LEVEL 5 5

The Great Gatsby

PENGUIN READERS
During one hot summer on Long Island, Jay Gatsby throws an B2
amazing party every weekend. He is an extremely wealthy man,
although no one knows where he or his money have come from.
But Gatsby has a purpose: he is following a dream of love. Will his
dream come true?

Penguin Readers are simplified texts which provide a step-by-step

approach to the joys of reading for pleasure.

THE GREAT GATSBY

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
Series Editors: Andy Hopkins and Jocelyn Potter

Easystarts 200 headwords

Level 1 300 headwords Beginner
Level 2 600 headwords Elementary
Level 3 1200 headwords Pre-Intermediate
Level 4 1700 headwords Intermediate
Level 5 2300 headwords Upper-Intermediate
Level 6 3000 headwords Advanced

Classic British English

Number of words (excluding activities): 23,783

Cover illustration by © Mary Evans Picture Library

Audio CD pack also available

www.penguinreaders.com PE N GU I N R E A D E R S

The Great Gatsby

F. Scott Fitzgerald

9781405865173_CVR.indd 1 10/30/10 10:26:19 AM

 Pearson E d u catio n L im ited
Edinburgh Gate, Harlow,
Essex C M 20 2JE, England
and Associated Com panies throughout the world.

ISBN: 978-1-4058-6517-3

First published in the Longm an Fiction Series 1993

This adaptation first published in 1996
First published by Penguin Books 2000
This edition published 2008

3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Text copyright © Penguin Books Ltd 2000

This edition copyright © Pearson Education Ltd 2008

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Published by Pearson Education Ltd in association w ith

Penguin Books Ltd, both companies being subsidiaries o f Pearson Pic

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 Contents

page
In tro d u c tio n V

C h a p te r 1 W est Egg and East Egg 1

C h a p te r 2 M rs W ilson 11

C h a p te r 3 M eetin g M r Gatsby 16

C h a p te r 4 Gatsby and Daisy 25

C h a p te r 5 T h e Tea Party 33

C h ap te r 6 G atsby’s Party 41

C h a p te r 7 A H o t A fte rn o o n 49

C h a p te r 8 A ccident 59

C h a p te r 9 M u rd er 63

C h a p te r 10 Saying G oodbye 71

Activities 80
 Introduction

‘T hey’re no good, any o f them!’ I shouted across the lawn, and I meant
Tom and Daisy, and all o f Gatsby’s fashionable friends’. ‘You’re worth
the whole lot o f them!’

W hat is any m an o r w o m an w orth? T h a t is a q uestion that som e

o f th e characters in The Great Gatsby struggle w ith and others
sim ply ignore.
A t the b eg in n in g o f th e novel Jay Gatsby is a m ysterious
character. N o one know s w h ere he has com e from , h o w he has
m ade his fo rtu n e o r w h y he has b o u g h t an expensive house in
West E gg o n L ong Island. B u t everyone seems to appear every
w eekend at th e brilliant parties at his grand house.
N ic k C arraw ay is th e storyteller and he connects East and West
Egg for us. H e is G atsby’s n eighbour, and he know s Tom and
Daisy B uch an an from East Egg, the m ost fashionable place to live
on L ong Island. N ic k h im self com es from a w ealthy M idw estern
fam ily and looks at life o n the east coast th ro u g h the eyes o f an
outsider. His d escription o f tw o very different w orlds com ing
to g eth e r gives us an idea o f w h a t life was like in the U n ite d States
in the 1920s.
B u t w h y are these tw o w orlds th ro w n together? T h e Buchanans
have little interest in anyone outside th eir circle o f rich , fashionable
friends; they do n o t atten d G atsby’s parties. B u t Gatsby is in West
Egg for a purp o se w h ich involves the B uchanans. H e has com e
to L ong Island to find D aisy and to claim her.
A b o u t five years earlier, Gatsby and Daisy had a love affair, b ut
Gatsby did n o t have e n o u g h to offer a girl like Daisy. T h ey w ent
th eir separate ways, and Gatsby w o rk ed hard to change him self
in to the kind o f m an th at D aisy’s w orld could accept. N o w he
has com e to find her, to tell h er that he loves h e r and to take her

v
away w ith him .
W ill G atsby’s dream com e true? W ill D aisy leave T om and give
up everything she has to be w ith Gatsby? W ill th e tw o w orlds
com e to g eth er th ro u g h them ?

Francis S cott Key Fitzgerald was b o rn in M in n esota in 1896.

T h e tw o different sides o f his fam ily h elp ed to shape h im in to
the k ind o f w rite r he becam e. Like m any o f th e characters in
The Great Gatsby, his father, E dw ard, cam e from a w ealthy u p p e r-
class family. In fact, M r Fitzgerald n am ed his son after a distant
cousin, Francis S cott Key, the m an w h o w ro te ‘T h e Star-Spangled
B an n e r’ the national song, show ing by this th at th e Fitzgeralds
cam e from traditional, A m erican roots. In contrast to the highly
respected Fitzgeralds, Francis S co tt’s m o th er, M ollie M cQ uillan,
cam e from a fam ily o f p o o r Irish farm ers, b u t in the U S h er
father, like the G reat Gatsby him self, achieved the A m erican
D ream and, th ro u g h hard w ork, becam e a w ealthy shop ow ner.
W h e n his o w n business failed in 1908, E dw ard Fitzgerald
m oved his fam ily back to M in n eso ta and lived on the m oney
that M o llies father h ad left her. F. Scott Fitzgerald u n derstood the
advantages o f an upper-class b ack g ro u n d as well as the advantages
o f having a lo t o f m oney, even if it had to be earned. In his
w ritin g , especially in 1'he Great Gatsby, he tries to answer the
question o f w h at actually defines a person.
By th e tim e he en tered P rin c e to n U niversity in 1913, the
yo u n g Fitzgerald already k n ew th at he w an ted to be a w riter.
H e was well suited for this profession because, as he said him self,
he had a strongly rom antic im ag in atio n and was very sensitive
to the prom ises o f life. H e was a leading m e m b e r o f a group o f
P rin c e to n students w h o w ere interested in literature, art and the
theatre. U n fortunately, he w ro te plays and sh o rt stories instead
o f studying for exam s. H e left P rin c e to n without his degree in
1917, and jo in e d th e arm y for the last two years o f the W orld War

VI
I. B elieving th at he w o u ld die in battle, Fitzgerald quickly w rote
his first novel.
In Ju n e 1918, the arm y sent Fitzgerald to A labam a, and he
fell deeply in love w ith eig h teen -y ear-o ld Z elda Sayre. T h e love
b etw een Fitzgerald and Z elda shaped th e ir lives and eventually
dam aged b o th o f them . B u t in 1918, Z elda refused to m arry
Fitzgerald because he h ad no m oney.
Fitzgerald w en t to N e w York, b u t after failing to m ake his
fo rtu n e he re tu rn e d to M in n eso ta and re-w ro te his novel. This
Side o f Paradise, ab o u t a y o u n g m a n ’s search for financial success
and rom antic happiness, cam e o u t in 1920 and was im m ediately
successful.
T h e novel m ade Fitzgerald rich and fam ous. H is sh o rt stories
soon appeared in the m ost fashionable m agazines as well as in
m ore serious ones. H e was th e n able to m arry Z elda, and the
couple becam e k n o w n as the p rin ce and princess o f high society,
according to the celebrated jo u rn alist and novelist R in g Lardner.
T h e Fitzgeralds w ere th e m ost beautiful and m ost fashionable
A m erican couple o f th e 1920s. T h e ir lifestyle defined the age
they lived in. T h e y spent m o n ey freely, ate in the best restaurants,
w en t to th e best parties, and danced and drank until daw n. T h e n
Fitzgerald w ro te abo u t it all. His second novel, The Beautiful and
the Damned, tells the story o f a handsom e y o u n g m an and his
beautiful w ife and ho w th e ir lives end in disaster.
To avoid his o w n path to personal disaster and to concentrate
m ore o n his w ritin g and less o n his lifestyle, Fitzgerald to o k Zelda
and th e ir th ree-y ear-old d au g h ter to France in 1924. Fitzgerald
was criticized at that tim e for his heavy drinking. A lthough he
insisted th at he never d rank w h e n he was w ritin g , Fitzgerald’s
alcoholism and Z e ld a ’s habit o f d rin k in g heavily led to frequent
quarrels b etw een th e couple. H ow ever, Fitzgerald m anaged to
w rite The Great Gatsby d u rin g this p erio d , and th e novel appeared
in A pril 1925.T h e story was praised, b u t the b o o k , w h ic h is based

V ll
o n Fitzgerald’s ow n divided nature, was financially disappointing.
T h e Fitzgeralds stayed in France u n til th e end o f 1926 and
becam e friends w ith w riters like E rn est H em ingw ay. B u t the
p e rio d was m arked m o re by Z eld a’s failing m en tal health than
by F. Scott F itzgerald’s w ritin g . H e m ade very little progress on
his fourth novel, and th ey re tu rn e d to th e U S to escape th eir
exciting, b u t expensive, life in France.
Fitzgerald’s w ritin g still did n o t go well and the family re tu rn e d
to France in 1929, w h ere Zelda w ork ed hard to b eg in a career as
a professional dancer, alth o u g h she was already tw e n ty -n in e years
o ld .T h e difficult train in g fu rth er dam aged h er health.
T h ro u g h th e 1930s, th e Fitzgeralds fo u g h t an unsuccessful
battle to save th eir m arriage. A t the sam e tim e, Fitzgerald struggled
w ith his w ritin g , only finishing his n e x t novel, Tender is the Night,
in 1934. Z eld a’s m en tal health becam e w orse, and she spent the
rest o f h er life in and o u t o f m ental hospitals.
B etw een 1936 and 1937, Fitzgerald was ill, d ru n k and unable
to m ake m u ch m oney. H e lived in cheap hotels in N o rth C arolina
to be near Z eld a’s hospital and kept in co n tact w ith his daughter
m ostly by post.
H e w en t to H o lly w o o d in 1937 and began w ritin g for films.
H is salary was g o o d en o u g h to pay Z e ld a ’s hospital bills, b ut never
e n o u g h to pay for his d rin k and his lifestyle. H e fell in love again,
and spent his last few years w ith a film jo u rn a list called Sheilah
G raham , w h o accepted his d ru n k en nights and m ade a h o m e for
him . H e began his H o lly w o o d novel, The Last lycoon, in 1939
b u t died o f a h eart attack in G rah am ’s ap artm en t o n D e cem b er
21, 1940 before he co u ld finish it. Z e ld a ’s life e n d ed in a fire at a
m ental hospital in 1948.
F. Scott Fitzgerald died believing that h e was a failure, at life
and at w ritin g . A t th e tim e o f his death, he was n o t an im p o rtan t
nam e in A m erican literature. B u t since 1960 he has been
considered one o f A m e ric a ’s greatest and m ost o riginal w riters.
 For m any students o f literature, The Great Gatsby, w ith its
exam ination o f the A m erican character, defines w h at an A m erican
novel should be. B u t Fitzgerald is n o t only rem em b ered for his
w riting. Gatsby s rich, fashionable w o rld w ith beautiful people,
am azing houses and exciting parties m irro red Fitzgerald’s life
w ith Z elda in Paris and in th e U n ite d States. T h e ir brilliant, b ut
eventually disastrous, lifestyle provided the h eart o f Fitzgerald’s
sh o rt stories and novels and has b eco m e an im p o rta n t part o f
A m erican h isto ry If you w an t to understan d the spirit o f the
1920s and 30s, w hile lo o k in g u n d e rn e a th th e extraordinary
appearance o f life in those days, Fitzgeralds w o rk is a good place
to start.
The Great Gatsby is o n e o f a g roup o f novels th at cam e o ut
o f the U n ite d States after W orld W ar I and gave the w orld an
idea o f w h at A m ericans w ere really like. M any critics consider
Gatsby to be ab o u t the A m erican D ream , the optim istic belief
that no m atter w h at b ack g ro u n d you com e from , if you w ork
hard en o u g h , you can get rich, find love and happiness, and even
beco m e president.
B u t Fitzgerald and o th e r w riters in his g roup q uestioned this
p icture o f th e U S and also began to question the m ean in g o f life
itself.T he G reat War had n o t solved the w o rld ’s problem s; instead,
countries everyw here faced en o rm o u s financial difficulties and
individuals began to w o n d e r h o w to deal w ith th e n ew c en tu ry
T h e novel leaves us w ith som e im p o rta n t questions. W h at is
success? W h a t is love? W h a t makes a person h u m an , admirable,
truly wealthy? T hese questions and the w arnings they give
us a b o u t life guarantee The Great Gatsby a place in A m erican
literature.T oday th e novel is tau g h t in high schools and universities
across th e U S and aro u n d the w orld, and four films and a play
have b een m ade from th e story.

IX
 C h a p te r 1 W est E g g a n d E ast E g g

Last au tu m n , after only six m o n th s in N e w York, I cam e back to

this m idw estern city w h ere I grew up. T h e re have been
Carraways living here for seventy years: the first o ne was my
gran d fath ers b rother, w h o cam e here in 1851 and started the
business that m y father carries o n today. I never saw this great-
uncle, b u t I ’m supposed to lo o k like him .
I finished m y studies at N e w H aven U niversity in 1915, ju st a
qu arter o f a cen tu ry after m y father, and a little later I w en t over
to E u rop e to take part in th e G reat War. I liked E u ro p e so m uch
that I cam e back to th e U n ite d States feeling restless. Instead o f
b eing the w arm centre o f the w orld, th e M id d le W est now
seem ed like its rough edge. So I decided to go East and learn the
b o n d business. E v erybody I k n ew was in the b o n d business, so I
supposed it co u ld su p p o rt o n e m o re single m an. F ather agreed to
pay m y living costs for a year, and after various delays I cam e East
in th e spring o f 1922 - fo r ever, I th o u g h t.
I in ten d e d to find room s in N e w York City, b u t it was the
b e g in n in g o f sum m er and I had ju st left a c o u n try o f green lawns
and friendly trees, so w h e n a y o u n g m an at the office suggested
that w e take a house to g e th e r in the country, it so u n d ed like a
great idea. H e fo u n d a small house to rent at only eighty dollars a
m o n th . B u t at th e last m in u te th e firm o rdered him to
W ashington and I w e n t o u t to the co u n try alone. A Finnish
w om an from the village cam e in to m ake m y b ed and cook my
breakfast. It was lonely fo r a few days until o ne m o rn in g som e
m an, m o re recently arrived th an I, stopped m e o n th e road.
‘H o w do you get to W est Egg village?’ he asked helplessly.
I to ld him . A nd as I w alked on, I was lonely n o longer. I was
n o t a n ew c o m e r any m ore, I was a guide, a pathfinder.

1
 A nd so w ith th e sunshine and th e great bursts o f leaves
g row ing o n the trees, I had th e feeling th at life was b eg in n in g
over again w ith the sum m er.
T h ere was so m u c h to read, for o n e thing. I b o u g h t a lo t o f
books ab o u t b an k in g and m o n ey m atters, and they stood on my
shelf in red and gold, prom ising to u n fo ld th e shining secrets o f
w ealth. A nd I had th e in te n tio n o f reading m any o th e r books
besides. W h e n I was at college I was in terested in literature, and
n o w I was going to b rin g back all such things in to m y life.
By chance I had ren ted a house in one o f th e strangest
societies in N o rth A m erica. It was o n L o n g Island, w h ich
stretches m o re than sixty miles east o f N e w York. B etw een L ong
Island and the m ainland lies a narrow p a rt o f th e sea called L ong
Island Sound. O n th e coast, tw enty miles from the city, there are
tw o unusual form ations o f land, alm ost exactly egg-shaped. T hey
stick o u t in to th e S o u n d like a pair o f great eggs, separated by a
small bay. B u t th o u g h th ey are so sim ilar in shape and size, they
are quite different in o th e r ways.
I lived at West Egg, the less fashionable o f th e two. M y little
house was near the sea, b etw een tw o e n o rm o u s houses. T h e one
on m y rig h t was very g rand by any standard. It was a copy o f
som e F rench to w n hall, w ith a to w er o n o n e side, a beautiful
sw im m ing p o o l and a large area o f lawns and garden. I knew that
a gentlem an called M r Gatsby lived there. M y o w n house was
small and ugly, b u t I had a view o f th e w ater, a view o f part o f my
n e ig h b o u r’s law n, and th e co m fo rtin g nearness o f w ealthy people
—all for eighty dollars a m o n th .
Across th e bay th e w h ite palaces o f fashionable East Egg shone
along the w ater. T h e histo ry o f the su m m er really begins on the
day I drove over th ere to have d in n er w ith T om and Daisy
B uchanan. Daisy was a distant relative o f m ine, and I’d k n o w n
T om in college. A n d ju s t after the w ar I spent tw o days w ith th em
in Chicago.

2
 T om was o n e o f th e m ost pow erful football players there had
ever b een at N e w H aven University. H is fam ily w ere extrem ely
wealthy. N o w h e ’d left C h icago and com e East, b rin g in g his polo
horses w ith him . It was hard to realize that a m an o f m y ow n age
was w ealthy en ough to do that.
I d o n ’t k n o w w hy they cam e East. T h ey had spent a year in
France for no special reason, and th e n w andered here and there,
w herever people played polo and w ere rich together. T his tim e
they w ere going to stay, said Daisy over the telephone, b u t I d id n ’t
believe it. I felt that T om w ould keep m oving on, as if for ever
searching for the ex citem en t o f som e long-lost football game.
A nd so it h ap p en ed th at o n a w a rm and w in d y evening I
drove over to East Egg to see tw o friends I hardly knew. T h e ir
house was even gran d er th an I had expected, a large n in e te e n th -
ce n tu ry house lo o k in g o u t over th e bay. T h e lawn started w here
the sand en d ed and ran all th e way up to the front door. A long
the front o f th e house was a line o f tall w indow s, w ide o p en now
to the w a rm w in d .T o m B uchanan, in rid in g clothes, was standing
w ith his legs apart o n th e front porch.
H e had changed since his N e w H aven years. N o w he was a
strongly b u ilt m an o f thirty, w ith a rath er hard m o u th and a
scornful m anner. H is rid in g clothes could n o t hide the great
strength o f that body —you co u ld see the muscles m o ving w h en
his shou ld er m oved u n d e r his th in coat. It was a b o d y o f great
pow er —a cruel body.
T h e ro u g h quality o f his speaking voice added to the effect o f
bad tem p er w hich he gave. T h ere w ere m en at N ew H aven w ho
hated him . H e and I had never been close friends, b u t I always had
the feeling th at he approved o f m e and w anted m e to like him .
W e talked for a few m inutes o n th e sunny porch.
‘I’ve g o t a nice place here,’ he said.T u rn in g m e aro u n d by one
arm , he p o in te d a w ide, flat h an d at th e lawns, th e rose gardens
and the m o to rb o a t tied up o n the beach.

3
 ‘I b o u g h t it from D em ain e, th e oil m an.’ H e tu rn e d m e around
again suddenly. ‘W e’ll go inside.’
W e w alked th ro u g h a high hallway in to a b rig h t rosy-coloured
room , w ith lo n g w in d o w s at each end. T h e w in d o w s w ere o p en
and shining w h ite against the fresh grass outside. A w in d blew
th ro u g h th e room , blo w in g curtains in at o ne end and o u t at the
o th e r like pale flags, and th e n it m oved over th e w in e-c o lo u red
floor, m aking a shadow o n it as w in d does o n th e sea.
T h e only com pletely still object in th e ro o m was an en o rm o u s
sofa on w h ich tw o y o u n g w o m en w ere lying. T h e y w ere b o th in
w hite, and th eir dresses w ere m o v in g in th e w in d as if they had
ju st b een b low n in to th e ro o m after a sh o rt flight around the
house. I sto o d th ere fo r a m o m e n t listening to th e curtains
blow ing. T h e n T om sh u t th e back w indow s and th e curtains and
th e tw o yo u n g w o m en becam e still.
T h e y o u n g er o f th e tw o was a stranger to m e. She was
stretched o u t full-length at h er end o f the sofa, and she d id n ’t
m ove at all w h e n I cam e in. If she saw m e o u t o f the c o rn e r o f
h e r eyes she gave n o sign o f it.
T h e o th e r girl, Daisy, m ade an atte m p t to rise. T h e n she
laughed, a lovely little laugh, and I laughed too and cam e forw ard
in to the room .
‘I’m too, too happy to see you.’ She laughed again, as if she had
said so m eth in g very funny, and held m y h and for a m o m e n t,
lo o k in g up into m y face as if there was n o o n e in th e w orld she
so m u ch w an ted to see. T h a t was a way she had. She told m e in a
soft voice th at th e nam e o f th e o th e r girl was Baker.
N o w Miss B aker’s lips m oved a little, and she b e n t h er head
very slightly in m y d irection.
M y relative began to ask m e questions in h e r low, exciting
voice. H e r face was sad and lovely w ith b rig h t eyes and a
beautiful m o u th , b u t it was the ex citem en t in h e r voice that m en
fo u n d m ost difficult to forget.

