbed wire between.

He found her excitingly desirable.

He went to her house, at first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone.

It amazed him—he had never been in such a beautiful house before.

But what gave it an air of breathless intensity was that Daisy lived there—it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him.

There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms.

There were gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors, and romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender.

They were fresh and breathing, and redolent of this year’s shining motor cars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered.

It excited him, too, that many men had already loved Daisy; it increased her value in his eyes.

He felt their presence all about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions.

But he knew that he was in Daisy’s house by a colossal accident.

However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was at present a penniless young man without a past.

At any moment the invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders.

So he made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and unscrupulously.

He took Daisy one still October night, took her because he had no real right to touch her hand.

He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under false pretences.

I don’t mean that he had traded on his phantom millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security.

He let her believe that he was a person from much the same stratum as herself, that he was fully able to take care of her.

As a matter of fact, he had no such facilities—he had no comfortable family standing behind him.

He was liable at the whim of an impersonal government to be blown anywhere about the world.

But he didn’t despise himself, and it didn’t turn out as he had imagined.

He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go—but now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a grail.

He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn’t realize just how extraordinary a “nice” girl could be.

She vanished into her rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby—nothing.

He felt married to her, that was all.

* * *

When they met again two days later, it was Gatsby who was breathless, who was somehow betrayed.

Her porch was bright with the bought luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as she turned toward him.

“I wish you were going with me,” she said.

He was going to the war, and she was going back into her own life.

She wanted her life shaped now, immediately, and the decision must be made by some force—of love, of money, of unquestionable practicality—that was close at hand.

That force took shape in the middle of spring with the arrival of Tom Buchanan.

There was a wholesome bulkiness about his person and his position, and Daisy was flattered.

Doubtless there was a certain struggle and a certain relief.

The letter reached Gatsby while he was still at Oxford.

It was already autumn when he got back to Louisville.

Daisy was married and gone, and he made a miserable but irresistible journey to Louisville on the last of his army pay.

He stayed there a week, walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through the November night.

He revisited the out-of-the-way places to which they had driven in her white car.

Just as Daisy’s house had always seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses, so his idea of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded with a melancholy beauty.

He left, feeling that if he had searched harder he might have found her—that he was leaving her behind.

The day-coach was dreary; he went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a folding-chair.

The track curved away, and now it was going away from the sun, which, as it sank lower, spread itself in benediction over the vanishing city where she had drawn her breath.

He stretched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him.

But it was all going by too fast now for his blurred eyes, and he knew that he had lost that part of it, the freshest and the best, forever.

* * *

It was nine o’clock when we finished breakfast and went out on the porch.

The night had made a sharp difference in the weather, and there was an autumn flavor in the air.

The gardener, the last one of Gatsby’s former servants, came to the foot of the steps.

“I’m going to drain the pool today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves’ll start falling pretty soon, and then there’s always trouble with the pipes.”

“Don’t do it today,” Gatsby answered. He turned to me apologetically. “You know, old sport, I’ve never used that pool all summer.”

I looked at my watch and stood up.

“I’ve got to go into town.”

“Well, goodbye,” he said, and then added, with a sort of vague eagerness, “I suppose Daisy’ll call too.”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, goodbye.”

We shook hands, and I started away.

Just before I reached the hedge I remembered something and turned around.

“They’re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”

I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end.

First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time.

His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of colour against the white steps.

I thought of how I had come in, three months before, to his ancestral home.

The lawn and drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his corruption—and he had stood on those steps, concealing his incorruptible dream, as he waved them goodbye.

I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for that—I and the others.

“Goodbye,” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.”

* * *

Up in the city, I tried for a while to list the quotations on an interminable amount of stock.

But my mind was going back to Gatsby all the time.

I couldn’t concentrate, and when the phone rang I grabbed it eagerly.

It was Jordan Baker. She often called me up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other way.

Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool.

But this morning it seemed harsh and dry.

“I’ve left Daisy’s house,” she said. “I’m at Hempstead, and I’m going down to Southampton this afternoon.”

Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy’s house, but the act annoyed me.

Her next remark made me rigid.

“You weren’t so nice to me last night.”

“How could it have mattered then?”

Silence for a moment.

“However—I want to see you.”

“I want to see you too.”

“Suppose I don’t go to Southampton, and come into town this afternoon?”

“No—I don’t think this afternoon.”

“Very well.”

“It’s impossible this afternoon. Various—”

We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren’t talking any longer.

I don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I know I didn’t care.

I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never talked to her again in this world.

* * *

I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy.

I tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was being kept open for long distance from Detroit.

Taking out my timetable, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train.

Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think.

It was just noon.

When I passed the ashheaps on the train that morning I had crossed deliberately to the other side of the car.

I supposed there would be a curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark spots in the dust.

And some garrulous man would tell over and over what had happened, until it became less and less real even to him.

Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at the garage after we left there the night before.

They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine.

She must have broken her rule against drinking that night, for when she arrived she was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had already gone to Flushing.

When they convinced her of this, she immediately fainted, as if that were the intolerable part of the affair.

Someone, kind or curious, took her in his car and drove her in the wake of her sister’s body.

Until long after midnight a changing crowd lapped up against the front of the garage.

Then gradually they drifted away, and Wilson was left with Michaelis.

Michaelis and several other men were with him first; later Michaelis alone stayed there, sitting in a chair by Wilson’s side.

Wilson’s incoherent muttering filled the room.

“You ought to have a church, George,” said Michaelis. “You ought to go to church sometime.”

“Maybe there’s some one you could call to come over and talk to you.”

Wilson said nothing, and Michaelis tried again.

“Ever had any children, George?”

The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light, and whenever Michaelis heard a car tearing along the road outside it sounded to him like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before.

He didn’t like to go into the garage, because the work bench was stained where the body had lain.

So he moved uncomfortably around the office, trying not to look at it.

At three o’clock the quality of Wilson’s muttering changed.

He grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car.

He announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car belonged to.

Then he blurted out that, a couple of months ago, his wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose swollen.

But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry “Oh, my God!” again in his groaning voice.

Michaelis made a clumsy attempt to distract him.

“How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit still a minute and answer my question.”

But Wilson only shook his head and stared into the twilight.

After a while he spoke again, in a low, clear voice.

“I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a long silence. “I told her she might fool me but she couldn’t fool God.”

Standing behind him, Michaelis saw with a shock that he was looking at the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale and enormous, from the dissolving night.

“God sees everything,” repeated Wilson.

“That’s an advertisement,” Michaelis assured him.

Something made him turn away from the window and look back into the room.

But Wilson stood there a long time, his face close to the window pane, nodding into the twilight.

* * *

By six o’clock Michaelis was worn out, and grateful for the sound of a car stopping outside.

It was one of the watchers of the night before, who had promised to come back.

Michaelis went home to sleep; and when he returned four hours later, Wilson was gone.

His movements—he was on foot all the time—were afterward traced to Port Roosevelt and then to Gad’s Hill, where he bought a sandwich that he didn’t eat and a cup of coffee.

He must have been tired and walking slowly, for he didn’t reach Gad’s Hill until noon.

Thus far there was no difficulty in accounting for his time.

There is evidence that he asked someone the way to Gatsby’s house about half past two.

By that time he was probably in West Egg.

No one knows exactly what happened then.

The chauffeur, one of Wolfsheim’s protégés, heard the shots—afterward he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything much about them.

I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house and found him on his way to the pool.

The butler told me that Gatsby had gone to the pool, and I crossed the lawn and went down the marble steps.

The gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass.

The pneumatic mattress that had amused his guests during the summer was still floating in the pool.

I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared.

If that was true, he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream.

He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is.

And how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass.

A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about.

The ash-grey, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees was one of those poor ghosts.

The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of compass, a thin red circle in the water.

It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass.

And the holocaust was complete.

出典:Project Gutenberg『The Great Gatsby』by F. Scott Fitzgerald をもとに、英語学習用の英文・和訳・語句色分け形式に編集しています。
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