VIII

I couldn’t sleep all night; a foghorn was groaning incessantly on the

Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage,

frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive,

and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress—I felt that I

had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning

would be too late.

Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was

leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep.

“Nothing happened,” he said wanly. “I waited, and about four o’clock

she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned

out the light.”

His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when

we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside

curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of

dark wall for electric light switches—once I tumbled with a sort of

splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable

amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they

hadn’t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar

table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French

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

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

your car.”

“Go away now, old sport?”

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

He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he

knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and

I couldn’t bear to shake him free.

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

Dan Cody—told it to me because “Jay Gatsby” had broken up like glass

against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played

out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without

reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy.

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

capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with

indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly

desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from

Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him—he had never been in such a

beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless

intensity, was that Daisy lived there—it was as casual a thing to her

as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it,

a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other

bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its

corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already

in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s

shining motorcars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely

withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved

Daisy—it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all

about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still

vibrant emotions.

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

accident. However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was

at present a penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the

invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he

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

unscrupulously—eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took

her because he had no real right to touch her hand.

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

false pretences. I don’t mean that he had traded on his phantom

millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he

let her believe that he was a person from much the same strata as

herself—that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of

fact, he had no such facilities—he had no comfortable family standing

behind him, and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government

to be blown anywhere about the world.

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

imagined. He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go—but

now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a

grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn’t realize

just how extraordinary a “nice” girl could be. She vanished into her

rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby—nothing. He felt

married to her, that was all.

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

who was, somehow, betrayed. Her porch was bright with the bought

luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as

she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth. She

had caught a cold, and it made her voice huskier and more charming

than ever, and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and

mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many

clothes, and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the

hot struggles of the poor.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I can’t describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her,

old sport. I even hoped for a while that she’d throw me over, but she

didn’t, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot

because I knew different things from her … Well, there I was, way off

my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden

I didn’t care. What was the use of doing great things if I could have

a better time telling her what I was going to do?”

On the last afternoon before he went abroad, he sat with Daisy in his

arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with fire in the

room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his

arm a little, and once he kissed her dark shining hair. The afternoon

had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory

for the long parting the next day promised. They had never been closer

in their month of love, nor communicated more profoundly one with

another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder

or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were

asleep.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

He did extraordinarily well in the war. He was a captain before he

went to the front, and following the Argonne battles he got his

majority and the command of the divisional machine-guns. After the

armistice he tried frantically to get home, but some complication or

misunderstanding sent him to Oxford instead. He was worried now—there

was a quality of nervous despair in Daisy’s letters. She didn’t see

why he couldn’t come. She was feeling the pressure of the world

outside, and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her

and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all.

For Daisy was young and her artificial world was redolent of orchids

and pleasant, cheerful snobbery and orchestras which set the rhythm of

the year, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in new

tunes. All night the saxophones wailed the hopeless comment of the

“Beale Street Blues” while a hundred pairs of golden and silver

slippers shuffled the shining dust. At the grey tea hour there were

always rooms that throbbed incessantly with this low, sweet fever,

while fresh faces drifted here and there like rose petals blown by the

sad horns around the floor.

Through this twilight universe Daisy began to move again with the

season; suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with

half a dozen men, and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and

chiffon of an evening-dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor

beside her bed. And all the time something within her was crying for a

decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately—and the decision

must be made by some force—of love, of money, of unquestionable

practicality—that was close at hand.

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

Buchanan. There was a wholesome bulkiness about his person and his

position, and Daisy was flattered. Doubtless there was a certain

struggle and a certain relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was

still at Oxford.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of

the windows downstairs, filling the house with grey-turning,

gold-turning light. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew

and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a

slow, pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool,

lovely day.

“I don’t think she ever loved him.” Gatsby turned around from a window

and looked at me challengingly. “You must remember, old sport, she was

very excited this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that

frightened her—that made it look as if I was some kind of cheap

sharper. And the result was she hardly knew what she was saying.”

He sat down gloomily.

“Of course she might have loved him just for a minute, when they were

first married—and loved me more even then, do you see?”

Suddenly he came out with a curious remark.

“In any case,” he said, “it was just personal.”

What could you make of that, except to suspect some intensity in his

conception of the affair that couldn’t be measured?