4
 I told h e r h o w I had stopped o ff in C hicago for a day on my
way East, and h o w a lo t o f people th ere had asked m e to give her
th eir love.
‘D o they miss m e?’ she cried happily.
‘T h e w h o le to w n is sad. All th e cars have o n e w h eel painted
black.’
‘H o w w onderful! L et’s go back, Tom . T o m o rro w !’ T h e n she
added to m e, ‘You o u g h t to see th e baby.’
‘I’d like to.’
‘S h e’s asleep. S h e’s three years old. H av en ’t you ever seen her?’
‘N ever.’
‘W ell.You o u g h t to see her. S h e’s—’
T om B uchanan, w h o had b een m o v in g restlessly around the
room , stopped and placed his h an d o n m y shoulder.
‘W h a t are you d o in g at th e m o m e n t, N ick ?’
‘I sell bonds.’
‘W h o do you w ork for?’
I told him .
‘N ev er heard o f th em ,’ h e said firmly.
T his annoyed me. ‘You will hear o f them ,’ I answ ered.
A t this p o in t Miss B aker suddenly cam e to life, and stood up.
‘I’m stiff,’ she c o m p la in e d .‘I’ve b een lying o n that sofa for as long
as I can rem em ber.’
‘D o n ’t blam e me,’ D aisy said. ‘I’ve been try in g to get you to
N e w York all aftern o o n .’
T h e b u tle r b ro u g h t in som e drinks, an d offered th em to
us.
‘N o , thanks,’ said Miss Baker. ‘I’m in training.’
T om lo o k ed at h er in disbelief. ‘You are?’ H e dran k d ow n his
d rin k as if it w ere a drop in the b o tto m o f th e glass. ‘I d o n ’t
u n d erstand h o w you ever get an ything done.’
I lo o k ed at Miss Baker, w o n d e rin g w h at it was she ‘g ot d o n e ’.
I enjoyed lo o k in g at her. H e r grey eyes loo k ed back at m e w ith

5
polite interest o u t o f a pale, interesting face. I realized no w that I
had seen her, o r a p ictu re o f her, so m ew h ere before.
‘You live in W est Egg,’ she said. ‘I k n o w som ebody there.’
‘I d o n ’t k n o w a sin g le -’
‘You m ust k n o w Gatsby.’
Before I co u ld reply that he was m y n eighbour, the b u tler
cam e in to tell us th at d in n e r was ready. T om p u t his hand u n d er
m y arm and m oved m e from the ro o m .
T h e tw o y o u n g w o m e n w e n t o u t before us on to a rosy-
coloured p orch, o p e n tow ards the sunset, w h ere a table was laid
for dinner. T h e re was less w in d now.
‘In tw o w eeks it’ll be the longest day in th e year,’ said Daisy.
She lo o k ed at us all brightly. ‘D o y o u always w atch for the longest
day o f th e year and th e n miss it? I always w atch for the longest
day o f th e year and th e n miss it.’
‘W e o u g h t to plan som ething,’ said Miss B aker in a tired voice,
sitting do w n at th e table as if she w ere g ettin g in to bed. She and
Daisy talked together, in a m an n er th at was as cool as th eir w hite
dresses. T h e y w ere here, and they accepted T o m and me, m aking
only a polite effort to en tertain o r to be entertain ed. T hey knew
that soon d in n er w o u ld be over and a little later th e evening too
w o u ld be over and carelessly p u t away. It was sharply different
from th e West, w h ere an evening was h u rrie d th ro u g h its various
stages.
‘You m ake m e feel uncivilized, Daisy,’ I adm itted. ‘C a n ’t you
talk ab o u t crops o r som eth in g ?’
T his rem ark h ad a strange effect o n Tom .
‘C ivilization is b reaking d o w n !’ he b urst out. ‘Have you read
The Rise o f the Coloured Empires ? ’
‘W hy, no,’ I answ ered, surprised.
‘W ell, it’s a fine b o o k , and everybody o u g h t to read it. It says
that if w e d o n ’t lo o k o u t th e w h ite race w ill be pushed u n d e r by
the co lo u red races.’

6
 ‘T o m ’s g ettin g very serious,’ said D aisy ‘H e reads deep books
w ith lo n g w ords in th em .’
‘Well, these books are all scientific,’ said Tom . ‘T his person has
w orked o u t th e w h o le thing. O u r race has p ro d u ced all the
things th at m ake up civilization - oh, science and art and all that.
A nd if w e d o n ’t w atch out, these o th e r races will take control o f
things. D o you see?’
A t this m o m e n t the telep h o n e rang and the b u tler w en t to
answ er it. H e cam e back and said so m eth in g close to T o m ’s ear.
Tom lo o k ed annoyed, and w ith o u t a w o rd he w en t inside.
D aisy leaned forw ard.
‘I love to see you at m y table, N ick . You rem in d m e o f a —o f a
rose. D o e sn ’t he?’ She tu rn e d to Miss Baker.
T his was un tru e. I am n o t even a little like a rose. She was
saying the first th in g th at cam e in to h er head — b u t a w arm th
flowed from her, and h er voice was exciting. T h e n suddenly she
excused herself and w e n t in to the house.
Miss B aker and I lo o k ed at each other. I was a b o u t to speak
w h e n she sat up and said ,‘Ssshh!’ W e cou ld hear T om talking on
the telep h o n e inside, b u t w e c o u ld n ’t hear w hat he was saying.
Miss Baker leaned forw ard, try in g to hear. T h e n the voice
stopped.
‘T his M r Gatsby you spoke o f is m y n e ig h b o u r—’ I began.
‘D o n ’t talk. I w ant to h ear w h at happens.’
‘Is so m eth in g hap p en in g ?’ I inquired.
‘You m ean to say you d o n ’t k n o w ?’ said Miss B ak er.‘I th o u g h t
everybody knew.’
‘I d o n ’t.’
‘W h y —T o m ’s got som e w o m an in N e w York.’
‘G o t som e w om an?’ I repeated stupidly
‘Yes. She sh o u ld n ’t telep h o n e h im at d in n er tim e, th o u g h .’
A lm ost before I had u n d ersto o d h er m eaning, T om and Daisy
w ere back at the table. I avoided lo o k in g at th eir eyes.

7
 A few m inutes later w e got up from th e table, and T om and
Miss B aker w an d ered inside. I follow ed Daisy to the front porch,
w h ere w e sat dow n.
Daisy looked o u t in to the d arkening garden.
‘W e d o n ’t k n o w each o th e r very well, N ick,’ she said. ‘E ven if
w e are relatives.You d id n ’t com e to m y w edding.’
‘I w asn’t back from th e war.’
‘T h a t’s true.’ She p a u se d .‘Well, I ’ve had a very bad tim e, N ick ,
and I feel pretty hopeless ab o u t everything.’
O bviously she had reason to be. I w aited, b u t she d id n ’t say any
m ore. I began rather w eakly to question h er ab o u t h e r daughter.
‘I suppose she talks, and - eats, and everything.’
‘O h , yes.’ She lo o k e d at m e. ‘Listen, N ick: let m e tell you w h at
I said w h e n she was b o rn . W ould you like to hear?’
‘Very m uch.’
‘It’ll show you h o w I feel a b o u t - things. Well, I asked the
nurse rig h t away if it was a boy o r a girl. She to ld m e it was a girl,
and so I tu rn e d m y head away and cried. “All rig h t,” I said, “ I ’m
glad it’s a girl. A n d I h o p e she’ll be a fool - th a t’s the best th in g a
girl can be in this w orld, a beautiful little fool.” ’
‘You see, I th in k every th in g ’s terrible,’ she w en t on.
‘E verybody thinks so - the cleverest people. A n d I know. I’ve
been everyw here and seen everything and d o n e everything.’
As soon as h e r voice stopped, I felt the basic insincerity o f
w hat she had said. It w o rrie d me. I w aited and, sure enough, in a
m o m e n t she lo o k ed at m e w ith a smile o f satisfaction on h er
lovely face —she was pleased to th in k th at she and T om b elonged
to this small g ro u p o f ‘clever p e o p le ’ w h o k n e w so m uch ab o u t
the ways o f the w orld.

Inside, the rose-red ro o m was full o f light. T om and Miss B aker

sat at eith er end o f the lo n g sofa, and she read o u t loud to h im

8
from the Saturday Evening Post. W h e n w e cam e in she stopped
reading and stood up.
‘Ten o ’clock,’ she said .‘T im e for this g o o d girl to go to bed.’
‘J o rd a n ’s g oing to play in the m atch tom orrow ,’ explained
D aisy,‘over at W estchester.’
‘O h - y o u ’re Jordan Baker.’
I k n ew n o w w hy h e r face was fam iliar — she was a w ell-
k n o w n g o lf player. H e r face had lo o k ed o u t at m e from m any
p h otograp h s o f the sp o rtin g life at H o t Springs and Palm Beach.
I had heard som e story a b o u t h er too, an unpleasant story, b ut I
had forg o tten w h at it was.
‘G o o d n ight,’ she said. ‘W ake m e at eight, w o n ’t you.’
‘If y o u ’ll get up.’
‘I will. G o o d night, M r Carraway. See you soon.’ She w ent up
the stairs.
‘O f course you will,’ said Daisy. ‘In fact I th in k I’ll arrange a
m arriage. C o m e over often, N ick , and I’ll sort o f —oh, throw you
together.’
‘S h e’s a nice girl,’ said T om after a m o m e n t. ‘T h ey o u g h tn ’t to
let h er ru n aro u n d the co u n try this way.’
‘W h o o u g h tn ’t to ?’ in q u ired Daisy coldly.
‘H e r family.’
‘H e r fam ily is o n e au n t ab o u t a thousand years old. Besides,
N ic k ’s g o in g to look after her, aren ’t you, N ick? S h e’s going to
spend lots o f w eekends o u t here this sum m er.’
‘Is she from N e w Y ork?’ I asked.
‘From Louisville, m y h o m e tow n. W e w ere girls together.’
A few m inutes later I got up to go hom e. T h ey cam e to the
d o o r w ith m e and stood side by side in a cheerful square o f light.
As I started m y m otor, Daisy called: ‘Wait! I forgot to ask you
som ething. W e heard you w ere engaged to m arry a girl o u t West.’
‘T h a t’s right,’ Tom a g re e d .‘W e heard that you w ere engaged.’
‘It’s n o t true. I’m to o poor.’

9
 ‘B u t w e heard it,’ D aisy repeated. ‘W e heard it from three
people, so it m ust be true.’
O f course I k n e w w hat they w ere talking about. T h e fact that
people w ere saying I was engaged was o n e o f the reasons I had
com e East. You can ’t stop g oing w ith an o ld friend because
people are talking, and o n the o th e r h and I had n o in ten tio n o f
b ein g talked in to m arriage.
T h e ir interest rath er to u c h e d m e. B ut as I drove away I felt
confused ab o u t D aisy and Tom , and a little disgusted. It seem ed
to m e th at th e th in g for Daisy to do in this situation was to rush
o u t o f the house w ith h e r child in h e r arm s. As for Tom , the fact
that he ‘had som e w o m an in N e w Y ork’ was really less surprising
th an th at he had b een upset by a b o o k . H e had never b een
c o n c e rn e d 'w ith th e w o rld o f b ooks and ideas, and d id n ’t k n o w
h o w to deal wTith them .
W h e n I reached m y house in W est Egg, I p u t the car in the
garage and sat fo r a w hile in the yard. T h e w in d had dropped,
leaving a brig h t, m o o n lit night. T h e dark shape o f a m oving cat
w andered across th e m o o n lig h t, and, tu rn in g m y head to w atch
it, I saw that I was n o t alone. T w enty yards away a figure had
com e o u t from th e shadow o f m y n e ig h b o u r’s house, and was
standing w ith his hands in his pockets lo o k in g up at the stars.
S o m eth in g in th e way he stood suggested th at it was M r Gatsby
himself.
I decided to call to him . Miss B aker h ad m e n tio n e d him at
dinner, and that w o u ld do for an in tro d u ctio n . B u t I d id n ’t call to
him , for suddenly h e did so m eth in g w h ic h show ed he was glad
to be alone - he stretched o u t his arm s tow ards the dark w ater,
and, as far as I was from him , I co u ld have sw orn he was
trem bling. I lo o k ed tow ards th e sea myself, and co u ld see n o th in g
except a single green light, very small and far away, on the coast
o f East Egg. W h e n I lo o k ed once m o re for Gatsby he had gone,
and I was alone again in th e darkness.

10
 C h a p te r 2 M rs W ilson

A b o u t halfway b etw een W est Egg and N e w York, the m o to r road

jo in s the railroad and runs beside it a sh o rt way to avoid an area
o f low g ro u n d w h ich is b ein g filled in w ith ashes. T his grey land
is always covered in clouds o f dust, in w h ic h ash-grey m en are
w o rk in g w ith spades o n th e piles o f ash.
Above th e dust you see an en o rm o u s pair o f eyes, p ainted on a
big board beside the road. B elow th e eyes is the nam e D o cto r
T .J . E ckleburg. T h e eyes o f D r T .J . E ckleburg lo o k o u t o f no
face b ut, instead, from a pair o f large, yellow glasses. I supposed
that D r E ckleburg had m oved away from this u n p ro m ising area,
leaving his advertisem ent b e h in d him .
T h e train stops here, and it was because o f this that I first m et
T om B u ch an an s lover.
T h e fact that he had o n e was m e n tio n e d by everyone w h o
k n ew him . H is friends did n o t approve o f th e way he b ro u g h t her
w ith him to popular cafes, as if to show h e r o ff to the w orld.
T h o u g h I was interested to see her, I had no desire to m eet her —
b u t I did. I w en t up to N e w York w ith Tom o n th e train one
Sunday aftern o o n , and w h e n w e stopped by the ash piles he
ju m p e d to his feet.
‘W e’re g ettin g off,’ he in sisted .‘I w ant you to m eet m y girl.’ H e
to o k h o ld o f my arm and forced m e from the train.
W e w alked back along the road, u n d e r th e fixed stare o f
D o c to r Eckleburg. T h e only b uilding in sight was a small block
o f yellow b rick sitting o n th e edge o f th e wasteland. O n e o f the
three shops it co n tain ed was em pty; an o th e r was an all-night
cafe, w ith lines o f ashes leading to th e door. T h e th ird was
a garage —Repairs. G E O R G E B .W IL S O N . Cars bought and sold.
I follow ed T om in to the garage. T h e inside was em pty and
dirty, and th e only car to be seen was the dust-covered w reck o f
an old Ford. T h e o w n er appeared in th e d o o r o f an office. H e was

11
a pale, miserable m an, w h o cou ld have been g o o d -lo o k in g if he
w ere n o t so spiritless.
‘H ello, W ilson, old m an,’ said T o m .‘H o w ’s business?’
‘N o t to o bad,’ said W ilson u n h a p p ily .‘W h e n are you going to
sell m e that car?’
‘N e x t w eek; I’ve g o t m y m an w o rk in g o n it now.’
T om was lo o k in g im patiently aro u n d the garage, and in a
m o m e n t the thickish figure o f a w o m an appeared at the office
door. She was in h e r m id -th irties, and th ere was n o beauty in h e r
face o r body, b u t a k in d o f anim al life force w h ich m ade h e r
strangely attractive.
She sm iled slowly and, ig n o rin g h e r h u sband as if he w ere n o t
there, shook hands w ith Tom .
‘G et som e chairs, so som ebody can sit do w n ,’ she said to h er
husband, w h o h u rrie d in to th e office.
‘I w ant to see you,’ said T o m .‘G et o n the n e x t train.’
‘All right.’
‘I’ll m eet you by th e new spaper shop.’
She m oved away from h im ju st as G eorge W ilson cam e o u t o f
the office w ith tw o chairs.
W e w aited for h e r d o w n the road and o u t o f sight.
‘Terrible place, isn ’t it?’ said T o m .‘It does h e r good to get away. I
rent an apartm ent in tow n for her, w here I m eet h er som etim es.’
‘D o e sn ’t h e r h u sband m ind?’
‘W ilson? H e thinks she goes to see h e r sister in N e w York.
H e ’s so stupid h e ’ll believe anything.’
So T om B uchanan, his girl and I w en t up to g eth er to N e w
York - n o t quite together, for M rs W ilson sat in an o th e r part o f
the train.
A t the new spaper shop she b o u g h t a film m agazine, and in the
station drugstore som e face cream . O u tsid e th e station w e got
in to a taxi and drove off.
B u t im m ediately she stopped the taxi.

12
 ‘I w ant to get one o f those dogs,’ she said. ‘I w ant to get one
for th e apartm en t. T h e y ’re nice to have - a dog.’
We stop p ed beside an old m an w ith a basket full o f very
young dogs w h ich he was selling.
‘W h a t k in d are they?’ asked M rs W ilson.
‘All k in d s.W h a t k in d do you w ant, lady?’
‘I’d like to get one o f those police dogs; I d o n ’t suppose you
got th at kin d ?’
T h e m an lo o k ed doubtfully in to the basket and pulled up one
o f the anim als by the back o f the neck.
‘T h a t’s n o police dog,’ said Tom .
‘N o , it’s n o t exactly a police dog,’ said the m an.
‘I th in k it’s sweet,’ said M rs W ilso n .‘H o w m uch is it?’
‘T h a t dog?’ H e lo o k ed at it adm iringly. ‘T h a t dog w ill cost you
ten dollars.’
‘Is it a boy o r a girl?’ she asked delicately.
‘T h a t dog? T h a t d o g ’s a boy.’
‘It’s a female,’ said T om firmly. ‘H e re ’s y o u r m oney. G o and buy
ten m ore dogs w ith it.’
T h e dog changed hands and settled dow n o n M rs W ilso n ’s
knee. W e drove over to Fifth Avenue, w h ere I w an ted to get out,
b u t they b o th insisted th at I go w ith them .
‘I ’ll call up m y sister C ath erin e,’ said M rs W ilson, ‘and M r and
M rs M cK ee from the ap artm en t below.’
T h e ap artm en t was o n 158th Street. W e w en t up to the top
floor, and M rs W ilson pro u d ly o p en ed th e door. T h e small living
ro o m was filled w ith highly deco rated fu rn itu re th at was m uch
too large for it.
M rs W ilso n sent a boy o u t to get som e m ilk and d o g food and
a box for th e dog, w hile T o m b ro u g h t o u t a b o ttle o f w hisky
from a lock ed cupboard.
Sitting o n T o m ’s knee, M rs W ilson telep h o n ed h e r sister and
the M cK ees, and invited th e m up. T h e n there w ere n o cigarettes,

13
and I w en t o u t to buy som e at th e drugstore o n the corner.
W h e n I cam e back th ey had b o th disappeared, so I sat d o w n in
the living ro o m and w aited. T h ey cam e o u t o f the b ed ro o m ju st
before the guests began to arrive.
I have been d ru n k ju s t tw ice in m y life, and th e second tim e
was that evening. So I d o n ’t have to o clear a m e m o ry o f m ost o f
the conversation. I rem em b er that M rs M cK ee had a loud,
unpleasant voice, and h er husband d id n ’t say m u ch .
T h e sister C a th e rin e was an attractive girl o f ab o u t thirty, w h o
seem ed to k n o w rath er m o re o f th e w orld th an M rs W ilson. She
sat d ow n beside m e o n th e sofa.
‘D o you live d o w n o n L ong Island like T om ?’ she inquired.
‘I live at West Egg.’
‘Really? I was d o w n there at a p arty ab o u t a m o n th ago. It was
given by a m an n am ed Gatsby. D o you k n o w h im ?’
‘I live n ex t d o o r to him .’
‘Well, they say h e ’s a relative o f K ing W ilh e lm o f G erm an y
T h a t’s w h ere all his m o n ey com es from .’
‘R eally?’ I d id n ’t find this easy to believe.
C atherin e was lo o k in g at Tom and M rs W ilson. ‘M yrtle and
Tom look good together, d o n ’t they?’ She leaned close to m e and
w hispered in m y ear: ‘You know, they b o th hate the people th ey ’re
m arried to .T h ey o u g h t to get a divorce and m arry each other!’
I d id n ’t answer, b u t she w en t on: ‘It’s really his wife th a t’s
keeping th e m apart. S h e ’s a C atholic, and th ey d o n ’t believe in
divorce.’
Daisy was n o t a C atholic, and I was a little shocked at T om ’s lie.
As the evening w en t on, the bottle o f w hisky - a second one -
was in frequent dem and by everybody except C atherine, w h o
‘felt ju st as good o n n o th in g at all’. Tom sent o u t for som e
sandw iches, w h ich w ere a com plete supper in themselves. I
w anted to get o u t and walk towards the park as darkness fell, but
each tim e I tried to go I becam e caught up in som e w ild, lo u d

14
argum ent. T h e n M yrtle pulled h e r chair close to m ine, and
suddenly p o u red over m e th e story o f h er first m eetin g w ith Tom.
‘I was o n the train g o in g up to N e w York to see m y sister, and
he was sitting facing m e. H e had o n a nice suit and a w h ite shirt,
and I c o u ld n ’t keep m y eyes o ff him , b u t every tim e I looked at
him I had to p reten d to be lo o k in g at th e advertisem ent over his
head. W h en w e cam e in to th e station, he was n ex t to m e and his
body was pressing against me. So I to ld h im I’d have to call a
policem an, b u t he k n ew I d id n ’t m ean it. W h e n I got into a taxi
w ith h im I was so excited, I kep t th in k in g , over and over, “You
can’t live for ever, you can ’t live for ever” .’
It was nin e o ’clock - alm ost im m ediately afterwards I looked
at m y w atch and fo u n d it was ten. T h e little dog was sitting on
the table lo o k in g blindly th ro u g h th e sm oke. T o m and M rs
W ilson sto o d face to face discussing w h e th e r M rs W ilson had
any rig h t to m e n tio n D aisy’s nam e.
‘Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!’ sh o u ted M rs W ilso n .‘I’ll say it w henever
I w ant to! Daisy! D ai—!’
M aking a short, sharp m o v em en t,T o m broke h e r nose w ith his
open hand.
T h ere was blo o d and confusion every w here. W h ile C atherine
and M rs M cK ee were co m fo rtin g M yrtle and sh o u ting at Tom,
M r M cK ee and I slipped o u t o f the ro o m and away.

15
 C h a p te r 3 M e e tin g M r G atsb y

T h ere was m usic from m y n e ig h b o u r’s h ouse th ro u g h the

sum m er nights. In his blue gardens m e n and girls cam e and w ent,
floating am o n g the w hisperings and th e cham pagne and the stars.
In th e aftern o o n , by th e shore, I w atch ed his guests sw im m ing in
the S ound, o r lying in the sun o n th e h o t sand, o r riding in his
tw o m otorboats.
A t w eekends his big, o p en car becam e a bus, carrying groups
o f people to and from th e city betw een nin e in th e m o rn in g and
lo n g past m id n ig h t, w h ile his second car m et all the trains at the
station. A n d o n M ondays, eight servants, in clu d in g the gardener,
w orked all day to repair the dam age from th e n ig h t before. Every
Friday, five boxes o f fruit arrived from a shop in N ew York
— every M onday, th e sam e fruit left his back d o o r in a pile o f
em pty halves.
A b o u t once in tw o w eeks there was a really big party. T h e
trees w ere all covered in co loured lights and a dance floor was
laid d ow n on th e law n; a big group o f m usicians cam e dow n
from N e w York to play m usic for dancing. W onderful food
arrived, w ith lots o f w aiters to serve it, and in the m ain hall a bar
was set up, serving every possible kind o f alcoholic drink. I
re m em b er the sense o f ex citem en t at th e b e g in n in g o f the party.
B y seven o ’clock th e last sw im m ers have co m e in from the
beach and are dressing upstairs; cars from N e w York are arriving
every m inute, and already th e halls and sitting room s are full o f
girls in b rig h t dresses w ith th e new est, strangest hairstyles. W aiters
are floating th ro u g h the garden outside w ith an endless supply o f
drinks, u ntil the air is alive w ith talk and laughter.
T h e lights grow b rig h te r as darkness falls, and no w the
m usicians are playing dance m usic and th e voices are h igher and
louder. L aughter is easier m in u te by m inute. T h e party has begun.

16
I believe th at o n th e first n ig h t I w en t to G atsby’s h ouse I was
one o f the few guests w h o had actually received an invitation.
People w ere n o t invited — they w en t there. T h e y got into cars
w h ich carried th em o u t to L o n g Island, and so m eh o w they
en d ed up at G atsby’s door. O n c e they w ere there, they w ere
in tro d u ced to Gatsby by so m eo n e w h o k n ew him . Som etim es
they cam e and w en t w ith o u t having m et Gatsby at all.
I had b een actually invited. A d river in a pale blue un ifo rm
crossed m y law n early th at Saturday m o rn in g w ith a surprisingly
form al n o te from his em ployer: th e h o n o u r w o u ld be G atsby’s, it
said, if I w o u ld attend his ‘little p a rty ’ th at night. H e h ad seen m e
several tim es, and had in te n d e d to call on m e, b u t so m eth in g had
always prevented it —signed Jay Gatsby.
I w e n t over to his law n a little after seven, and w andered
around, feeling rather anxious am o n g all these p eople I d id n ’t
know. As soon as I arrived I trie d to find m y host by asking
various guests w here he was. B u t they stared at m e in such a
surprised way that I gave up and m ade m y way to the d rin k s’
table - the only place in th e garden w h ere a single m an could
stand aro u n d w ith o u t lo o k in g o u t o f place.
I was still there som e tim e later, w h e n Jordan B aker cam e o u t
o f the house and stood at the top o f th e steps lo o k in g dow n into
th e garden.
‘H ello!’ I shouted, m o v in g towards her.
‘I th o u g h t you m ig h t be here,’ she answ ered, as I cam e up. ‘I
rem em b ered you lived n e x t d o o r t o - ’
She was in te rru p te d by tw o girls in yellow dresses, w ho
stopped at th e foot o f th e steps.
‘H ello !’ they cried to g e th e r.‘S orry you d id n ’t w in .’
T h a t was for the g o lf co m p etitio n . She had lost in the last
m atch the w eek before.
‘You d o n ’t k n o w w h o w e are,’ said o ne o f th e girls in yellow,
‘b u t w e m e t you here a b o u t a m o n th ago.’

17
 ‘Y ou’ve changed th e c o lo u r o f y o u r hair since th en ,’ rem arked
Jordan.
W ith Jo rd a n ’s go ld en arm resting o n m ine, w e w e n t dow n the
steps and w andered aro un d th e garden. A w aiter floated towards
us, and w e sat dow n at a table w ith th e tw o girls in yellow and
three m en.
‘I like to com e to these parties,’ said o n e o f th e girls. ‘I never
care w h a t I do, so I always have a g o o d tim e. W h e n I was here last
I tore m y dress o n a chair, and he asked m e m y n am e and address
- a w eek later I g o t a package w ith a beautiful n e w evening dress
in it.T w o h u n d re d and sixty-five dollars.’
‘D id you keep it?’ asked Jordan.
‘Sure I did. I was g o in g to w ear it to n ig h t, b u t it was too big
around the top, and had to be m ade smaller.’
‘T h e re ’s so m eth in g fu n n y abo u t a m an th a t’ll do a th ing like
that,’ said the o th e r girl. ‘H e d o esn ’t w ant any trouble w ith
anybody.’
‘W h o d oesn’t?’ I inquired.
‘Gatsby. S om eb o d y to ld m e ..
T h e tw o girls and Jordan leaned together.
‘S om ebo d y told m e they th o u g h t he killed a m an once.’
A c u rre n t o f ex c ite m e n t passed th ro u g h all o f us.
‘I heard,’ said o n e o f the m e n ,‘that he w orked for the G erm ans
d u rin g the war.’
‘O h no,’ said th e g irl,‘h e was in th e A m erican army.’
It seem ed that G atsby was a m an everybody w hispered about.
S upper was n o w b e in g served, and Jo rd an invited m e to jo in
h e r group o f friends, w h o w ere spread aro u n d a table on the
o th e r side o f the garden. T h e y w ere quiet, respectable people
from East Egg, w h o seem ed n o t to w an t to m ix w ith the rest o f
the guests.
A fter h alf an h o u r Jo rd an w hispered to m e, ‘L e t’s get out. T his
is m u c h to o polite for m e.’

18
 W e g ot up, and she explained th at w e w ere g o in g to find
the host: I had never m e t h im , she said, and that was obviously
m aking m e anxious.
T h e bar, w h ere we lo o k ed first, was crow ded, b u t Gatsby was
n o t there. She co u ld n ’t find h im from the top o f th e steps, and he
w asn’t o n th e porch. T h e n w e trie d an im p o rta n t-lo o k in g door,
and w alked in to a great library.
A fat, m id d le-ag ed m an w ith large, ro u n d glasses was sitting on
the edge o f a great table, staring unsteadily at th e shelves o f
books. H e lo o k ed d ru n k . As w e entered , he tu rn e d and lo oked at
us excitedly.
‘W h a t do you th in k ?’ he dem anded.
‘A b o u t w h at?’
H e waved his hands tow ards the bookshelves.
‘A bout the books. I th o u g h t they were ju st for show - but
they’re reall T hey have pages and everything. Look! Let m e show
you.’ H e pulled down a heavy, serious-looking b o o k and opened it.
‘W h o b ro u g h t y ou?’ he d em an d ed . ‘I was b ro u g h t by a
w o m an I m e t so m ew h ere last nig h t. I ’ve b een d ru n k for ab out a
w eek now, and I th o u g h t it m ig h t m ake m e b e tte r to sit in a
library.’
‘Has it?’
‘I can ’t tell yet. I’ve only b een here an hour. D id I tell you
ab out th e books? T h e y ’re re a l.T h e y ’r e - ’
‘You told us.’ W e w e n t back outside.
T h ere was dancing n o w in the garden, and the pairs o f dancers
m oved in circles ro u n d th e dance floor. A fam ous singer sang a
song, som e actors acted a funny scene, and cham pagne was served
in glasses b igger than finger bowls. B y m id n ig h t the fun was
lo u d e r and w ilder. F rom all over th e garden happy, em p ty bursts
o f laughter rose towards th e su m m er sky.
I was still w ith Jordan Baker. W e w ere sitting at a table w ith a
m an o f a b o u t m y age an d a girl w h o laughed all th e tim e. I was

19
' n|t>yiii)> 11 lyscll now. I had taken tw o glasses o f cham pagne, and
(lie scene had ch anged before m y eyes in to so m eth in g deep and
m eaningful.
T h e m an lo o k ed at m e and sm iled.
‘Y our face is familiar,’ he said p o lite ly ‘W eren ’t you in the arm y
d u rin g th e war? Perhaps w e w ere in th e same u n it - w ere you in
the First D ivision?’
‘W hy, yes.’
W e talked for a m o m e n t ab o u t som e w et, grey little villages in
France. O bviously he lived in this n eig h b o u rh o o d , for he told m e
that he had ju st b o u g h t a seaplane, and was g o in g to try it o u t in
the m o rn in g .
‘W ant to go w ith m e, old sport? Ju st near th e shore along the
S ound.’
I accepted. I was ju s t goin g to ask his nam e w h en Jordan
looked around and smiled. ‘H aving a g o o d tim e n o w ?’
‘M u c h better.’ I tu rn e d again to m y n ew friend. ‘T his is an
unusual party for m e. I haven’t even seen th e host. I live over
t h e r e - ’ I waved a h an d in the d irectio n o f m y house, ‘and this
m an Gatsby sent over his driver w ith an invitation.’
For a m o m e n t he lo o k ed at m e as if he d id n ’t understand.
‘I’m Gatsby,’ he said suddenly.
‘W h a t!’ I c rie d .‘O h , I ’m so sorry.’
‘I th o u g h t you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I ’m n o t a very good
host.’ .
H e smiled understandingly. It was one o f those rare smiles w ith a
quality o f com fort in it, that you may com e across four or five times
in life. It seem ed to face the w hole w orld for a m om ent, and then
fixed on you. It u nderstood you as you w anted to be understood,
and believed in you as you w ould like to believe in yourself. T h e n
the smile disappeared, and I was looking at a fashionably dressed
young m an, a year o r tw o over thirty, w hose form al way o f speaking

20
was very nearly funny Som e tim e before he introduced him self I’d
got a strong feeling that he was picking his words w ith care.
At this m o m e n t a b u tler h u rrie d towards h im w ith the
in fo rm atio n th at C hicago was calling h im on the telep hone.
‘Excuse m e. I w ill rejoin you later,’ he said politely.
W hen he was gone I tu rn e d to Jordan, to tell h e r o f my
surprise. I had ex p ected G atsby to be quite different — older,
fatter, red-faced.
‘W h o is he?’ I dem anded. ‘D o you k n o w ?’
‘H e ’s ju st a m an n am ed Gatsby.’
‘W h ere is he from , I m ean? A n d w h a t does he d o?’
‘N o w you’re started o n the subject,’ she said w ith a pale smile.
‘W ell, he told m e once he had been to O x fo rd University. B ut I
d o n ’t believe it.’
‘W h y n o t? ’
‘I d o n ’t know . I ju st d o n ’t th in k he w e n t there.’
T h ere was really so m eth in g very m ysterious ab o u t G atsby’s
backgroun d .'S u rely y o u n g m en d id n ’t ju s t appear o u t o f now here
and buy a grand house o n L ong Island Sound?
T h e b an d began to play som e loud music. A t this m o m e n t my
eye fell 0 11 Gatsby, standing alone o n th e steps and lo o k in g from
one group to an o th e r w ith approving eyes. His skin was sm ooth
and b ro w n ed by the sun, and his sh o rt hair looked as if it was cut
every day. I could see n o th in g m ysterious ab o u t him . I w ondered
if the fact th at he was n o t d rin k in g helped to set him apart from
his guests, for it seem ed th at he grew m o re co rrect as everyone
else grew w ilder. P eople w ere singing loudly, girls w ere falling
backw ards playfully in to m e n ’s arm s, b u t n o o ne fell backwards
on Gatsby.
G atsby’s b u tle r was suddenly standing beside us.
‘Miss B aker?’ he inquired. ‘E xcuse m e, b u t M r G atsby w ould
like to speak to you alone.’

21
 Jord an gave m e a lo o k o f ex trem e surprise and follow ed the
b u tler towards th e house. I n o tic e d th at she w ore h er evening
dress, all h er dresses, like sports clothes.
A n h o u r later I d ecided th at it was tim e to go hom e. As I
w aited for m y hat in th e hall, the d o o r o f th e library o p e n ed and
Jo rd an and Gatsby cam e o u t together. H e was speaking eagerly to
her, until som e o th e r guests cam e up to say goodbye.
Jo rd a n s friends w ere calling to h er from the porch, b u t
she cam e over to m e. ‘I’ve ju st h eard the strangest thing,’ she
w h isp e re d .‘H o w lo n g w ere w e in there?’
‘W hy, ab o u t an h o u r.’
‘It was so strange. B u t I prom ised I w o u ld n ’t tell it. Please
com e and see m e . . . telep h o n e b o o k . . . u n d e r the nam e o f M rs
S igourney H ow ard . . . m y au n t . . .’ She was h u rry in g o ff as she
talked.
T h e last o f G atsby’s guests w ere standing around him . I felt
rath er guilty th at o n m y first appearance I had stayed so late, and
tried to explain th at I’d h u n te d for h im early in the evening.
‘D o n ’t m e n tio n it,’ he said eagerly. ‘A nd d o n ’t forget w e ’re
g oing up in the seaplane to m o rro w m o rn in g , at nine.’
T h e n the butler, b eh in d his shoulder: ‘Philadelphia wants you
on the pho n e, sir.’
‘All right, I’ll be there in a m in u te . . . G o o d n ight, old sport
. . . G o o d night.’ H e sm iled, and suddenly it seem ed rig h t to be
am o n g the last to leave, as if he had w an ted it all th e time.

R e a d in g over w h a t I have w ritte n so far, I see I have given the

idea that the events o f three evenings w ere all th at interested me.
B u t in fact, at the tim e they w ere ju st som e events am ong others
in a crow ded su m m er - they did n o t seem specially im p o rtan t to
m e until m uch later.
M ost o f the tim e I w orked. M y days usually follow ed the same

22
pattern: I arrived at my place o f w o rk in the early m o rn in g , and
stayed there u ntil the evening. I was friendly w ith the o th er
clerks and lu n c h e d w ith th e m in dark, crow ded restaurants. I
to o k d in n e r usually at th e Yale C lub, and th e n I w e n t to the
library and studied m o n ey m atters for an hour. A fter that I
w alked d o w n M adison A venue and over 33rd Street to the
station, to catch m y train back to W est Egg.
For a w hile I lost sight o f Jordan Baker, and th en in
m id su m m er I fo u n d h e r again. A t first I was p ro u d to go places
w ith her, because she was a fam ous g o lf player and everyone
k n ew h e r n a m e .T h e n it was so m eth in g m ore. I w asn’t in love, b ut
I felt a sort o f gentle w ish to u n d erstan d her. T h e cold, scornful
face that she tu rn e d to th e w orld hid so m eth in g - and one day I
fo u n d w h at it was.
W h e n w e w ere at a h ouse party to g e th e r up in W arw ick, she
left a b o rro w e d car o u t in th e rain w ith th e top dow n, and then
lied a b o u t it. S uddenly I rem em b ered th e story ab o u t h er that I’d
tried to th in k o f th at n ig h t at D aisy’s. A t h er first big g o lf m atch
there was a scandal th at nearly reached the new spapers - a
suggestion th at she had m oved h e r ball in order to w in.
Jo rd an B aker was dishonest. She c o u ld n ’t bear to be at a
disadvantage, so she used deceit to get w h at she w anted. In this
way she was able to keep that cool, p ro u d smile tu rn e d to the
w orld. I realized that she avoided clever m en. She felt safer w ith
people w h o w o u ld n o t d o u b t h er standards o f behaviour.
It m ade no difference to m e. D ishonesty in a w o m an is a thing
you learn to accept - I was sorry, and th e n I forgot. It was at that
same house party that w e had a strange conversation about
driving a car. It started because she drove too close to som e
w o rk m en on th e road.
‘You o u g h t to drive m o re carefully,’ I told her.
‘I am careful.’
‘N o, y o u ’re n o t.’

23
 ‘W ell, o th e r p eo p le are. T h e y ’ll keep o u t o f m y way.’
‘Suppose you m e t so m ebody ju st as careless as yourself.’
‘I ho p e I never will,’ she answ ered. ‘I hate careless people.
T h a t’s w h y I like you.’
H e r grey eyes stared straight ahead, b u t she had m ade a change
in o u r relationship, and for a m o m e n t I th o u g h t I loved her. B u t
I am full o f rules th at stop m e from d o in g w h a t I w ant to do. I
kn ew that before I was free I h ad to break o ff that understanding
w ith the girl back h o m e, th e girl I had been w ritin g letters to
on ce a w eek.
You see, I am o n e o f the few h o n est people th at I have ever
know n.

24
 C h a p te r 4 G atsb y a n d D aisy

A t nine o ’clock o n e m o rn in g late in July, G atsby’s beautiful car

pulled up outside m y door. It was th e first tim e he had visited
m e, th o u g h I had atten d ed tw o o f his parties, gone up in his
seaplane and m ade freq u en t use o f his beach.
‘G o o d m o rn in g , old sport.Y ou’re having lunch w ith m e today
and I th o u g h t w e ’d drive up to tow n together.’
H e saw m e lo o k in g w ith ad m iratio n at his car.
‘It’s pretty, isn’t it? H av en ’t you ever seen it before?’
I’d seen it. E verybody had seen it. It was en o rm o u s; a rich
cream y yellow, w ith green leath er seats. W e set off.
I had talked w ith h im a n u m b e r o f tim es in the past m o n th
and found, to m y disappointm ent, th at he had little to say. I had
felt at first th at he was so m eo n e w h o m attered, b u t no w this
feeling had disappeared: he had b eco m e sim ply the o w n er o f a
lovely house n e x t door.
A nd th e n cam e that surprising ride. As w e talked, Gatsby
seem ed strangely u n certain o f him self, and began leaving his
sentences unfinished. ‘L o o k here, old sport,’ he said suddenly,
‘w h a t’s y o u r o p in io n o f m e?’
I began m aking the k in d o f general rem arks w h ich that
question deserves.
‘W ell, I ’m goin g to tell you so m eth in g ab o u t m y life,’ he
in terru p ted . ‘I d o n ’t w ant you to get a w ro n g idea o f m e from all
these stories y o u hear. I ’ll tell you G o d ’s tru th . I am the son o f
som e w ealthy people in the M iddle W est — all dead now. I was
b ro u g h t up in A m erica, b u t ed ucated at O x fo rd U niversity, in
E ngland, because th e m e n in m y fam ily w ere always educated at
O xford.’
H e lo o k ed at m e sideways - and I k n e w w hy Jo rd an B aker had
believed he was lying. H e h u rrie d the phrase ‘ed ucated at
O x fo rd ’, o r swallowed it, as if it tro u b led him .