He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their

wedding trip, and made a miserable but irresistible journey to

Louisville on the last of his army pay. He stayed there a week,

walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through

the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which

they had driven in her white car. Just as Daisy’s house had always

seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses, so his idea

of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded

with a melancholy beauty.

He left feeling that if he had searched harder, he might have found

her—that he was leaving her behind. The day-coach—he was penniless

now—was hot. He went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a

folding-chair, and the station slid away and the backs of unfamiliar

buildings moved by. Then out into the spring fields, where a yellow

trolley raced them for a minute with people in it who might once have

seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street.

The track curved and now it was going away from the sun, which, as it

sank lower, seemed to spread itself in benediction over the vanishing

city where she had drawn her breath. He stretched out his hand

desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of

the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too

fast now for his blurred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part

of it, the freshest and the best, forever.

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

porch. The night had made a sharp difference in the weather and there

was an autumn flavour in the air. The gardener, the last one of

Gatsby’s former servants, came to the foot of the steps.

“I’m going to drain the pool today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves’ll start

falling pretty soon, and then there’s always trouble with the pipes.”

“Don’t do it today,” Gatsby answered. He turned to me apologetically.

“You know, old sport, I’ve never used that pool all summer?”

I looked at my watch and stood up.

“Twelve minutes to my train.”

I didn’t want to go to the city. I wasn’t worth a decent stroke of

work, but it was more than that—I didn’t want to leave Gatsby. I

missed that train, and then another, before I could get myself away.

“I’ll call you up,” I said finally.

“Do, old sport.”

“I’ll call you about noon.”

We walked slowly down the steps.

“I suppose Daisy’ll call too.” He looked at me anxiously, as if he

hoped I’d corroborate this.

“I suppose so.”

“Well, goodbye.”

We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I

remembered something and turned around.

“They’re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the

whole damn bunch put together.”

I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever

gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he

nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and

understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact

all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of

colour against the white steps, and I thought of the night when I

first came to his ancestral home, three months before. The lawn and

drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his

corruption—and he had stood on those steps, concealing his

incorruptible dream, as he waved them goodbye.

I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for

that—I and the others.

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

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Up in the city, I tried for a while to list the quotations on an

interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel-chair.

Just before noon the phone woke me, and I started up with sweat

breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker; she often called me

up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between

hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other

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

as if a divot from a green golf-links had come sailing in at the

office window, but this morning it seemed harsh and dry.

“I’ve left Daisy’s house,” she said. “I’m at Hempstead, and I’m going

down to Southampton this afternoon.”

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

annoyed me, and her next remark made me rigid.

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

“How could it have mattered then?”

Silence for a moment. Then:

“However—I want to see you.”

“I want to see you, too.”

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

afternoon?”

“No—I don’t think this afternoon.”

“Very well.”

“It’s impossible this afternoon. Various—”

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

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

know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table

that day if I never talked to her again in this world.

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

tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was

being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my

timetable, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I

leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I passed the ash-heaps on the train that morning I had crossed

deliberately to the other side of the car. I supposed there’d be a

curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark

spots in the dust, and some garrulous man telling over and over what

had happened, until it became less and less real even to him and he

could tell it no longer, and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement was

forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at

the garage after we left there the night before.

They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have

broken her rule against drinking that night, for when she arrived she

was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had

already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of this, she

immediately fainted, as if that was the intolerable part of the

affair. Someone, kind or curious, took her in his car and drove her in

the wake of her sister’s body.

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

of the garage, while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on

the couch inside. For a while the door of the office was open, and

everyone who came into the garage glanced irresistibly through it.

Finally someone said it was a shame, and closed the door. Michaelis

and several other men were with him; first, four or five men, later

two or three men. Still later Michaelis had to ask the last stranger

to wait there fifteen minutes longer, while he went back to his own

place and made a pot of coffee. After that, he stayed there alone with

Wilson until dawn.

About three o’clock the quality of Wilson’s incoherent muttering

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

announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car

belonged to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago his

wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose

swollen.

But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry “Oh,

my God!” again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt

to distract him.

“How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit

still a minute, and answer my question. How long have you been

married?”

“Twelve years.”

“Ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still—I asked you a

question. Did you ever have any children?”

The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light, and

whenever Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it

sounded to him like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before.

He didn’t like to go into the garage, because the work bench was

stained where the body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably

around the office—he knew every object in it before morning—and from

time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet.

“Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you

haven’t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church

and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?”

“Don’t belong to any.”

“You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must

have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen,

George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?”

“That was a long time ago.”

The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking—for a moment

he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came

back into his faded eyes.

“Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk.

“Which drawer?”

“That drawer—that one.”

Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it

but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided

silver. It was apparently new.

“This?” he inquired, holding it up.

Wilson stared and nodded.

“I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I

knew it was something funny.”

“You mean your wife bought it?”

“She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.”

Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen

reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably

Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle,

because he began saying “Oh, my God!” again in a whisper—his comforter

left several explanations in the air.

“Then he killed her,” said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly.

“Who did?”

“I have a way of finding out.”

“You’re morbid, George,” said his friend. “This has been a strain to

you and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’d better try and sit

quiet till morning.”

“He murdered her.”

“It was an accident, George.”

Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened

slightly with the ghost of a superior “Hm!”

“I know,” he said definitely. “I’m one of these trusting fellas and I

don’t think any harm to nobody, but when I get to know a thing I know

it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him and he

wouldn’t stop.”

Michaelis had seen this too, but it hadn’t occurred to him that there

was any special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson had

been running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any

particular car.

“How could she of been like that?”

“She’s a deep one,” said Wilson, as if that answered the question.

“Ah-h-h—”

He began to rock again, and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his

hand.

“Maybe you got some friend that I could telephone for, George?”

This was a forlorn hope—he was almost sure that Wilson had no friend:

there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later

when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window,

and realized that dawn wasn’t far off. About five o’clock it was blue

enough outside to snap off the light.

Wilson’s glazed eyes turned out to the ash-heaps, where small grey

clouds took on fantastic shapes and scurried here and there in the

faint dawn wind.

“I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a long silence. “I told her she

might fool me but she couldn’t fool God. I took her to the

window”—with an effort he got up and walked to the rear window and

leaned with his face pressed against it—“and I said ‘God knows what

you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing. You may fool me, but

you can’t fool God!’ ”

Standing behind him, Michaelis saw with a shock that he was looking at

the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale and

enormous, from the dissolving night.

“God sees everything,” repeated Wilson.

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

turn away from the window and look back into the room. But Wilson

stood there a long time, his face close to the window pane, nodding

into the twilight.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

car stopping outside. It was one of the watchers of the night before

who had promised to come back, so he cooked breakfast for three, which

he and the other man ate together. Wilson was quieter now, and

Michaelis went home to sleep; when he awoke four hours later and

hurried back to the garage, Wilson was gone.

His movements—he was on foot all the time—were afterward traced to

Port Roosevelt and then to Gad’s Hill, where he bought a sandwich that

he didn’t eat, and a cup of coffee. He must have been tired and

walking slowly, for he didn’t reach Gad’s Hill until noon. Thus far

there was no difficulty in accounting for his time—there were boys who

had seen a man “acting sort of crazy,” and motorists at whom he stared

oddly from the side of the road. Then for three hours he disappeared

from view. The police, on the strength of what he said to Michaelis,

that he “had a way of finding out,” supposed that he spent that time

going from garage to garage thereabout, inquiring for a yellow car. On

the other hand, no garage man who had seen him ever came forward, and

perhaps he had an easier, surer way of finding out what he wanted to

know. By half-past two he was in West Egg, where he asked someone the

way to Gatsby’s house. So by that time he knew Gatsby’s name.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

At two o’clock Gatsby put on his bathing-suit and left word with the

butler that if anyone phoned word was to be brought to him at the

pool. He stopped at the garage for a pneumatic mattress that had

amused his guests during the summer, and the chauffeur helped him to

pump it up. Then he gave instructions that the open car wasn’t to be

taken out under any circumstances—and this was strange, because the

front right fender needed repair.

Gatsby shouldered the mattress and started for the pool. Once he

stopped and shifted it a little, and the chauffeur asked him if he

needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among

the yellowing trees.

No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep

and waited for it until four o’clock—until long after there was anyone

to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t

believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was

true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a

high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have

looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered

as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight

was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without

being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted

fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward

him through the amorphous trees.

The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the

shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything

much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house

and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that

alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a

word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried

down to the pool.

There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the

fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other.

With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden

mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that

scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental

course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves

revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red

circle in the water.

It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener

saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was

complete.