25
 'M y family ;ill died and I was left a g o o d deal o f m oney. A fter
that I lived like a lo rd in all th e capitals o f E u ro p e - Paris, Venice,
R o m e - collecting jew els, h u n tin g w ild anim als, painting a little,
and try in g to forget so m eth in g very sad that h ap pened to m e
lo n g ago.’
W ith an effort I m anaged to h o ld back m y laughter. I d id n ’t
believe a w ord o f it.
‘T h e n cam e th e war, old sport. I was glad, and I tried very hard
to die, b u t som e m agic seem ed to keep m e alive. I was m ade an
officer w h en th e w ar began, and p u t in charge o f a m ach in e-g u n
unit. In the A rg o n n e Forest I to o k m y m e n far in front o f the
foot soldiers. W e stayed th ere for tw o days an d tw o nights, 130
m e n w ith sixteen guns, and w h en th e fo o t soldiers cam e up at
last they found the flags o f three G erm an divisions am ong the
piles o f dead. I was given a h ig h er rank, and every g o v ern m en t on
o u r side gave m e a deco ratio n - even M o n ten eg ro , little
M o n ten e g ro d o w n o n th e A driatic Sea!’
H e reached in to his pocket, and pulled o u t a circle o f m etal on
a co lo u red band.
‘T h a t’s the o n e from M o n ten eg ro .’
To m y surprise, th e th in g loo k ed real. ‘C ap tain Jay Gatsby,’ I
read, ‘For E xtrao rd in ary C ourage.’
‘H e re ’s an o th e r th in g I always carry. A m e m o ry o f O x fo rd
days. It was taken in T rin ity C ollege.’
It was a p h o to g ra p h o f six o r seven y o u n g m en standing in
front o f an old b uilding, w ith tow ers b e h in d th em . T h ere was
Gatsby, lo o k in g a little, n o t m u ch , younger.
T h e n it was all true. I im agined h im in his palace in Venice,
w ith tiger skins o n the walls, staring in to a chest o f rich, dark
jew els to take away th e pain o f his b roken heart.
‘I ’m going to ask you to do a big th in g for m e today,’ he said,
‘so I th o u g h t you o u g h t to k n o w so m eth in g a b o u t me. I d id n ’t

26
w ant you to th in k I was ju st som e nobody.’ H e paused. ‘Y ou’ll
hear a b o u t it this aftern o o n .’
‘A t lu n ch ?’
‘N o , this aftern o o n . I h ap p en ed to find o u t th at y o u ’re taking
Miss B aker to tea.’
‘D o you m ean y o u ’re in love w ith Miss B aker?’
‘N o , old sport, I’m not. B u t Miss B aker has kindly agreed to
speak to you a b o u t this m atter.’
I h a d n ’t th e faintest idea w h a t ‘this m a tte r’ was, b u t I was m ore
annoyed th an interested. I h a d n ’t asked Jordan to tea in o rd er to
discuss M r Jay Gatsby.
H e w o u ld n ’t say an o th e r w ord. W e drove on, beside the valley
o f ashes. A t W ilso n ’s garage I caught sight o f M rs W ilson w orking
the p um p w ith h e r breathless anim al energy.
Gatsby was driving very fast.
I heard th e sou n d o f a m otorcycle, and a policem an rode up
beside us. G atsby stopped. T aking a w h ite card from his pocket,
he waved it before the m a n ’s eyes.
‘R ig h t you are!’ agreed the policem an , raising his cap. ‘K now
you nex t tim e, M r Gatsby. E xcuse meV
‘W h a t was that?’ I in q u ire d .‘T h e picture o f O x fo rd ?’
‘I was able to do so m eth in g for the C h ie f o f Police once, and
he sends m e a C hristm as card every year.’

I m e t Gatsby for lu n ch in a little restaurant on 42nd S treet.T h ere

was som eo n e w ith him : a small, m id d le-ag ed m an w ith a flat nose
and small eyes.
‘M r Carraway, this is m y friend M r W olfshiem .’
W e sat d o w n at o u r table and ord ered o u r food.
‘T his is a nice restaurant,’ said M r W olfshiem . ‘B u t I like the
old M etro p o le better, across the street.’

27
 ‘It’s to o h o t over there,’ said Gatsby.
‘H o t and small - b u t full o f m em ories. Filled w ith faces dead
and gone. I’ll never forget the n ig h t they sh o t R o sy R o sen th al
there. T h ere w ere six o f us at th e table, and R o sy had been eating
and d rin k in g all evening. A t fo u r o ’clock in the m o rn in g the
w aiter cam e up to h im w ith a funny lo o k and said som ebody
w an ted to speak to h im outside. I to ld h im n o t to go.’
‘D id he go?’ I asked.
‘Sure he w ent. H e tu rn e d aro u n d in the d o o r and said to us,
“D o n ’t let that w aiter take away m y coffee!” T h e n he w en t o u t
in to the street, and they shot h im three tim es in his full stom ach
and drove away.’
H e looked at m e and said suddenly: ‘I un derstand y o u ’re
lo o k in g for a business c o n n ectio n .’
Gatsby answ ered for m e. ‘O h , no, M eyer, this isn’t the man!
W e ’ll talk ab o u t th at som e o th e r tim e.’
W e had nearly finished o u r m eal w h e n G atsby looked at his
w atch, ju m p e d up and h u rrie d from th e room .
‘H e has to telep h o n e,’ said M r W olfshiem . ‘A business m atter.
Fine m an, isn’t he. A perfect gentlem an. H e w ent to O x fo rd
C ollege in E ngland.’
‘Have you k n o w n Gatsby for a lo n g tim e?’ I inquired.
‘Som e years. I m et h im ju st after the war, and w e ’ve d one a lot
o f business - I’ve h elp ed h im and h e ’s helped m e.’
W h e n Gatsby re tu rn e d , M r W olfshiem to o k his leave.
‘I ’ll leave you tw o y o u n g m e n to discuss y o u r sports and your
y o u n g ladies,’ he said. W e shook hands.
‘M eyer W olfshiem ’s q uite a character aro u n d Broadway,’ said
Gatsby after he had gone.
‘W h o is h e?’ I ask ed .‘H o w did he m ake his m oney?’
‘O h , in various ways.’ Gatsby paused. ‘D o you rem em b er that
big sports scandal, back in 1919? Well, M eyer was responsible for
that. H e m ade a lo t o f m o n ey o u t o f it.’

28
 I was astonished. ‘W h y isn’t he in p riso n ?’
‘T h ey can ’t get him , old sport. H e ’s a clever m an.’
I insisted o n paying th e bill. As th e w aiter b ro u g h t m y change,
I noticed T om B uch an an across th e crow ded room .
‘C o m e along w ith m e for a m in u te,’ I said to Gatsby. ‘I ’ve got
to say hello to som eone.’
W h e n he saw us, T om ju m p e d up eagerly. ‘W h e re ’ve you
been? D aisy’s angry because you haven’t telep h o n ed .’
‘T his is M r Gatsby, M r B uchanan.’
T h ey sh o o k hands, and an unusual troubled lo o k cam e over
G atsby’s face.
‘H o w ’ve you b een?’ dem an d ed T om o f m e. ‘H o w ’d you
happen to co m e up this far to eat?’
‘I’ve b een having lu n ch w ith M r Gatsby.’
I tu rn e d tow ards M r Gatsby, b u t he was no lo n g er there.

T h a t aftern o o n , in the tea garden at the Plaza H o tel, Jordan

B aker told m e this story. T h e place was Louisville, the small
m idw est to w n w h ere she grew up; th e tim e was th e year the
U n ite d States entered th e G reat War.
O n e O c to b e r day in 1917 - (said Jordan) - I was w alking along
the street w here Daisy Fay lived. She was ju st eighteen, tw o years
older than m e, and by far the m ost pop u lar o f all the y oung girls
in Louisville. I adm ired h er a lot. She dressed in w hite, and had a
little w h ite car, and all day long th e telep h o n e rang in h er house
and excited y o u n g officers d em anded to take her o u t th at night.
W h e n I cam e opposite h e r house th at m o rn in g h e r car was in
the road, and she was sitting in it w ith an officer I had never seen
before. T h e y w ere so interested in each o th e r that she d id n ’t see
m e until I was quite near.
‘H ello, Jordan,’ she called .‘Please com e here.’
She asked if I was goin g to th e R e d Cross to sew things for

29
 the soldiers. I was. Well th en , she said, w ould I tell th em that she
c o u ld n ’t com e that day? W h ile she was speaking, the officer
lo oked at Daisy in a way th at every y o u n g girl wants to be
lo o k ed at som etim es. H is n am e was Jay Gatsby, and I d id n ’t lay
eyes o n him again for over fo u r years - even after I ’d m e t him o n
L ong Island I d id n ’t realize it was the same m an.
T h a t was 1917. B y th e n e x t year I had a few yo u n g m en
myself, and I began to play in g o lf co m p etitio n s, so I d id n ’t see
D aisy very often. She w en t w ith a slightly o ld er crow d - w h en
she w e n t w ith anyone at all. T h e re was a story g o in g around that
h e r m o th e r had fo u n d h e r packing h er bag o n e n ight to go to
N e w York and say goodbye to a soldier w h o was going overseas.
T h e y stopped her, o f course.
By the nex t au tu m n she was happy again, happy as ever, and in
F ebruary she was said to be engaged to a m an from N ew O rleans.
In Ju n e she m arried T om B uchanan o f C hicago, w ith a cerem ony
like Louisville had never k n o w n before. H e cam e dow n w ith a
h undred people in four private cars, and hired a w hole floor o f
the hotel, and the day before the w edding he gave h er a string o f
jew els valued at three h u n d red and fifty thousand dollars.
I was an atten d an t at h e r w edding. T h e evening before, I cam e
in to h e r ro o m h a lf an h o u r before th e gran d d in n er and found
h er lying on h e r b e d as lovely as the Ju n e n ig h t in h er flowered
dress - and as d ru n k as a m onkey. She had a b o ttle o f w ine in one
h and and a letter in the other.
‘N ever had a d rin k before,’ she said.
‘W h a t’s the m atter, D aisy?’
I was frightened: I’d never seen a girl in th at state.
‘H ere, dearest.’ She p u t h e r hand in a w astebasket and pulled
o u t the string o f je w e ls.‘Take th e m dow nstairs an d give ’em back
to w h o ev er they b e lo n g to.Tell ’em all D aisy’s changed h er m ind.
Say: “ D aisy’s ch anged h er m in d !” ’
She began to cry - she cried and cried. I ru sh ed o u t and found

30
her m o th e r’s servant, and w e locked th e d o o r and got h er into a
cold bath. She w o u ld n ’t let go o f th e letter. She to o k it into the
bath w ith her, u n til it was a w et ball.
B u t she d id n ’t say any m ore. W e p u t ice o n h er forehead and
got h er back in to h e r dress, and h a lf an h o u r later the jew els w ere
around h e r neck and she w e n t d o w n to dinner.
N e x t day at five o ’clock she m a rrie d T om B uch anan and
started o ff o n a three m o n th s’ trip to the South Seas.
I saw th e m in Santa Barbara w h e n they cam e back, and I
th o u g h t I’d never seen a girl so crazy ab o u t h er husband. If he left
the ro o m for a m in u te sh e’d say: ‘W h e re ’s T om gone?’ and lo o k
w o rrie d until he cam e back again. She used to sit on the sand
w ith his head o n h er knee, ru b b in g h e r fingers over his eyes and
lo oking at h im w ith deepest delight. T h a t was August. A w eek
after I left Santa Barbara, T om h ad a car accident, w h ich was
rep o rted in th e new spapers. T h e re was a girl w ith him , w hose
arm was broken - she was o n e o f the girls w o rk in g in the Santa
Barbara hotel. T h a t was th e first o f T o n i’s affairs.
T h e n ex t A pril, Daisy had h e r child, and they w e n t to France
for a year o r two. T h e n they cam e back to C h icago to settle
dow n. T h e y m oved w ith a fast crow d, all o f th em y o u n g and rich
and w ild, b u t Daisy cam e o u t u n to u c h e d by any scandal. Perhaps
because she d o esn ’t d rin k . It’s a great advantage n o t to d rink
am ong h a rd -d rin k in g people.
Well, abo u t six weeks ago, she heard the nam e Gatsby for the
first tim e in years. It was w h en I asked you - do you rem em ber? -
if you knew Gatsby in W est Egg. A fter you had gone hom e she
cam e into m y room and w oke m e up, and said: ‘W h at Gatsby?’
and w h en I described h im , she said in the strangest voice that it
m ust be the m an she used to k n o w It w asn’t until th en that I
co nnected this Gatsby w ith the officer in h er w h ite car.
W h e n Jo rd an had finished telling all this, we had left the Plaza
and w ere d riv in g th ro u g h C en tral Park.

31
 ‘It was a strange chance th at b ro u g h t h im so near her,’ I said.
‘B u t it w asn’t chance at all.’
‘W h y n o t?’
‘Gatsby b o u g h t th at house so th at D aisy w o u ld be ju st across
the bay.’
I rem em bered m y first sight o f Gatsby, staring o u t across the
bay - it had n o t b een th e stars, th en , w h ich seem ed to fill him
w ith such feeling. N o w he cam e alive to me.
‘H e w ants to know ,’ said Jordan, ‘if y o u ’ll invite Daisy to yo u r
house som e a ftern o o n and th e n let h im com e over.’
I was astonished that he should dem an d so little. H e had
w aited five years and b o u g h t a great house - so that he could
‘com e over’ som e a fte rn o o n to a stran g er’s garden.
‘W h y d id n ’t he ask you to arrange a m eetin g ?’
‘H e w ants h e r to see his house,’ she explained. ‘I th in k he h a lf
ex p ected her to w an d er in to o n e o f his parties, b u t she never did.
T h e n he began asking p eo p le if they k n ew her, and I was the first
o ne he found.’
‘D oes Daisy w an t to see Gatsby?’ I asked.
‘She m u stn ’t know . You ju st have to invite h e r to tea.’
It was dark now, and I p u t m y arm aro u n d Jo rd a n ’s golden
sh o u ld er and pulled h e r tow ards m e and asked h e r to dinner.
Suddenly I w asn’t th in k in g o f D aisy and G atsby any m ore. I
tig h ten ed m y arm s a ro u n d her. H er pale, scornful m o u th smiled,
and so I pulled h e r closer, this tim e to m y face.

32
 C h a p te r 5 T h e Tea P a rty

W h e n I cam e h o m e to W est E gg at tw o in th e m o rn in g , light

was shining all over m y garden. T u rn in g a co rn er, I saw that it
cam e fro m G atsby’s house, lit from to p to b o tto m . A t first I
th o u g h t it was a n o th e r party, b u t th ere w asn’t a sound. As m y
taxi drove noisily away, I saw G atsby w alking tow ards m e across
his lawn.
‘Y our place looks like an e n te rta in m e n t hall,’ I said.
H e tu rn e d his eyes towards it. ‘I have b een lo o k in g in to som e
o f the room s. Suppose w e have a sw im in the poo l, old sport? I
haven’t used it all sum m er.’
‘It’s to o late. I’ve got to go to b ed.’
‘All rig h t.’ H e w aited, lo o k in g at m e eagerly.
‘I talked w ith Miss Baker,’ I said after a m o m en t. ‘I’m going to
call up Daisy to m o rro w and invite h e r over here to tea.’
‘O h , th a t’s all rig h t,’ he said carelessly. ‘I d o n ’t w ant to p u t you
to any trouble.’
‘W h a t day w ould suit you?’
‘W h a t day w ould suit you?’ he co rrected m e quickly.
‘H o w ab o u t th e day after to m o rro w , at four o ’clock?’
H e th o u g h t for a m o m e n t.‘I w an t to get the grass cut.’
We b o th lo o k ed do w n at th e grass - there was a sharp line
w here m y u n tid y law n e n d ed and his w ell-kept o n e began. I
suspected that he m ean t m y grass.
‘T h e re ’s an o th e r little thing.’ H e paused. ‘I th o u g h t — look
here, old sport, you d o n ’t m ake m u c h m oney, do y ou?’
‘N o t very m u ch .’
‘I th o u g h t you d id n ’t, if y o u ’ll p ard o n my —you see, I carry on
a little business o n the side, a sort o f sideline, you understand. A nd
I th o u g h t th at if you d o n ’t m ake very m u ch - y o u ’re selling
bonds, are n ’t you, old sport?’
‘T ryin g to.’

33
 ‘Well, this w o u ld interest you. It w o u ld n ’t take up m uch o f
y o u r tim e and you m ig h t pick up a nice bit o f m oney.’
In a different situation, that conversation m ig h t have changed
m y life. B u t I realized that his offer was m ade to repay m e for the
service I was about to perform for him - so ho w could I accept it?
‘I ’ve g o t m y hands full,’ I said. ‘T hanks, b u t I c o u ld n ’t take on
any m ore w ork.’
I called up D aisy from the office n ex t m o rn in g , and invited
h e r to co m e to te a .‘D o n ’t b rin g Tom ,’ I told her.
O n th e agreed day it was raining heavily. A t eleven o ’clock a
m an in a raincoat k n o ck ed at m y d o o r and said M r Gatsby had
sent h im over to cu t m y grass. I rem em b ered I had to go into the
village to buy som e cups and fresh fru it and flowers, and to ask
m y Finnish w om an to com e back.
T h e flowers w ere unnecessary, for at tw o o ’clock a great pile
o f flowers arrived from G atsby’s, w ith a n u m b e r o f pots to hold
th em . A n h o u r later there was a k n o ck at the front d o o r and
Gatsby, in a w h ite suit, silver shirt, and g o ld -co lo u red tie, h u rrie d
in. H e was pale, and there w ere dark signs o f sleeplessness beneath
his eyes.
‘Is everything all rig h t? ’ he asked.
‘T h e grass looks fine, if th a t’s w h at you m ean.’
‘W h a t grass?’ he inquired. ‘O h , the grass o u t there.’ H e looked
o u t o f th e w in d o w at it, b u t I d o n ’t believe he saw a th in g .‘Have
you g o t everything you n eed in th e way o f - tea?’
I to o k h im into th e k itch en . T ogether w e exam ined the twelve
cakes from the village shop.
‘W ill they do?’ I asked.
‘O f course, o f course! T h e y ’re fine!’
H e sat do w n in th e living ro o m , and began tu rn in g the pages
o f on e o f m y books. F rom tim e to tim e he lo o k ed miserably
towards th e w indow . Finally he got up and in fo rm e d m e, in an
u n ce rta in voice, th at he was g oing hom e.

34
 ‘W h y ’s that?’
‘N o b o d y ’s co m in g to tea. It’s to o late!’
‘D o n ’t be silly; it’s ju st tw o m inutes to four.’
A t that m o m e n t there was the sound o f a car tu rn in g into my
drive. I w e n t o u t in to th e yard and saw a large car co m in g up the
d riv e.T h e d river stopped, and D aisy’s face looked o u t at m e w ith
a delighted smile.
‘Is this really w h ere you live, m y dearest one?’
H e r m usical voice was as ex citin g as ever. ‘Are you in love
w ith m e,’ she said low in m y ear, ‘o r w h y did I have to com e
alone?’
‘T h a t’s a secret. Tell y o u r driver to go far away and spend an
hour.’
W e w e n t in .T o m y great surprise, th e living ro o m was empty.
T h e n w e heard a light k n o c k in g at th e front door. I w en t and
o p en ed it. Gatsby, pale as death, was standing staring miserably
into m y eyes. H e m arched by m e in to th e hall and disappeared
into the living room .
For h a lf a m in u te there w asn’t a sound. I could feel m y ow n
heart b eatin g loudly. T h e n I heard D aisy’s clear voice.
‘I certainly am very glad to see you again.’
I had n o th in g to do in the hall, so I w en t in to the room .
Gatsby was leaning stiffly against the fireplace and D aisy was
sitting on th e edge o f a hard chair. N e ith e r o f th em was speaking.
‘W e’ve m e t before,’ said Gatsby now, in a low voice.
‘W e hav en ’t m e t for m any years,’ said D aisy flatly.
‘Five years n e x t N ovem ber,’ said G atsby quickly, and there was
an o th e r silence.
T h e n m y Finnish w om an b ro u g h t in th e tea, and w e w ere able
to keep ourselves busy by passing ro u n d cups and cakes. Daisy
and I began to talk, and Gatsby lo o k ed from o ne to th e o th er o f
us w ith unh ap p y eyes. A fter a little w hile I m ade an excuse and
got to m y feet.

35
 ‘W h ere are you going?’ d em an d ed Gatsby anxiously.
‘I’ll be back.’
‘I’ve got to speak to y o u a b o u t so m eth in g before you go.’ H e
follow ed m e w ildly in to the k itch en , closed the door, and
w hispered ‘O h , G o d !’ in a m iserable w ay
‘W h a t’s the m atter?’
‘T his is a terrib le mistake,’ he said, shaking his head from side
to side. ‘A terrible, terrib le m istake.’
‘Y ou’re ju st em barrassed, th a t’s all,’ and luckily I a d d e d :‘D aisy’s
em barrassed too.’
‘S he’s em barrassed?’ he repeated unbelievingly.
‘J ust as m u ch as you are.’
‘D o n ’t talk so lou d .’
‘Y ou’re acting like a little boy,’ I said im patiently. ‘N o t only
that, b u t y o u ’re rude. D aisy’s sitting in there all alone.’
H e raised his h an d to stop m y painful w ords, gave m e a
w o rrie d loo k , and w en t back in to the o th e r room .
I w alked o u t the back way, ju st as Gatsby had d one earlier. It
was raining hard again, and I ran to a large, black tree, w hose
th ick leaves gave som e sh elter.T h ere was n o th in g to look at from
u n d e r th e tree except G atsby’s en o rm o u s house, so I stared at it
for h a lf an hour.
T h e n th e sun shone again, and I felt it was tim e to go back. I
w en t in - after m ak in g every possible noise in th e kitchen - b u t I
d o n ’t believe they heard a so u n d .T h e y w ere sitting at eith er end
o f the sofa, lo o k in g at each other, and all em barrassm ent was
gone. D aisy’s face was m arked w ith tears, and w h en I cam e in she
began d rying h e r eyes in front o f a m irror. B ut there was a
change in Gatsby th at was sim ply astonishing - his joy shone
from h im and filled th e little room .
‘O h , hello old sport,’ he said, as if he h a d n ’t seen m e for years.
‘I t’s stopped raining.’
‘H as it?’W h e n he realized w h at I was talking ab o ut, he sm iled

36
happily and repeated th e new s to Daisy. ‘W h a t do y ou th in k o f
that? It’s stopped raining.’
‘I’m glad,Jay.’
‘I w ant you and Daisy to com e over to m y house,’ he said. ‘I’d
like to show h e r around.’
Daisy w e n t upstairs to wash h e r face, w hile G atsby and I
w aited o n th e law n.
‘M y house looks good, d o esn ’t it?’ he d e m a n d e d .‘See h o w the
w hole front o f it catches th e light.’
I agreed th at it was lovely.
His eyes w e n t over it, every curve, every straight line, every
square tow er.
‘It to o k m e ju st three years to earn th e m o n ey that b o u g h t it.’
‘I th o u g h t you w ere left y o u r m o n ey by your father.’
‘I was, old sport, b u t I lost m ost o f it d u rin g the war.’
I th in k he hardly k n ew w h at he was saying, for w h e n I asked
him w h a t business he was in he answ ered: ‘T h a t’s m y affair,’
before he realized that it was a ru d e reply.
‘O h , I’ve b een in several things,’ he co rrected h im self.‘I was in
the drugstore business and th e n I was in the oil business. B ut I’m
n o t in eith e r one now.’
Just th e n D aisy cam e o u t o f th e house.
‘T h a t e n o rm o u s place there?’ she cried, pointing.
‘D o you like it?’
‘I love it, b u t I d o n ’t see h o w you live there all alone.’
‘I keep it always full o f interesting people, n ig h t and day.
People w h o do interesting things. Fam ous people.’
Instead o f g oing across th e law n w e w en t do w n th e road and
entered by th e m ain gate. Daisy adm ired the view o f the house
standing dark against the sky, she adm ired the gardens, ric h w ith
sw eet-sm elling flowers.
It was strange to reach th e w ide steps and find n o m o v em en t
o f b rig h t dresses in and o u t o f the door, and to hear n o so u n d b u t

37
bird voices in the trees. A n d inside, as w e w an d ered th ro u g h the
great room s, I felt th at there w ere guests h id d e n b eh in d every
sofa and table, u n d e r orders to be silent until w e had passed
through.
W e w en t upstairs, th ro u g h old-style b ed ro o m s full o f fresh
flowers, th ro u g h dressing room s and b athroom s w ith baths sunk
in the floor. W e w e n t in to o n e ro o m w h ere a y o u n g m an was
d o in g exercises o n th e floor. It was M r K lipspringer, w h o was
living in th e house as G atsby’s guest. Finally w e cam e to Gatsby s
o w n room s - a b e d ro o m , a b a th ro o m and a study —w here we sat
d ow n and drank a glass o f som e C h artreuse he took from a
cup b o ard in the wall.
H e h a d n ’t once sto pp ed lo o k in g at Daisy, and I th in k he gave a
n ew value to everything in his house according to how m uch she
liked it. Som etim es, too, he stared around his possessions in a
confused w ay as th o u g h in h er presence n o n e o f it was real any
longer. O n c e he nearly fell do w n som e stairs.
H is b e d ro o m was th e sim plest ro o m o f all - ex cept that o n the
dressing table was a b ru sh -a n d -c o m b set o f pure, dull gold. Daisy
to o k the brush w ith delight, and p u t it to h e r hair. Gatsby sat
do w n and began to laugh.
‘I t’s th e funniest thing, old sport,’ he said .‘I c a n ’t w hen I try
to —’
H e had passed th ro u g h tw o states and was e n te rin g a third.
A fter his em barrassm ent and his jo y he was now filled w ith
w o n d e r at h er presence. H e had b een full o f the idea o f her for so
long - it was a dream w h ich he had dream ed right through to
th e end. N o w th e w aiting was over.
H e o p en ed for us tw o great cupboards w h ich held his suits
and ties, and his shirts, in several h igh piles.
‘I ’ve g o t a m an in E ngland w h o buys m e clothes. 1 le sends
over w h a t he has chosen at th e b e g in n in g o f each season.’
H e to o k o u t a pile o f shirts and began th ro w in g them , one by

38
one, before us - shirts o f fine c o tto n and thick silk, w h ic h
covered th e table in a confusion o f m any colours. W h ile we
adm ired th e m he b ro u g h t m ore, and th e soft, ric h pile rose
higher. S uddenly Daisy b e n t h er head in to the shirts and began
to cry wildly.
‘T h e y ’re such beautiful shirts,’ she cried. ‘It m akes m e sad
because I’ve never seen such - such beautiful shirts before.’

After the house, w e w ere going to see th e gardens and the

sw im m ing pool, and the seaplane, and th e m idsum m er flowers -
b ut outside G atsby’s w in d o w it began to rain again, so w e stood
and looked at th e m isty surface o f the Sound.
‘If it w asn’t for the m ist w e could see y o u r h o m e across the
bay,’ said Gatsby. ‘You always have a green light th at burns all
night at the end o f y o u r sea wall.’
H e seem ed to be thinking. Perhaps he realized that the
en o rm o u s im p o rtan ce o f th at light had now gone for ever.
W h e n he had b een separated from D aisy by a great distance, the
light had seem ed very near to her, alm ost to u ch in g her. It had
seem ed as close as a star to th e m o o n . N o w it was ju st a green
light o n a wall.
I began to w alk ab o u t the ro o m , exam in in g various objects. A
large p h o to g ra p h o f an oldish m an in sailing clothes attracted me.
‘W h o ’s this?’
‘T hat? T h a t’s M r D an Cody, old sport. H e ’s dead now. H e used
to be m y best friend years ago.’
‘C o m e here quickV cried Daisy at th e w indow .
T h e rain was still falling, b u t in th e w est pink and gold clouds
floated above th e sea.
‘L ook at that,’ she w h isp e re d .‘I’d like to get o ne o f those pink
clouds and p u t you in it and push you around.’
I trie d to go th en , b u t they w o u ld n ’t let me.

39
 ‘I k n o w w h at w e ’ll do,’ said Gatsby, ‘w e ’ll have K lipspringer
play the piano.’
H e w e n t o u t o f th e ro o m and cam e back w ith the you n g m an,
w h o lo o k e d em barrassed.
‘I d o n ’t play well,’ he said. ‘I d o n ’t - hardly play at all. I’m o ut
o f p r a c tic e - ’
‘W e’ll go dow nstairs,’ in te rru p te d Gatsby.
In th e m usic ro o m G atsby tu rn e d on a single lam p beside the
piano. H e lit D aisy’s cigarette w ith a shaking hand, and sat dow n
w ith h e r on a sofa in a dark c o rn e r o f th e room .
W h e n K lipspringer had played ‘T h e Love N e st’, he tu rn e d
aro u n d u n h ap p ily
‘I’m all o u t o f practice, you see, I told you I c o u ld n ’t play I’m
all o u t o f p r a c - ’
‘D o n ’t talk so m u ch, old sport,’ o rdered ( iatsby.1Play!’
O u tsid e the w in d was loud. All th e lights w ere going o n in
W est E gg now. It was tim e for m e to go hom e.
As I w en t over to say goodbye, I saw an expression o f
un certain ty o n Gatsby s face, as if he felt som e d o u b t ab out his
present happiness. A lm ost five years! All that tim e he had been
b u ilding up his dream o f her. H o w could any real person equal
the e n o rm o u s p o w er o f th e dream ? T h e re m ust have been
m o m en ts that a ftern o o n w h e n Daisy had disappointed him.
As I w atched him , his expression changed. I Iis hand to o k hold
o f hers, and w h en she w hispered so m eth in g in his ear he tu rn e d
towards h e r w ith a rush o f feeling. H e r voice had a m agic that
was b eyo n d all dreams.
T h e y h ad fo rg o tten m e, b u t Daisy looked up and held o u t h er
hand; Gatsby d id n ’t k n o w m e n o w at all. I w en t o u t o f the room
and do w n the w id e steps in to th e rain, leaving them there
together.

40
 C h a p te r 6 G a tsb y ’s P a rty

A b o u t this tim e a y o u n g re p o rte r from a N e w York new spaper

arrived o n e m o rn in g at G atsby’s d o o r and asked h im if he had
anything to say.
‘A nyth in g to say ab o u t w hat?’ in q u ired Gatsby politely.
‘W h y - any statem ent to give o u t.’
It appeared th at he had heard p eople talking ab o u t Gatsby, and
th o u g h t there should be a story th ere for the new spapers.
G atsby’s fam e was grow ing, b u t it was th e w ro n g k in d o f fame.
All sum m er th e hundreds o f people w h o had atten d ed his parties
w ere spreading stories ab o u t his past — stories that w ere
com pletely u n tru e.
I had reached th e p o in t o f believing everything and n o th in g
about him . It was n o t until m u ch later that I learnt th e tru th
about his beginnings, w h e n he to ld m e him self. B u t I am going
to b rin g it in at this p o in t in m y story, to clear away all the false
ideas.
H e w asn’t Jay Gatsby at all at first. H is nam e was Jam es Gatz,
and he lived in N o rth D akota. His parents w ere p o o r and
unsuccessful farm people - in his im ag in atio n he had never really
accepted th e m as his parents at all. In his ow n m in d he was a
com pletely different person. Every n ig h t as he lay in b ed he was
troubled by strange thoughts, dream s o f an extraordinary and
beautiful w orld w h ic h was q uite bey o n d his experience. B ut
som eone like Jam es G atz did n o t b elo n g in such a w orld: he
needed to be a n ew person, to have a n ew nam e.
At th e age o f seventeen he invented Jay Gatsby, th e kind o f
person he w an ted to be. A nd to this idea o f h im self he was true
until th e end.
His n ew life began at th e m o m e n t w h e n he saw D an C o d y ’s
boat o n Lake Superior. For over a year Jam es G atz had been
w o rk in g his way along th e south shore o f Lake S uperior, catching

41
fish or digging in th e sand for shellfish, o r d o in g anything that
w o u ld b rin g h im fo od and a bed. H e was still searching for
so m eth in g to do o n the day that D an C o d y ’s b o at sailed into
Little G irl Bay. It was a beautiful boat.
As h e was w an d erin g along th e shore, he looked up and saw it
stop in a dangerous area a little way from th e shore. So he
b o rro w e d a row boat, row ed o u t to the sailing boat, and in fo rm ed
its o w n e r th at a w in d m ig h t catch it and break it up in half an
hour.
I suppose he sm iled at C o d y —he had probably discovered that
people liked him w h e n he sm iled. A nd w hen C o d y asked h im his
nam e, he had the answ er ready: Jay Gatsby.
C o d y was fifty years old th en , and a very rich m an, from his
gold and silver m ines. H e was still strong in body, b u t n o t in
m ind; and suspecting this, a n u m b e r o f w o m en had chased him
for his m oney, in clu d in g Ella Kaye, the new spaper w om an. H e
had b e en living o n his boat, th e Tuomalee, for five years, sailing
along friendly shores, w h e n he tu rn e d up in front o f Jam es Gatz.
To y o u n g G atz, as he row ed o u t to the sailing boat, it
represented all the b eau ty and w ealth in the w orld.
W h e n C o d y asked h im a few questions, he fo u n d that the boy
was q u ick and d e te rm in e d to be successful, so he decided to
em ploy him . A few days later he b o u g h t him a blue coat, six pairs
o f w h ite trousers and a sailing cap. A n d w hen the Tuomalee left for
the W est Indies and th e N o rth A frican coast, G atsby left too. H e
helped to sail the boat, acted as C o d y ’s secretary, and som etim es
even as his keeper. F or w h e n D an C o d y was d ru n k he was n ot
responsible for his actions, and th e n he trusted in Gatsby to look
after him . T h e arran g em en t lasted five years, d u rin g w hich the
b o a t w e n t three tim es aro u n d A m e ric a .T h en one n ig h t in B oston
Ella Kaye cam e o n board, and a w eek later D an C o d y died.
I rem em b ered th e p h o to g ra p h o f him up in Gatsby s
b ed ro o m , a g rey -lo o k in g m an w ith a hard, em pty face. H e had

42
been m u c h to o fond o f w o m e n and d rin k - especially drink.
T h a t was th e reason Gatsby drank so little him self. Som etim es
d u rin g his parties w o m en used to ru b cham pagne in to his hair;
b u t apart from that, he fo rm ed th e habit o f keeping away from
alcohol.
A nd it was C o d y w h o left h im m o n e y - tw enty-five thousand
dollars. B u t Gatsby never g o t the m oney: som ehow , w ith the help
o f a clever lawyer, Ella Kaye m anaged to take all that rem ained o f
C o d y ’s m illions.

For several w eeks after m y tea party for Daisy I d id n ’t see Gatsby.
M ostly I was in N e w York, going aro u n d w ith Jordan and trying
to m ake m yself pleasant to h e r old aunt. B ut finally I w e n t over
to G atsby’s house o ne Sunday aftern o o n . I’d b een there only tw o
m inutes w h e n so m ebody b ro u g h t T om B uchanan in for a drink.
I was surprised, o f course, b u t the really surprising th in g was that
it h ad n ’t h a p p en ed before.
T h e re w ere three o f th em , rid in g horses - T om and a m an
nam ed Sloane and a pretty w om an w h o had been there before.
‘I’m d elighted to see you,’ said Gatsby, standing o n his porch.
‘I’m delig h ted that you dro p p ed in. Sit rig h t dow n. Have a
cigarette.’ H e w alked around the ro o m quickly, rin g in g b ells.‘I’ll
have so m e th in g to d rin k for you in ju s t a m inute.’
M r Sloane w an ted n o th in g . A soft drink? N o thanks. A little
cham pagne? N o th in g at all, thanks . ..
Gatsby tu rn e d to Tom .
‘I believe w e ’ve m et som ew here before, M r B uchanan.’
‘O h , yes,’ said T om , polite, b u t obviously n o t rem em bering.
‘A b o u t tw o w eeks ago.’
‘O h , th a t’s right.Y ou w ere w ith N ick .’
‘I k n o w y o u r wife,’ co n tin u ed Gatsby, alm ost angrily.
‘Is th at so?’Tom tu rn e d to m e .‘You live near here, N ic k ? ’

43
 ‘N e x t door.’
‘T h a t so?’
M r Sloane d id n ’t en ter in to th e conversation and the w om an
said n o th in g eith er — until suddenly, after tw o drinks, she becam e
very friendly.
‘W e’ll all com e over to y o u r n e x t party, M r Gatsby,’ she
suggested .‘W h a t do you say?’
‘C ertainly; I’d be d elighted to have you.’
‘T h a t w ould be very nice,’ said M r Sloane coldly.‘Well - think
we o u g h t to be g o in g hom e.’ H e got to his feet.
‘W hy d o n ’t you stay for supper?’ said Gatsby, w h o w anted to
see m ore o f Tom.
‘You com e to supper w ith me,’ said the lady.
‘C o m e along,’ said M r Sloane - to h er only.
Gatsby w anted to go w ith th em , and d id n ’t see that M r Sloane
d id n ’t w an t h im .‘I hav en ’t got a horse,’ he said.‘I’ll have to follow
you in m y car. Excuse m e for ju s t a m inute.’
T h e rest o f us w e n t o u t o n th e porch, and M r Sloane and the
lady w alked d o w n th e steps towards th eir horses.
‘W h e re the devil did he m eet Daisy?’ said Ibm angrily to me.
‘I d o n ’t like h er ru n n in g aro u n d by herself.’
‘C o m e on, T om ,’ M r Sloane called. ‘W e’re late. W e’ve got to
go.’A n d th en to m e :‘Tell h im w e co u ld n ’t w ait.’
T h e y all rode quickly d o w n th e drive. W h en Gatsby cam e o u t
o f the front d o o r w ith his hat and coat, they had disappeared.
T om was obviously w o rrie d at D aisy’s goin g aro und alone, for
on the follow ing Saturday n ig h t he cam e w ith h e r to G atsby’s
party. Perhaps his presence th ere gave the evening its strange
heaviness — it stands o u t in m y m em o ry from G atsby’s o th er
parties th at sum m er. T h ere w ere the same people, the same
en o rm o u s quantities o f cham pagne, th e same noise and m any-
co loured activity, b u t I felt an unpleasantness in the air that h adn’t
b een there before.

44
 T om and D aisy arrived as it was g ettin g dark, and w e w alked
over the law n am o n g the b rig h t crowds.
‘T hese things excite m e so,’ D aisy w hispered to m e. ‘If you
w ant to kiss m e at any tim e d u rin g th e evening, N ick , ju st let m e
k n o w and I ’ll be glad to arrange it for you.’
‘L ook around,’ suggested Gatsby.
i ’m lo o k in g around. I’m having a w o n d e rfu l-’
‘You m ust see the faces o f m any p eople y o u ’ve heard about.’
T o m ’s scornful eyes looked over the c ro w d .‘I was ju st th in k in g
I d o n ’t k n o w anyone here,’ he said.
‘Perhaps you k n o w that lady.’ Gatsby p o in ted to a fine
creature, lo o k in g m ore like a beautiful flow er than a w om an, w h o
sat u n d e r a tree su rro u n d ed by adm irers. T om and Daisy stared,
recognizing a fam ous film star.
‘S he’s lovely,’ said Daisy.
‘T h e m an b en d in g over h er is h e r director.’
H e to o k th e m form ally from g ro u p to group:
‘M rs B u ch an an . . . and M r B u ch an an - the polo player.’
‘I’ve never m et so m any fam ous people,’ Daisy said, i liked
that m an —w h a t was his nam e? —w ith th e sort o f blue nose.’
Gatsby to ld h e r his nam e and added that he was a film
producer.
‘If you d o n ’t m ind, I’d rath er n o t be called the p o lo player,’ said
Tom pleasantly.
Daisy and Gatsby danced. I was surprised by his graceful, old-
fashioned w ay o f dancing. T h e n w e w andered over to m y house
and they sat o n th e steps for h a lf an hour, w hile I rem ained
w atchfully in the garden.
W e re tu rn e d to the party, and as w e w ere sitting d ow n to
supper T om appeared. ‘D o you m in d if I eat w ith som e people
over here?’ he said.
‘G o ahead,’ answ ered D aisy,‘and if you w ant to take d ow n any
addresses, h e re ’s m y little gold pencil.’ She loo k ed aro u n d after a

45
m o m e n t and told m e th e girl w ith Tom was ‘ord in ary b u t p re tty ’.
I k n ew th e n that except for th e h alf-h o u r sh e’d b een alone w ith
Gatsby she w asn’t having a g o o d tim e.
T h e o th e r p eo p le at o u r table w ere all rath er dru n k . Two
weeks ago I had enjoyed these same people, b u t now th eir silly
conversation annoyed m e. It obviously offended Daisy. I could
see that she disapproved o f W est E gg society.
I sat o n the front steps w ith Daisy and Tom w h ile they w aited
for th eir car.
‘W h o is this G atsby?’ d em an d ed T om suddenly. ‘Som e big
boo tleg g er?’
‘W h ere did you hear that?’ I inquired.
‘I d id n ’t hear it. I guessed it. A lot o f these new ly rich people
are ju s t big bootleggers, you know.’
‘N o t Gatsby,’ I said shortly.
‘W ell, he m ust have had to w o rk hard to get this strange
collectio n o f people here to n ig h t.’
‘A t least they are m o re in teresting than the p eo p le we know,’
said Daisy.
‘You d id n ’t lo o k so interested.’
‘Well, I was.’ Daisy began to sing w ith the m usic, in her w arm ,
m agic v o ic e .‘Lots o f people com e w h o haven’t been invited,’ she
said suddenly.‘T h a t girl h a d n ’t been invited. T h ey force th eir way
in and h e ’s to o polite to send th e m away.’
‘I ’d like to k n o w w h o he is and w h at he does,’ insisted Tom .
‘A nd I’m g oing to find out.’
‘I can tell you rig h t now,’ she said.‘H e o w n ed som e drugstores,
a lo t o f drugstores. H e built th em up himself.’
T h e ir car cam e up the drive at last.
‘G o o d n ight, N ick ,’ said Daisy.
I stayed late th at night. G atsby asked m e to w ait until he was
free, and I w aited in th e garden u n til the usual sw im m ing party
had ru n up, cold b u t happy, from the dark beach, until the lights

46
w ent o u t in th e guest room s above. W h e n he cam e dow n the
steps at last, his eyes w ere tired.
‘She d id n ’t like it,’ he said im m ediately.
‘O f course she did.’
‘She d id n ’t like it,’ he insisted. ‘She d id n ’t have a g o o d tim e.’
H e was silent, and obviously anxious.
‘I feel far away from her,’ he said. ‘It’s hard to m ake h er
understand.’
H e told m e th e n w h a t he w anted. H e w an ted h er to go to
Tom and say: ‘I never loved you.’ T h e n , after she was free, they
w ould go back to Louisville and be m a rrie d from h er house -
ju st as if it was five years ago.
‘A n d she d o esn ’t understand,’ he said. ‘She used to be able to
understand. W e’d sit for h o u r s - ’
‘You sh o u ld n ’t ask to o m uch o f her,’ I said. ‘You can ’t repeat
the past.’
‘C a n ’t repeat the past?’ he cried unbelievingly. ‘W h y o f course
you can!’
H e lo o k ed aro u n d h im wildly, as if the past w ere h iding here
in the shadow o f his house, ju st o u t o f reach o f his hand.
i ’m g oing to fix everything ju s t th e way it was before,’ he said
firmly. ‘S h e’ll see.’
H e talked a lo t ab o u t the past, and I realized that he w anted to
get so m eth in g back, som e idea o f h im self perhaps, that had gone
into loving Daisy. His life had b een confused and disordered since
then, b u t if he could only re tu rn to a certain starting place and go
over it all slowly, he could find o u t w h a t that th in g was .. .
O n e au tu m n night, he said, five years before, they had been
w alking do w n th e street w h e n th e leaves w ere falling, and they
cam e to a place w h ere there w ere no trees and the street was
w h ite w ith m o o n lig h t. T h e y stop p ed there and tu rn e d to each
other.
His heart beat faster as Daisy’s w h ite face came up to his own.

47
H e k n ew that w h en he kissed this girl he w ould lose som e o f his
ow n pow er. H e w ould for ever tie his dreams dow n to a hum an
person —his grand im agination w ould no longer be free to w ander
through the universe. So he w aited, listening for a m o m e n t longer
to the m usic o f the stars. T h e n he kissed her. A t his lips’ touch she
becam e like a flower for h im and the m agic was com plete.

48
 C h a p te r 7 A H o t A fte rn o o n

It was w h e n interest in Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in

G atsby’s house failed to go o n o n e Saturday night. T h e cars
w h ich tu rn e d in to his drive, ex p ectin g a party, stayed for a
m inute and th en drove sadly away. W o n d e rin g if he w ere sick, I
w ent over to find out.
T h e d o o r was o p en ed by an unfam iliar b u tler w ith an ugly
face, w h o gave m e a strange look.
‘Is M r Gatsby sick?’
‘N o.’A fter a pause he a d d e d ,‘sir’.
‘I h a d n ’t seen h im around, and I was rath er w o rried . Tell him
M r C arraw ay cam e over.’
‘W h o ? ’ he d em an d ed rudely.
‘Carraway.’
‘Carraway. All rig h t, I’ll tell h im .’ H e sh u t the door.
M y Finnish w o m an in fo rm ed m e th at Gatsby h ad dismissed
every servant in his house a w eek ago, and replaced th em w ith
five o r six others w h o never w en t in to W est E gg village b u t
ordered supplies over th e telephone. T h e general o p in io n in the
village was th at th e n ew people w e re n ’t servants at all. N e x t day
Gatsby called m e o n th e pho n e.
‘G o in g away?’ I inquired.
‘N o , old sport.’
‘I hear you dismissed all y o u r servants.’
‘I w an ted som eb o d y w h o w o u ld n ’t talk. Daisy com es over
quite often - in th e afternoons. T h ese are people th at W olfshiem
w anted to do so m eth in g for. T h e y ’re all b rothers and sisters.They
used to ru n a small hotel.’
‘I see.’
H e was calling up at D aisy’s request —w o u ld I com e to lu n ch
at h e r house to m o rro w ? Miss B aker w o u ld be there. H a lf an h o u r

49
later Daisy h erself telep h o n ed , and seem ed glad to find that 1 was
com ing. S o m eth in g was up.
T h e n e x t day was b o ilin g h o t, th e h o ttest day o f the sum m er.
Gatsby drove m e over to the B uch an an s’ house.
T h e sitting ro o m was w ell shaded against th e sun, and it was
dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay on th e big sofa.
‘W e can ’t m ove,’ they said together.
Jo rd a n ’s fingers rested for a m o m e n t in m ine.
‘A n d M r T hom as B uch an an , th e p o lo player?’ I inquired. T h e n
I heard his voice in th e hall, at th e telephone.
Gatsby stood in th e centre o f the ro o m and stared around.
Daisy w atch ed him and laughed h er sweet, ex citin g laugh.
‘T h a t m ust be T o m ’s girl o n th e p h o n e,’ said Jo rd an.
W e w ere silent. T h e voice in the hall rose high w ith
annoyance: ‘Very well, th en , I w o n ’t sell you the car at all . . . and
d o n ’t trouble m e ab o u t it at lu n ch tim e!’
‘H e ’s n o t really speaking in to th e telep h o n e,’ said Daisy.
‘Yes, he is,’ I said, i t ’s a real deal. I happen to k n o w ab out it.’
Tom th rew o p en th e d o o r and h u rrie d in to th e room .
‘M r G atsby!’ H e p u t o u t his w ide, flat hand w ith w ell-hidden
dislike.‘I ’m glad to see you, sir . . . N ic k . . . ’
‘M ake us a cold drink,’ cried Daisy.
As he left the ro o m again, she g o t up and w en t over to Gatsby
and pulled his face tow ards her, kissing him on th e m o u th .
‘You k n o w I love you,’ she w hispered.
‘You forget th e re ’s a lady present,’ said Jordan.
A t th at m o m e n t a nurse cam e in to the ro o m , leading a little
girl in a p retty w h ite dress.
‘M y little sw eetheart!’ cried Daisy. ‘C o m e to y o u r m o th e r!’
T h e child ru sh ed across th e ro o m to the sofa and hid h e r face in
h er m o th e r’s skirt.
‘O h , w h at a sweet thing! S tand up n o w and shake hands.’
G atsby and I leaned d o w n and to o k th e small hand. Afterwards

50
he kept lo o k in g at th e child w ith surprise. I d o n ’t th in k he had
ever really believed in its existence before.
‘She do esn ’t lo o k like h e r father,’ said D aisy.‘She looks like me.
S he’s got m y hair and shape o f the face.’ She b e n t h e r face dow n
to the ch ild ’s n e c k .‘You little dream , y o u !’
T h e n she sat back o n th e sofa.
‘G oodbye, m y love!’
‘C o m e, Pammy.’ T h e nurse to o k th e ch ild ’s h and and pulled
h e r o u t o f th e room .
T om cam e back w ith o u r icy drinks. W e drank thirstily.
‘C o m e outside,’ he suggested to Gatsby, ‘I’d like you to have a
lo o k at th e place.’
I w en t w ith th e m o u t to th e p o rc h .T h e S ound was green and
still in the heat. Gatsby p o in te d across the bay.
‘I’m rig h t across from you.’
‘So you are.’
We had lu n ch in th e d ining ro o m , darkened to o against the
heat.
‘W h a t’ll w e do w ith ourselves this aftern o o n ?’ cried D aisy
‘A nd the day after that, and the n e x t th irty years?’
‘D o n ’t w orry,’ said Jordan. ‘Life starts all over again w h e n it
turns cool in the fall.’
‘B ut it’s so h o t,’ insisted Daisy, alm ost in tears,‘and everything’s
so confused. L et’s all go to to w n !’
T om was talking to Gatsby ab o u t his horses.
‘W h o w ants to go to tow n?’ d em an d ed Daisy. G atsby’s eyes
floated tow ards h e r .‘Ah,’ she c rie d ,‘you lo o k so cool.’
T h e ir eyes m et, and they stared at each other, alone in space.
W ith an effort she lo o k ed do w n at th e table.
‘You always lo o k so cool,’ she repeated. It was a way o f saying
that she loved h im , and T om B u ch an an saw. H e was astonished.
His m o u th o p e n e d a little, and he lo o k ed at Gatsby, and th en
back at Daisy.

51
 ‘You lo o k like th e m an in th at advertisem ent,’ she w en t on.
‘You k n o w the advertisem ent o f th e m a n —’
‘All rig h t,’ in te rru p te d T om quickly, i ’m perfectly happy to go
to tow n. C o m e o n —w e ’re all g o in g to tow n.’
H e g o t up, his eyes still flashing b etw een G atsby and his wife.
N o on e m oved.
‘C o m e o n !’ his tem p er was ris in g .‘W h a t’s th e m atter? If w e ’re
g oing to tow n, le t’s start.’
‘Are w e ju st g oing to go?’ Daisy o b je c te d .‘Like this? A ren’t we
g oing to let anyone sm oke a cigarette first?’
‘E very b o d y sm oked all th ro u g h lunch.’
‘H ave it y o u r ow n way,’ she said .‘C o m e on, Jordan.’
T h e y w e n t upstairs to get ready w hile we th ree m e n w en t o u t
o n to the h o t drive.
‘Shall w e take an ything to d rin k ?’ called Daisy from an u p p er
w indow .
i ’ll get som e whisky,’ answ ered Tom . H e w e n t inside.
Gatsby tu rn e d to m e.
‘I can ’t say anything in his house, old sport.’
‘S h e’s g o t a voice w h ic h gives away h e r feelings,’ I rem arked.
‘It’s full o f—’ I paused.
‘H e r voice is full o f m oney,’ h e said suddenly.
T h a t was it. It was th e voice o f a ric h girl - th at was its magic.
T om cam e o u t o f th e house w rap p in g a b o ttle in a cloth,
follow ed by Daisy and Jordan.
‘Shall w e all go in m y car?’ suggested Gatsby.
‘N o , you take m ine,’ said T o m ,‘and let m e drive yours.’
Gatsby did n o t like this idea.
‘I d o n ’t th in k th e re ’s m u ch gas,’ he objected.
‘If it runs o u t I can stop at a drugstore,’ said Tom . ‘You can buy
anything at a drugstore these days.’ H e lo o k ed at Gatsby in a
m eaningful way.

52
 A very strange expression passed over G atsby’s face.
‘C o m e on, Daisy,’ said Tom , pulling h e r towards G atsby’s car.
H e o p en e d the door, b u t she m oved away.
‘You take N ic k and Jordan,’ she sa id .‘W e’ll follow in y o u r car.’
She w alked close to Gatsby, to u c h in g his coat. Jordan an d Tom
and I g o t in to th e front seat o f G atsby’s car, and w e drove o ff into
the heat.
‘D id you see that?’ d em an d ed Tom .
‘See w h at?’
H e loo k ed at m e sharply, realizing th at Jordan and I m ust have
know n all th e tim e ab o u t Daisy and Gatsby.
‘I’ve fo u n d o u t som e things a b o u t this m an,’ said Tom . ‘I’ve
m ade an in q u iry in to his past.’
‘A nd you fo u n d he was an O x fo rd m an,’ said Jordan.
‘A n O x fo rd m an! N ever! H e wears a p in k suit.’
‘W hy did you invite h im to lu n ch , th en , if you feel like that
ab out him ?’ d em an d ed Jordan.
‘Daisy invited him ; she k n ew h im before w e w ere m a rried —
G od know s w h e re !’
W e drove fo r a w h ile in b a d -te m p e re d silence. T h e n as
D o c to r T . J . E ck leb u rg s eyes cam e in to sight d o w n th e road,
I rem em b ered G atsby’s w arn in g a b o u t th e gas.
‘W e’ve g o t e n o u g h to get us to to w n ,’ said Tom .
‘B ut th e re ’s a garage rig h t here,’ o b jected Jordan.
W ith an im p atien t so u n d T om sto p p ed the car u n d er W ilso n s
sign. A fter a m o m e n t the o w n er cam e o u t from inside and stared
m iserably at the car.
‘L et’s have som e gas!’ cried T om ro u g h ly .‘W h at do you th in k
w e stopped for — to adm ire the view ?’
‘I ’m sick,’ said W ilson, n o t m oving. ‘B een sick all day.’
‘Well, shall I help m yself?’T om d e m a n d e d .‘You sounded well
en o u g h o n the p h o n e.’

53
 W ith an effort W ilson left th e su p p o rt o f th e doorw ay and
began to w o rk the pum p. In th e sun his face was green.
‘I d id n ’t m ean to in te rru p t y o u r lunch,’ he said. ‘B u t I need
m oney p retty bad, and I was w o n d e rin g w h at you w ere going to
do w ith y o u r old car.’
‘H o w do you like this o n e?’ asked Tom . ‘I ju st b o u g h t it.’
i t ’s a nice yellow one,’ said W ilson. ‘B u t I could m ake som e
m o n ey o n the other.’
‘W h a t do you w ant m o n e y for, all o f a sudden?’
‘I ’ve b een here to o long. I w an t to get away M y w ife and I
w ant to go West.’
‘Y our w ife does?’ cried Tom .
‘S he’s b een talking a b o u t it for ten years. A nd n o w she’s going
w h e th e r she w ants to o r n o t. I ju st fo u n d o u t so m ething funny is
going o n , and I’m g oin g to get h e r away. T h a t’s w hy I’ve been
asking you ab o u t th e car.’
‘W h a t do I owe you?’ d em an d ed Tom sharply.
‘O n e dollar tw enty.’
I realized th at so far he d id n ’t suspect Tom . H e had discovered
th at M y rtle had som e sort o f life apart from h im in an o th er
w orld, and th e shock had m ade h im ill.
‘I’ll let you have th at car,’ said T o m .‘Tom orrow .’
O v e r th e piles o f ash, th e en o rm o u s eyes o f D o c to r T .J .
E cklebu rg w ere w atching, b u t w h e n I tu rn e d ro u n d I realized
that o th e r eyes w ere also lo o k in g at us. In o n e o f the w indow s
over the garage the curtains h ad b een pulled to one side, and
M yrtle W ilson was staring d o w n at th e car. H e r eyes, w ide w ith
jealous terror, w ere fixed n o t on T om , b u t on Jordan Baker,
w h o m she th o u g h t was his wife.

T om drove o n tow ards N e w Y ork at high sp eed .T h e confusion in

his sim ple m in d was obvious. A n h o u r earlier he had b een sure o f

54
his wife and his lover - and n o w they w ere b o th slipping rapidly
o u t o f his control. W e caught up G atsby and Daisy, and argued
about h o w w e w ere goin g to spend th e h o t aftern oon. Jordan
w anted to go to a cinem a; Daisy suggested that w e hire five
bathroom s and take cold baths. In the end, for no very good
reason, we decided to hire a sitting ro o m in the Plaza H otel. W e
all said it was a crazy idea b u t at least it was a place w h e re we
could d rin k so m eth in g cool.
T h e ro o m was large and airless, and o p en in g th e w indow s
only let in som e h o t air from the Park. D aisy w en t to the m irro r
to fix h er hair.
‘O p e n a n o th e r w in d o w !’ she said, w ith o u t tu rn in g round.
‘T h ere aren ’t any m o re w indow s.’
‘Well, w e ’d b e tte r telep h o n e for a h a m m e r—’
‘Forget a b o u t the heat,’ said T om im p atien tly .‘You m ake it ten
tim es w orse by com plaining ab o u t it.’
‘W h y n o t let h er alone, old sport?’ rem arked Gatsby.
T h ere was a m o m e n t o f silence.
‘T h a t’s a great expression o f yours,’ said T om sharply.
‘W h at is?’
‘All this “ old sp o rt” business. W h e re ’d you get it from ?’
‘N o w see here, Tom ,’ said Daisy, ‘if y o u ’re going to m ake
personal rem arks I w o n ’t stay here a m in u te. Call up and order
som e ice for th e drinks.’
Tom to o k up th e telep h o n e and gave th e order. T h e n , for
som e reason, he and I started talking ab o u t o u r college days.
Suddenly, T om tu rn e d to Gatsby.
‘By the way, M r Gatsby, I hear y o u ’re an O x fo rd m an.’
‘N o t exactly.’
‘O h , yes, I un d erstan d you w en t to O x fo rd .’
‘Yes - I w e n t there.’
A pau se.T h en T o m ’s voice, scornful and u n b eliev ing:‘I w o n d er
w h en that could have been.’

55
 A n o th e r pause. A w aiter cam e in w ith crushed ice, and closed
the d o o r softly. W e all lo o k ed at Gatsby. T his im p o rta n t detail was
to be cleared up at last.
‘I to ld y o u I w e n t there,’ he said.
‘I heard you, b u t I’d like to k n o w w h e n .’
‘It was in 1919. I only stayed five m o n th s — th a t’s w hy I can’t
really call m yself an O x fo rd m an. It was an o p p o rtu n ity they gave
to som e o f th e officers after th e war.’
I w an ted to sh o u t w ith joy. M y b e lie f in him retu rn ed .
Daisy sm iled .‘O p e n the w hisky,T om . I’ll p o u r you a drink.’
‘W ait a m inute. I w ant to ask M r Gatsby o n e m o re question.’
‘G o on,’ Gatsby said politely.
‘W h a t k in d o f tro u b le are y o u try in g to cause in m y
h o u se ? ’
T hey w ere o u t in th e o p en at last.
‘H e isn ’t causing trouble,’ said Daisy. ‘Y ou’re causing trouble,
T om . Please have a little control.’
‘C ontrol! I suppose these days y o u ’re exp ected to sit back and
let M r N o b o d y from N o w h e re m ake love to y o u r w ife!’
i ’ve got so m eth in g to tell you,’ said G atsby.‘Y our w ife do esn ’t
love you. S h e’s never loved you. She loves me.’
‘You m ust be crazy!’ cried Tom .
Gatsby ju m p e d up. ‘She only m arried you because I was p o o r
and she was tired o f w aiting for m e. It was a terrib le mistake, but
in h e r heart she never loved anyone b u t m e!’
‘D aisy!’ said T o m .‘W h a t’s b e e n goin g o n?’
‘I told you,’ said G atsby.‘G o in g o n fo r five years.’
T om tu rn e d to D aisy sharply.
‘Y ou’ve b een seeing this person for five years?’
‘N o t seeing,’ said G atsby.‘N o , w e c o u ld n ’t m eet. B u t b o th o f us
loved each o th e r all that tim e.’
‘T h a t’s a lie!’ T om burst out. ‘Daisy loved m e w h en she
m arrie d m e and she loves m e now. A n d I love D aisy too. O n c e in

56
a w hile I go o ff o n a little adventure, b u t I always com e back, and
in my heart I love h e r all th e tim e.’
‘Y ou’re disgusting,’ said Daisy. She tu rn e d to m e. ‘D o you
know w hy w e left C hicago? You d id n ’t hear the story o f that
“little ad v en tu re” ?’
‘Daisy, that d o esn ’t m atter now,’ said Gatsby. ‘Just tell him the
tru th —th at you never loved him .’
She looked at h im blindly.‘W hy - h o w could I love him ?’
‘You never loved him .’
She p a u se d .‘1 never loved him ,’ she said slowly.
‘N o t o n o u r w ed d in g trip ?’ d em an d ed Tom . ‘N o t that day I
carried you d o w n the hill to keep y o u r shoes dry?’ T h ere was a
gentleness in his voice .. . ‘Daisy?’
‘Please d o n ’t.’ H e r h and was shaking as she tried to light a
cigarette. Suddenly, she th rew th e cigarette and the b u rn in g
m atch o n the floor.
‘O h , you w ant to o m u ch !’ she cried to G atsby.‘I love you now
- isn’t that enough? I can ’t help w h a t’s past. I did love h im on ce -
b u t I loved you too.’
‘Even th a t’s a lie,’ said Tom . ‘She never th o u g h t o f you .’ T h e
w ords seem ed to bite into Gatsby.
‘I w an t to speak to Daisy alone,’ he said.
‘Even alone I can ’t say 1 never loved Tom .’ H e r voice was
shaking. ‘It w o u ld n ’t be true.’
‘O f course it w o u ld n ’t,’ said T o m .‘A n d from n o w o n I’m going
to take care o f you, Daisy.’
‘You d o n ’t u nderstand,’ said Gatsby. ‘Y ou’re n o t going to take
care o f h e r any m ore.’
‘I’m n o t? ’ T om o p en ed his eyes w id e and laughed. H e could
afford to co n tro l him self n o w .‘W h y ’s that?’
‘D aisy’s leaving you.’
‘N onsense.’
‘I am , th o u g h ,’ she said w ith an effort.

57
 T om ig n o red her. ‘S h e’s n o t leaving me! C ertain ly n o t for
som eone as dishonest as you! W h o are you? You h ang around
w ith M eyer W olfshiem — I’ve b e e n lo o k in g in to y o u r affairs.’
‘I w o n ’t stand this!’ cried D aisy.‘O h , le t’s get o u t!’
‘I fo u n d o u t w h at y o u r drugstores w ere.’ H e tu rn e d to us. ‘H e
and this W olfshiem b o u g h t up a lo t o f side-street drugstores here
and in C hicago, and used th e m to sell alcohol. M y friend W alter
told me. B u t n o w th e y ’re c o n c e rn e d w ith so m eth ing bigger -
W alter’s afraid to tell m e a b o u t it.’
I lo o k ed at Gatsby, and th e expression on his face frightened
m e. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy. B u t w ith
every w o rd she was d raw ing fu rth e r and fu rth e r in to herself, so
he gave up. W h atev er courage she had had was definitely gone.
She begg ed again to go.
‘Please Tom! I can ’t stand this any m ore.’
‘You tw o go h om e, Daisy,’ said Tom . ‘In M r G atsby’s car. G o
on. H e w o n ’t annoy you n o w —he realizes it’s over.’
T h ey w en t, w ith o u t a w ord. A fter a m o m e n t T om g o t up and
began w rap p in g th e u n o p e n e d b o ttle o f w hisky in the cloth.
‘W ant any o f this? Jordan? N ic k ? ’
I d id n ’t answer.
‘N ick ?’
‘W h a t? ’
‘W ant any?’
‘N o . . . I ju st rem em b ered that to d ay ’s m y birthday.’
I was thirty.
It was seven o ’clock w h e n w e g o t in to the car w ith h im and
set o ff for L o n g Island.
T h irty — the prom ise o f loneliness in front o f m e. A th in n in g
list o f u n m a rrie d friends, th in n in g hair. B ut there was Jordan
beside m e, w h o was w iser th a n Daisy. As we drove, h er pale face
fell lazily against m y shoulder.
So w e drove o n th ro u g h th e falling darkness tow ards death.

58
 C h a p te r 8 A c c id e n t

T h e m ain w itness to the accident was the y o ung G reek,

M ichaelis, w h o ran the cafe beside th e ash piles. H e to ld his story
later, at th e inquiry.
Som e tim e after five he had w an d ered over to the garage and
found G eo rg e W ilson sick in his office — really sick, pale as his
ow n pale hair and shaking all over. M ichaelis advised h im to go
to bed, b u t he refu sed .T h en they heard a v io len t noise upstairs.
i ’ve g o t m y w ife locked in up there,’ explained W ilson. ‘S he’s
going to stay th ere u ntil the day after tom orrow , and th e n w e ’re
going to m ove away.’
M ichaelis was astonished; they h ad b een neig h b o urs for four
years, and W ilson did n o t seem th e k in d o f m an w h o had the
strength to do such a thing. So naturally M ichaelis tried to find
o u t w h at had happ en ed . B u t W ilson w o u ld n ’t say a w ord -
instead he began to q uestion his visitor as if he suspected him ,
asking him w h a t h e ’d b een d o in g at certain tim es o n certain days.
M ichaelis w en t back to his cafe.
W h e n he cam e o u t again aro u n d seven he heard M rs W ilson’s
voice, lo u d and angry, in the garage. A m o m e n t later she rushed
o u t in to th e road, w aving h er hands and shouting.
T h e ‘d eath car’, as the new spapers called it, d id n ’t stop; it cam e
o u t o f th e g ro w in g darkness, slow ed d o w n for a m o m en t, and
th e n disappeared aro u n d th e n e x t b en d . T h e o th e r car, th e one
going to N e w York, stopped a h u n d re d yards fu rth e r on, and its
driver h u rrie d back to w h ere M y rtle W ilso n lay in the road, h er
thick, dark b lo o d m ixing w ith the dust.

W e saw th e cars and the crow ds w h e n w e w ere still som e

distance from th e garage. ‘A crash!’ said T om . ‘W e’ll take a look.’
H e stopped th e car, and w e got out. W e saw th e serious faces o f

59
the people at th e garage door, and w e could hear a strange
groanin g sound co m in g from inside.
‘T h e re ’s som e bad trouble here,’ said T om excitedly.
H e lo o k ed over a circle o f heads in to the garage. T h e n he m ade
a rough sound in his throat and w ith a v iolent m o v em ent pushed
his way through. Jordan and I follow ed w h e n w e w ere able to.
M yrtle W ilso n ’s b o d y lay o n a w o rk table by the wall, and Tom
was b en d in g over it. N e x t to him sto o d a policem an, taking
d o w n nam es in a little b o o k . T h e g roaning sound was com ing
from W ilson, w h o was standing in th e doorw ay o f his office,
rocking backw ards and forw ards and m aking his high, terrible
call: ‘O h , m y God! O h , m y G od! O h , m y G o d !’
Tom tu rn e d to the policem an.
‘W h a t happened? T h a t’s w h a t I w an t to know.’
‘C ar h it her. K illed im m ediately. She ran o u t in to th e road.
D riv er d id n ’t even stop his car.’
‘It was a yellow car,’ said a m an. ‘Big, yellow car.’
W ilson seem ed to hear this. ‘You d o n ’t have to tell m e w hat
k in d o f car it was. I k n o w w h a t k in d o f car it was!’
T om w alked over to W ilso n and p u t his hands o n his arms.
‘Listen. I ju s t got here, from N e w York. I was b rin g in g you my
car. T h a t yellow car I was d riv in g this aftern o o n w asn’t m ine —do
you hear?’ H e picked up W ilson, carried him in to the office and
set h im d o w n in a chair.
‘L et’s get o u t,’ he w hispered to m e, and we p u shed o u r way
th ro u g h th e crow d and o u t to th e car.
As th e car raced th ro u g h th e night, I heard a low sound and
saw that th e tears w ere flow ing dow n T o m ’s face.
‘H e d id n ’t even stop his car,’ he said.

Suddenly w e w ere outside th e B u ch an an s’ house.

‘D aisy’s here,’ said T om , lo o k in g up at tw o lig h ted w indow s.

60
T h e n he tu rn e d to m e. ‘I o u g h t to have d ropped you in W est
Egg, N ick . I’ll telep h o n e for a taxi to take you hom e. You and
Jordan can go in to the k itch en and th e servants will get you som e
supper - if you w an t any.’
‘N o , thanks. B u t I’d be glad if y o u ’d o rd er th e taxi.’
Jordan p u t h e r h an d on m y arm . ‘W o n ’t you com e in, N ick?
It’s only h alf past nine.’
‘N o , thanks.’ I was feeling a little sick and I w anted to be alone.
I’d had en o u g h o f all o f th em for o n e day, and suddenly that
included Jo rd an too. She m ust have seen so m eth in g o f this in m y
expression, for she tu rn e d sharply away and ran up the steps. I
began w alking d o w n th e drive.
A m o m e n t later I heard m y nam e, and Gatsby stepped from
betw een tw o bushes.
‘W h a t are you d oing?’ I inquired.
‘Just standing here, old sport.’ A fter a m in u te he asked, ‘D id
you see any trouble o n th e road?’
‘Yes.’
H e p au se d .‘Was she killed?’
‘Yes.’
‘I th o u g h t so; I to ld Daisy I th o u g h t so. It’s b e tter that the
shock should all co m e at once. She to o k it quite well.’ H e spoke
as if the effect o f th e accident o n D aisy was th e only th in g that
m attered.
‘I g o t to W est E gg by a side road,’ he w en t o n ,‘and left the car
in m y garage. I d o n ’t th in k anybody saw us.’
I felt so ang ry w ith him , I d id n ’t tell him he was w rong.
‘W h o was th e w o m an ?’ he inquired.
‘H e r nam e was W ilson. H e r h u sband ow ns the garage. H o w
ever did it h ap p en ?’
‘W ell, I trie d to tu rn th e w h e e l- ’ H e stopped, and suddenly I
guessed at the tru th .
‘Was Daisy d riving?’

61
 ‘Yes,’ h e said after a m o m e n t. ‘B u t o f course I ’ll say I was. You
see, w h e n w e left N e w York she was very upset, and she th o u g h t
it w o u ld help h e r to drive. T his w o m an rushed o u t at us ju st as
w e w ere passing a car co m in g the o th e r way. It seem ed to m e that
she w an ted to speak to us - th at she th o u g h t w e w ere som ebody
she knew. W ell, first D aisy tu rn e d away from th e w o m a n towards
th e o th e r car, th e n she was afraid and tu rn e d back. I felt the
shock as we h it her. I trie d to m ake D aisy stop, b u t she co u ld n ’t.
‘S h e’ll be all rig h t tom orrow ,’ he w e n t on. ‘I’m ju st going to
w ait here in case T om tries to h u rt her.’
‘H e w o n ’t to u ch her. H e ’s n o t th in k in g a b o u t her. H o w long
are you goin g to w ait?’
‘All nig h t, if necessary. W ell, u n til they go to bed.’
I lo o k e d at th e house; th ere w ere tw o o r three lighted
w indow s dow nstairs. ‘You w ait here,’ I said. ‘I’ll see if th e re ’s any
sign o f trouble.’
I w alked silently over th e law n to th e k itch en w indow .
D aisy and T om w ere sitting opposite each o th e r at the k itch en
table, w ith a plate o f cold chicken b etw een th em , and tw o bottles
o f beer. T om was talking, and from tim e to tim e D aisy m oved her
head in agreem ent. T h e y w e re n ’t happy, and they h a d n ’t to u ch e d
the foo d and d rin k — and yet they w e re n ’t unhap p y either. T hey
looked as if they w ere p lan n in g so m eth in g together.
As I w e n t back to Gatsby, I heard m y taxi arriving.
‘It’s all q u iet up there. C o m e h o m e and get som e sleep.’
‘N o , I w an t to w ait here u n til D aisy goes to bed. G o o d night,
old sport.’ H e tu rn e d to lo o k eagerly at th e house.
So I w alked away and left h im standing there in the m o o n lig h t
—w atch in g over n o th in g .

62
 C h a p te r 9 M u rd e r

I hardly slept all n ight. A ro u n d fo u r I heard a taxi go up Gatsby s

drive, and im m ediately I ju m p e d o u t o f b ed and began to dress. I
felt 1 had so m eth in g to tell him , so m eth in g to w arn h im about,
and m o rn in g w o u ld be to o late.
C rossing his law n, I saw th at his front d o o r was still open. H e
was in the hall, lean in g heavily o n a table.
‘N o th in g h ap p en ed ,’ he said. ‘I w aited, and at last she cam e to
the w in d o w and stood there for a m in u te and th e n tu rn e d o u t
th e light.’
H e w anted a cigarette, and w e b egan h u n tin g th rough the
great room s for th e cigarette box. T h a t n ig h t his house seem ed to
m e m ore e n o rm o u s th an ever - and strangely dusty, as if no one
was living there. T h e re w ere only tw o old cigarettes left in the
box. We th rew o p e n the sittin g -ro o m w indow s and sat sm oking
o u t in to th e darkness.
‘You o u g h t to go away,’ I said. ‘T h e y ’re sure to find y o u r
car.’
‘G o away now, old sport?’
H e w o u ld n ’t consider it. H e c o u ld n ’t possibly leave Daisy until
he kn ew w h at she was goin g to do. H e was han g in g o n to som e
last h ope th at she m ig h t leave Tom , and I c o u ld n ’t bear to tell h im
there was no lo n g e r any hope.
It was this n ig h t that he told m e th e strange story o f his y o u th
w ith D an C o d y H e to ld m e because ‘Jay G atsby’ had b roken up
like glass against T o m ’s hardness, and d id n ’t exist any m ore - the
long gam e was over.
H e w an ted to talk ab o u t Daisy. She was th e first ‘n ic e ’ girl he
had ever k n o w n . H e fo u n d h e r excitingly desirable. H e w e n t to
h e r house, at first w ith o th e r officers from the arm y camp, th en
alone. It astonished h im — he had never b een in such a beautiful

63
house before. A n d because D aisy lived there, it h ad a feeling o f
m ystery a b o u t it.
B u t h e k n ew that he was in D aisy’s house by accident. She
k n ew n o th in g ab o u t him . H e had let h er believe that he was
from th e same sort o f b ack g ro u n d as herself - th a t he was fully
able to take care o f her. H e d id n ’t tell h er th at he had no
com fortable fam ily standing b e h in d him . H e m ig h t have a golden
future as Jay Gatsby, b u t at present he was a penniless you n g m an
w ith o u t a past. His soldier’s u n ifo rm p ro tected him , b u t w h e n he
lost that, h e w ould be a nobody. So he m ade the m ost o f his time.
H e to o k w h a t he could get — and in th e end he to o k Daisy, one
quiet O c to b e r night.
H e had in ten d ed , probably, to take w h at he cou ld and go - b u t
n o w he fo u n d th at he co u ld n o t pull h im self away from Daisy.
H e k n e w th at Daisy was extraordinary, b u t he d id n ’t realize ju st
h o w extraordinary a ‘n ic e ’ girl could be. She disappeared that
n ig h t in to h e r rich house, in to h er rich , full life, leaving Gatsby —
no th in g . H e felt m a rrie d to her, that was all.

‘I can ’t tell you ho w surprised I was to find o u t I loved her, old

sport. 1 even h o p ed for a w h ile that she w o u ld th ro w m e over,
b u t she d id n ’t, because she was in love w ith m e too. She th o u g h t
1 kn ew a lot because I k n e w different things from her. Well, there
I was, g o in g in quite th e w ro n g directio n to succeed in m y plans
for m y life. I was g ettin g d eep er in love every m in u te, and all o f a
sudden I d id n ’t care ab o u t m y plans. W h at was th e use o f doing
great things if I could have a b e tte r tim e telling h e r w h at I was
g o ing to do?’
O n th e last aftern o o n before he w en t abroad, he sat silently
w ith D aisy in his arm s for a lo n g tim e. It was a cold fall day, w ith
a fire in the room . N o w and th e n she m oved and he changed the

64
position o f his a rm a little, and on ce he kissed h er dark, shining
hair. T h e afte rn o o n had m ade th em calm, as if to give th e m a
deep m e m o ry for the lo n g separation th at was to com e. T h ey had
never b een closer in th eir m o n th o f love.

H e did surprisingly well in the war. H e was m ade a captain even

before he w e n t to fight in France, and follow ing the A rgonne
battles he was p u t in co m m an d o f his unit. A fter the w ar was over
he trie d hard to get ho m e, b u t for som e reason he was sent to
O xford instead. H e was w o rrie d n o w by D aisy’s letters. She
d id n ’t see w hy he c o u ld n ’t com e. She w an ted to see h im and feel
him beside her, to be sure that she was d o in g the rig h t thing.
For D aisy was young, and she was feeling the pressure o f the
w orld aro u n d her, w h ere h e r friends danced all night. She began
to m ove again w ith the season; suddenly she was accepting lots o f
invitations from lots o f different m en. A nd all th e tim e som ething
inside h e r was crying for a decision. She w anted h er life shaped
now, im m ediately — and the decision m ust be m ade by som e
force that was close at hand.
T h at force to o k shape in the m iddle o f spring w ith the arrival
o f Tom B u c h a n a n .T h e re was a solidness a b o u t his person and his
position, and D aisy decided to p u t h e r future in his hands. T h e
letter a n n o u n c in g h e r en g ag em en t reached Gatsby w hile he was
still at O xford.

It was g ettin g light n o w o n L o n g Island and we w en t around

o p en in g the rest o f the w indow s dow nstairs.
‘I d o n ’t th in k she ever loved him .’ G atsby tu rn e d around from
a w indow . ‘She was very excited this a ftern o o n - she hardly k n ew
w h at she was saying.’

65
 H e sat d o w n w ith a lo o k o f hopelessness.
‘O f course, she m ig h t have loved h im for ju st a m inute, w h e n
they w ere first m a rrie d — and loved m e m ore even th en , do you
see?’
H e h ad com e back from France w h e n Tom and Daisy w ere
still o n th e ir w ed d in g trip, and m ade a m iserable jo u rn e y to
Louisville o n th e last o f his arm y pay. H e stayed th ere a w eek,
w alking th e streets w h ere they had w alked together. W h e n he left
on the bus, he was penniless.
It was nin e o ’clock w h e n w e finished breakfast and w en t o u t
on the porch . T h e n ig h t h ad m ade a sharp difference to the
w eather, and there was a to u c h o f au tu m n in th e air. T h e
gardener, th e last o n e o f G atsby’s fo rm e r servants, cam e to the
foot o f th e steps.
‘I’m g o in g to em p ty th e p o o l today, M r Gatsby. Leaves’ll start
falling soon, and th e re ’ll be trouble w ith th e pipes.’
‘D o n ’t do it today,’ Gatsby said. H e tu rn e d to m e. ‘You know,
old sport, I ’ve never used that p o o l all sum m er.’
I lo oked at m y w atch and stood up.
‘Twelve m in u tes to m y train.’
I d id n ’t w ant to go to the city. I d id n ’t feel like w o rk, b u t it was
m ore than th at —I d id n ’t w an t to leave Gatsby. I m issed th at train,
and th e n anoth er, before I co u ld get m yself away.
‘I’ll call you up,’ I said finally. ‘A b o u t twelve.’
‘D o, old sport.’
W e w alked slowly d o w n th e steps.
‘I suppose D aisy’ll call too.’ H e lo o k ed at m e anxiously.
‘I suppose so.’
‘W ell, goodbye.’
We sh o o k hands and I set off. Just before I reached m y garden
I rem em b ered so m eth in g and tu rn e d around.
‘T h e y ’re n o good, any o f th e m !’ I sh o u ted across th e law n, and

66
I m ean t T om and Daisy, and all G atsbys fashionable ‘friends’.
‘Y ou’re w o rth th e w h o le lo t o f th e m !’
I’ve always b een glad I said that. It was th e only praise I ever
gave him , because I disapproved o f h im from b e g in n in g to end.
H e raised his h and politely, th e n his face broke in to that
w onderful, u n d erstan d in g smile o f his, as if th e tw o o f us w ere
close to g eth er in a secret w orld.
‘G oodbye,’ I called .‘I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.’

U p in th e city, I tried for a w hile to w rite o u t a lo n g list o f

figures, th e n I fell asleep in m y chair. A ro u n d m idday th e p h o n e
w oke m e. It was Jo rd an Baker, w h o often called m e up at this
hour, because it was difficult for m e to call her. Usually h e r voice
cam e over th e line as so m eth in g fresh and cool, b u t today it
seem ed sharp and dry.
i ’m g oing d o w n to S o u th am p to n this aftern o o n .’ She paused.
‘You w e re n ’t so nice to m e last night.’
T his m ade m e angry. ‘Last night, n o th in g m attered.’
Silence for a m o m e n t. T h e n :‘B u t —I w ant to see you.’
‘I w an t to see you, too.’
‘Suppose I d o n ’t go to S o u th am p to n , and m eet you in to w n
instead?’
‘N o , I d o n ’t th in k this aftern o o n .’
‘Very well.’
i t ’s im possible this aftern o o n . V arious—’
W e talked like that for a w hile, and th e n suddenly w e w eren ’t
talking any longer. I d o n ’t k n o w w h ic h o f us h u n g up, b u t I
kn o w I d id n ’t care.
I called G atsby’s house a few m in u tes later, b u t the line was
busy. I trie d fo u r tim es; finally th e o p erato r to ld m e th e line was
being kept o p en for a call from D etro it. T aking o u t m y tim etable,

67
I drew a small circle aro u n d th e 3.50 train. It was ju st twelve
o ’clock.
♦

N o w I w an t to go back a little and tell w h at h ap p en ed at the

garage after we left. T h e story was to ld later at the in q u iry by
M ichaelis, th e o w n er o f th e cafe.
All n ig h t he had stayed w ith W ilson. U n til lo n g after m id n ig h t
the garage was full o f people. T h e y left at last, and M ichaelis was
alone w ith W ilson, w h o was still ro ck in g backw ards and forw ards
and groaning. A b o u t three o ’clock he g rew quieter, and began to
talk ab ou t his wife. H e said th at a few m o n th s ago she had com e
h o m e from th e city w ith h er nose cu t and bleeding.
‘I th o u g h t th e n th ere was so m eth in g funny g o ing on. A nd
yesterday afte rn o o n I fo u n d this.’ H e o p e n e d a draw er in the desk
and pulled o u t an expensive dog collar.
‘I fo u n d this am o n g h e r things. She trie d to explain it, b u t I
could see she was lying - I k n ew th e n she had som e o th e r m an. I
to o k h er to the w indow ,’ — w ith an effort he got up and w alked
to the w in d o w and leaned w ith his face pressed against it —‘and I
said, “ G o d know s w h at y o u ’ve b een doing, everything y o u ’ve
b een doing. You m ay deceive m e, b u t you can ’t deceive G o d —
G od sees ev erything!” ’
S tanding b e h in d W ilson, M ichaelis saw w ith a shock that he
was lo o k in g at th e eyes o f D o c to r T. J. E ckleburg, pale and
en o rm o u s in the early m o rn in g light.
‘T h a t’s an advertisem ent!’ M ichaelis told him .
‘A nd th e n he killed her,’ said W ilson.
‘W h o did?’
‘T h e m an in th e yellow car - h er lover. She ran o u t to speak to
him and he w o u ld n ’t stop. H e murdered her. Well, I’m g oing to
find o u t w h o that yellow car belongs to.’

68
By six o ’clock W ilso n seem ed quiet, and M ichaelis w en t h o m e to
sleep. W h e n h e aw oke fo u r hours later and h u rrie d back to the
garage, W ilso n was gone.
T h e police w ere later able to follow his m ovem ents as far as
G ad’s H ill. H e was o n foot all th e tim e, and various people had
seen a m an o n th e road ‘acting sort o f crazy’. H e reached G ad’s
H ill at a b o u t tw elve o ’clock, and b o u g h t a sandw ich that he
d id n ’t eat. T h e n for tw o hours he disappeared from view. T h e
police supposed th at he spent that tim e g oing from garage to
garage, in q u irin g for a yellow car. B u t n o garage m an w h o had
seen him ever cam e forw ard. Perhaps h e had an easier, surer way
o f finding o u t w h a t he w an ted to know . By half past tw o he was
in W est Egg, w h ere he asked so m eo n e the way to G atsby’s house.
So by that tim e he k n ew G atsby’s nam e.

A t tw o o ’clock Gatsby p u t on his sw im suit and told the butler

that if anyone p h o n e d he should b rin g w o rd to h im at the pool.
H e w en t to th e garage for a w ater b ed that had am used his guests
du rin g th e sum m er, and the driver h elp ed him to p u m p it up.
T h e n he gave orders th at th e o p en car w asn’t to be taken o u t for
any reason —and this was strange, because th e front was dam aged
o n the rig h t side and needed repair.
Gatsby picked up the b e d and started for the pool.
N o telep h o n e message arrived, from D aisy o r anyone else. T h e
b u tler w en t w ith o u t his sleep and w aited for it until four o ’clock
— until lo n g after there was anyone to give it to. I have an idea
that Gatsby h im self d id n ’t believe it w o u ld com e, and perhaps he
no lo n g er cared.
T h e driver heard the shots — afterwards he only said th at he
h a d n ’t th o u g h t an ything m u ch a b o u t th em . N o one w e n t near
the pool u n til I arrived from the station and rushed anxiously up

69
the front steps. T h e n w e h u rrie d d o w n to the poo l, the driver,
butler, gardener and I.
T h e re w ere small waves on the w ater, and the w ater b e d w ith
its load was m oving d o w n th e pool. W e co u ld see a red line
spreading from it th ro u g h th e water.
It was as w e w ere carry in g G atsby’s b o d y tow ards the house
that the gardener saw th e b o d y o f W ilso n a little w ay o ff in the
grass. T h e d estru ctio n was com plete.

70
 C h a p te r 10 S aying G o o d b y e

Two years later I rem em b er the rest o f th at day, and th at night

and the n ex t day, only as an endless stream o f police and
p h o tograp h ers and n ew sp ap erm en in and o u t o f G atsby’s front
door. I said as little as possible myself. O n e policem an used the
w ord crazy as h e b e n t over W ilso n ’s b o d y th at afternoon; and the
new spaper reports th e n e x t day to o k up this idea.
Later, at the inquiry, M ichaelis’s story show ed that W ilson had
suspected his w ife o f having an affair w ith an o th er m an. I
th o u g h t th en th at the w h o le story m ig h t com e o u t - but
M y rtle’s sister C ath erin e, w h o m ig h t have said so m uch, d id n ’t
say a w ord. She swore that h e r sister had never seen Gatsby, that
h e r sister had b een com pletely happy w ith h e r husband, that her
sister had b een in n o trouble at all. So th e decision reached by the
in q u iry was th at M y rtle W ilson had b een accidentally killed by a
stranger; and G eo rg e W ilson, driven crazy by grief, had follow ed
th e track o f this stranger, shot h im and th e n shot him self. T h e
case was closed.
B ut all this p a rt o f it d id n ’t seem to m atter. W h at m attered was
that I fo u n d m yself o n G atsby’s side, and alone. From the
m o m e n t I te le p h o n e d new s o f the m u rd e r to W est E gg village,
every question and every in q u iry a b o u t h im was addressed to me.
A t first I was su rprised and confused; th en , as he lay in his house
and d id n ’t m ove o r b reathe o r speak, h o u r after hour, it grew on
m e that I was responsible, because n o o n e else was interested.
I called up D aisy h a lf an h o u r after w e fo u n d him . B u t she and
Tom had gone away early that aftern o o n .
‘Left no address?’
‘N o .’
‘A ny idea w h ere they are? H o w could I reach th em ?’
‘I d o n ’t know. C a n ’t say.’
I w anted to get som ebody for him . I w an ted to go in to the

71
ro o m w h e re he lay and prom ise him : ‘I’ll get so m ebody for you,
G atsby D o n ’t w orry. Just trust m e.’
I trie d to telep h o n e M ey er W olfshiem , b u t he w asn’t in. T h e n I
w en t upstairs and lo o k ed quickly th ro u g h the u n lo cked parts o f
his desk — h e ’d never told m e definitely that his parents w ere
dead. B u t there was n o th in g - only th e p icture o f D an C o d y
staring coldly d o w n from the wall.
N e x t m o rn in g I sent th e b u tle r to N e w York w ith a letter to
W olfshiem , asking h im to com e o u t o n the n ex t train. I was sure
h e ’d com e, w h e n he saw th e new spapers, ju st as I was sure th e re ’d
be a message from D aisy B u t n e ith e r a rriv e d .T h e b u tler bro u g h t
back a le tte r from W olfshiem . ‘T his has b een a terrible shock to
m e. B u t I c an n o t com e d o w n n o w as 1 am tied up in som e very
im p o rta n t business and c an n o t get m ixed up in this thing.’
W h e n the p h o n e rang th at afte rn o o n and th e o p erato r said
there was a call from C hicago, I th o u g h t this w o u ld be Daisy at
last. B ut it was a m a n ’s voice o n th e p hone.
‘T his is Slagle speaking . ..’
‘Yes?’ I d id n ’t k n o w the nam e.
‘Y oung Parke’s in trouble. T h e police got him w h e n he tried
to sell those stolen bonds — th e y ’d ju s t got a message from N e w
York giving th em the n u m b e r s - ’
‘L ook h ere!’ I in te rru p te d . ‘T his isn’t M r Gatsby. M r Gatsby s
dead.’
T h ere was a long silence, follow ed by a cry o f fear, and the
caller h u n g up suddenly.

I th in k it was on th e th ird day th at a message signed H e n ry C.

G atz arrived from a to w n in M innesota. It said only that the
sender was co m in g im m ediately.
H e came. It was G atsby’s father, a grave old m an, in a tired,
m iserable state.

72
 ‘I saw it in th e C h icago new spaper,’ he said. ‘It was all in the
new spaper. I started rig h t away.’
‘I d id n ’t k n o w h o w to reach you.’
His eyes m oved ab o u t the ro o m , seeing no th in g .
‘It was a crazy m an,’ he said.‘H e m ust have b een crazy.’
‘W ould n ’t you like som e coffee?’ I said.
‘I d o n ’t w an t anything. W h e re have they g o t Jim m y?’
I to o k h im in to the ro o m w h ere his son lay, and left h im there.
A fter a little w h ile h e cam e o u t, his m o u th o p en , and a few
tears o n his face. H e h ad reach ed an age w h e re death n o lo n g er
has th e quality o f te rrib le surprise; and w h e n he lo o k ed a ro u n d
h im n o w an d saw th e h e ig h t and b e a u ty o f th e hall and the
great room s o p e n in g o u t from it, his g r ie f began to b e m ixed
w ith pride. I h elp ed h im to a b e d ro o m upstairs, and to ld h im
th at all arran g em en ts for th e funeral h ad b e e n p u t o ff u n til he
cam e.
‘I d id n ’t k n o w w h a t y o u ’d w ant, M r G atsby—’
‘G atz is my nam e.’
‘M r Gatz. I th o u g h t you m ig h t w an t to take the b o d y back
West.’
H e shook his head. ‘Jim m y always liked it b etter d o w n East.
H e rose up to his position here. W ere y o u a frien d o f his?’
‘W e w ere close friends.’
‘H e had a big future before him , you know . If h e ’d lived, he
w o u ld have b een a great m an. H e ’d have helped build up the
country.’
‘T h a t’s true,’ I said, uncom fortably.
H e lay do w n stiffly, and was im m ediately asleep.
T h at n ig h t I had a call from K lipspringer, th e y o u ng m an w h o
had been G atsby’s house guest for so long. T h a t w o u ld be
an o th e r frien d at G atsby’s grave.
‘T h e funeral’s tom orrow ,’ I said. ‘T h re e o ’clock, here at the
house. I w ish y o u ’d tell anybody w h o ’d be interested.’ I d id n ’t

73
w ant to p u t it in th e new spapers and draw a sightseeing crow d,
so I ’d b een calling up people m y self.T h ey w ere hard to find. ‘O f
course, y o u ’ll be there yourself.’
‘W ell, I d o n ’t th in k I . . .W h a t I called up ab o u t was a pair o f
shoes I left there. C o u ld you ask th e b u tle r to send th e m on? You
see, th e y ’re tennis shoes, and I’m so rt o f helpless w ith o u t them .
M y address is—’
I d id n ’t hear his address, because I h u n g up in disgust.
T h e m o rn in g o f th e funeral I w e n t up to N e w York to see
M eyer W olfshiem . H e drew m e in to his office, rem arking that it
was a sad tim e for all o f us.
‘M y m e m o ry goes back to w h e n I first m et him ,’ he said. ‘H e
was lo o k in g for a jo b . A y o u n g officer ju st o u t o f the arm y and
covered over w ith decorations he g o t in th e war. H e was so p o o r
he had to keep o n w earin g his u n ifo rm because he co u ld n ’t buy
som e ord in ary clothes. H e h a d n ’t eaten anything for a few days.
“ C o m e and have lu n c h w ith m e,” I said. H e ate m ore th an four
dollars’ w o rth o f food in h a lf an hour.’
‘D id you start h im in business?’ I inquired.
‘Start him ! I m ade him . I raised h im o u t o f n o th in g . I saw he
was a gen tlem an ly -lo o k in g y o u n g m an, and w h e n he told m e he
was at O x fo rd I k n ew I co u ld use h im . H e did som e w o rk for a
friend o f m in e rig h t away. We w ere like that,’ - he held up tw o fat
fingers —‘always together.’
‘N o w h e ’s dead,’ I said after a m o m e n t. ‘You w ere his closest
friend, so y o u ’ll w ant to com e to his funeral this afternoon.’
‘I can ’t do it - I can ’t get m ixed u p in it,’ he said.‘W h e n a m an
gets killed, I never get m ixed up in it.’
I w e n t h o m e to W est Egg, ch anged m y clothes and w en t next
door. It was raining. I fo u n d M r G atz w alking up and dow n
excitedly in th e hall. H is p rid e in his son and in his so n ’s
possessions was continually increasing.
‘H ad y o u seen y o u r son recently?’ I asked.

74
 ‘H e cam e o u t to see m e tw o years ago, and b o u g h t m e the
house I live in now. H e was always very generous to me.’
A little before three th e m inister from the chu rch arrived, and
I began to lo o k o u t o f th e w indow s fo r o th e r cars. T h e servants
cam e in and w e all sto o d w aiting in th e hall. M r G atz spoke
anxiously o f th e rain, and I asked th e m inister to w ait for h alf an
hour. B ut it w asn’t any use. N o b o d y cam e.

After the funeral we drove to th e graveyard. M r Gatz and the

m inister and m e in one car, the servants and the postm an from
W est Egg in another. As w e w alked towards the grave, I heard a
car stop and th e n the so u n d o f som eone w alking after us. I looked
around. It was th e m an w ith the ro u n d glasses that I had found
lo oking at G atsby’s books in the library d u rin g that first party.
I’d never seen h im since then. I d o n ’t k n o w ho w he kn ew
ab o u t the funeral, o r even his nam e.
‘I c o u ld n ’t get to the house,’ he said.
‘N e ith e r could anybody else.’
‘N o! M y G od! T h ey used to go there by the hundreds!’T h e
rain po u red d o w n his th ick glasses, and he to o k th e m o ff to
w atch Gatsby b e in g low ered in to the grave.
I tried to th in k a b o u t Gatsby th e n for a m o m e n t, b u t he was
already to o far away. I co u ld only rem em ber, w ith o u t anger, that
Daisy h ad n ’t sent a message o r a flower.

I see n o w th at this has b een a story o f th e West after all - T om

and Gatsby, D aisy and Jo rd an and I, w ere all W esterners, and
perhaps w e possessed som e lack in c o m m o n w h ich m ade us
som ehow u n co m fo rtab le w ith E astern life.
A fter G atsby s d eath th e East was changed and spoilt for me.
So in O c to b e r I d ecided to com e back h om e.

75
 T h e re was o ne th in g to be d o n e before I left, because I w anted
to leave things in order. I saw Jo rd a n Baker, and talked over
and aro u n d w h at had h ap p en ed to us together, and w h at had
hap p en ed afterwards to m e. She lay q u ite still, listening, in a big
chair.
She was dressed to play golf, and I th o u g h t she looked like a
g o o d fashion p h o to g rap h . W h e n I h ad finished she told m e that
she was engaged to an o th e r m an. I d o u b te d that, th o u g h there
w ere several m en w h o w o u ld have b een eager to m arry her, b u t I
preten d ed to be surprised.
‘B u t y o u did th ro w m e over,’ said Jordan. ‘You threw m e over
o n the telephone. 1 d o n ’t care a b it a b o u t you now, b u t it was a
n ew ex perience, and I felt strange fo r a w hile.’
I got u p to say goodbye. W e sh o o k hands.
‘O h , and do you rem em ber,’ she a d d e d ,‘a conversation w e had
once ab o u t driving a car? You said a bad driver was only safe
until he m e t an o th er bad driver. W ell, I m e t a n o th er bad driver,
d id n ’t I? I m ade a w ro n g guess a b o u t you. I th o u g h t you w ere
rather an h o n est person.’
Angry, and h a lf in love w ith her, and en o rm o u sly sorry, I
tu rn e d away.

O n e a fte rn o o n late in O c to b e r I saw T om B uchanan. H e was

w alking ahead o f m e along Fifth A venue. Suddenly he saw m e
and w alked back, h o ld in g o u t his hand.
‘W h a t’s the m atter, N ick? D o you refuse to shake hands?’
‘Yes. You k n o w w h a t I th in k o f you. Tom ,’ I inquired, ‘w h at
did you say to W ilson th at a ftern o o n ?’
H e stared at m e w ith o u t a w ord, and I k n ew I had guessed
rig h t a b o u t those m issing hours. I started to tu rn away, b u t he
seized m y arm .
‘I told h im th e tru th ,’ h e said. ‘H e cam e to th e d o o r w hile w e

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w ere gettin g ready to leave. I told th e b u tler to say we w e re n ’t in,
b u t he trie d to force his w ay upstairs. H e was crazy en o u g h to kill
m e if I h a d n ’t to ld him w h o o w n ed the car. H is hand was o n a
gun in his p o c k e t—’ H e sto p p ed suddenly.‘W h a t if I did tell him ?
Gatsby deserved it. H e ran over M y rtle like y o u ’d ru n over a dog
and never even sto p p ed his car.’
T h e re was n o th in g I co u ld say. I c o u ld n ’t tell him that it w asn’t
Gatsby w h o had ru n over M yrtle, b u t Daisy.
‘A nd I had m y share o f suffering - look here, w h en I w en t to
give up that flat and saw th at dog food sitting there, I sat dow n
and cried like a baby, it was te r r ib le - ’
I c o u ld n ’t forgive h im o r like him , b u t I saw that w h at he had
d one was, to him , com p letely rig h t. It was all very careless and
confused. T h e y w ere careless p eo p le,T o m and Daisy - they broke
up things and creatures, and left o th e r p eo p le to deal w ith the
confusion, w h ile th ey re tu rn e d to th e ir m oney, o r their
carelessness, o r w h atev er it was that kep t th em together.
I shook hands w ith him ; it seem ed silly n o t to, for I felt
suddenly as th o u g h I w ere talking to a child.

G atsby’s house was still em p ty w h e n I left - th e grass on his law n

had grow n as lo n g as m ine. I spent m y Saturday nights in N e w
York because those parties o f his w ere w ith m e so clearly that I
could still hear th e m usic and the lau g h ter from his garden, and
th e cars g oing up and d o w n his drive.
O n the last nig h t, w ith all my things packed and my car sold, I
w en t over and lo o k ed at th at en o rm o u s house once m ore. O n
the w h ite steps som e boy had w ritte n a dirty w ord, w hich stood
o u t clearly in th e m o o n lig h t. I ru b b e d it o u t w ith m y shoe. T h en
I w andered d o w n to the beach and sat o n th e sand.
M ost o f th e b ig houses along the shore w ere closed now, and
there w ere hardly any lights. As th e m o o n rose hig h er th e houses

77
began to m elt away until gradually I b ecam e conscious o f the old
island here, w h ere the first D u tc h sailors had landed — a fresh,
green breast o f th e n ew w orld. T h e green trees that had m ade
way for G atsby s house h ad w hisp ered once to those sailors on
the shore; for a sh o rt m agic m o m e n t they m ust have paused, face
to face for th e last tim e in histo ry w ith a n ew w orld, the greatest
o f all h u m a n dreams.
A nd as I sat there th in k in g o f th e old, u n k n o w n w orld, I
th o u g h t o f G atsby’s w o n d e r w h e n he first picked o u t the green
light at th e en d o f D aisy’s sea wall. H e had com e a lo n g way to
this blue law n, and his dream m ust have seem ed so close that he
could hardly fail to seize it. H e did n o t k n o w th at it was already
beh in d h im , som ew here back in th at e n o rm o u s darkness beyond
the city, w h ere th e dark fields o f th e m idw est rolled o n u n d e r
the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, th e m agic prom ise o f the
future. H e d id n ’t realize th at as w e reach forw ard tow ards the
dream , it m oves ever fu rth e r away from us. W e press on, like boats
against th e cu rren t, and all th e tim e w e are carried back in to the
past.
 WORD LIST

approve (v) to believe that someone or something is acceptable

ash (n) the soft grey powder that is left after something has been
burned
astonished (adj) very surprised
bay (n) a part o f a coastline where the land curves in
bond (n) a certificate from a government or company showing that you
have lent them money
bootlegger (n) someone who makes and sells products illegally
butler (n) the most important male servant in a big house
champagne (n) a French wine that is often drunk on special occasions
civilized (adj) with highly developed laws and social customs
delicately (adv) carefully, so that no offence is given
divorce (n) the legal ending o f a marriage
drugstore (n) a shop in the US where you can buy medicines and
other goods and get drinks and snacks
engaged (adj) having agreed to marry someone
golf (n) a game in which you try to hit a small white ball into holes in
the ground
groan (v) to make a long, deep sound, usually because you are in pain
insist (v) to say something firmly
lawn (n) an area of grass that is kept cut short
miserable (adj) not at all good; unhappy
muscle (n) one o f the pieces o f flesh that join your bones together and
make your body move
polo (n) a game played on horses by two teams who hit a small ball
with long, wooden sticks
porch (n) an entrance covered by a roof, built onto a house
scandal (n) a situation or event that people think is immoral or
shocking
scorn (n) an opinion that someone or something is stupid or worthless
sideline (n) something that you do to earn money in addition to your
regular job
silk (n) soft, fine cloth made from a substance produced by a kind of
small animal
standard (n) an idea o f what is good or normal, used to compare
things
tremble (v) to shake because you are worried, afraid or excited
unfold (v) to show something gradually
unit (n) a group o f people who arc part o f a larger group
whisky (n) a strong alcoholic drink made from grain