I was on my way to get drunk from simple embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden.
Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passers-by.61
Hello! I cried, going toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden.
I thought you might be here, she answered absently as I came up. I remembered you lived next door to
She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that shed take care of me in a minute, and listened to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps.
Hello! they cried together. Sorry you didnt win. That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the nals the week before. The girls moved on. With Jordans golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps. A tray of cocktails oated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble62.
Do you come to these parties often? asked Jordan the girl beside her.
The last one was a month ago when I met you here, answered the girl, in a condent voice. She turned to her companion: Wasnt it for you, Lucille?
It was for Lucille, too.
I like to come, Lucille said. I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my dress on a chair, and he asked me my name and address in half a week I got a package from Croiriers63 with a new evening dress in it.
Did you keep it? asked Jordan.
Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the bust. Two hundred and sixty-ve dollars.
Theres something funny about a fellow thatll do a thing like that, said the other girl eagerly. He doesnt want any trouble with anybody.
Who doesnt? I asked.
Gatsby. Somebody told me The two girls and Jordan leaned together condentially. Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.
A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and listened eagerly.
I dont think its so much that, argued Lucille skeptically; its more that he was a German spy during the war.
I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in Germany, one of the men assured us positively.
Oh, no, said the rst girl. it couldnt be that, because he was in the American army during the war. As our credulity switched back to her64 she leaned forward with enthusiasm. You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobodys looking at him. Ill bet he killed a man.
She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked around for Gatsby.
The rst supper there would be another one after midnight was served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party. There were three married couples and Jordans escort, a persistent undergraduate who was obviously sure that sooner or later Jordan was going to be with him. This party, unlike the others, tried to stay the noble representatives65 of the East Egg and resisted the gaiety of Gatsbys guests.
Lets get out, whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and boring half an hour; this is much too polite for me.
We got up, and she explained that we were going to nd the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The bar was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldnt nd him from the top of the steps, and he wasnt on the veranda. On a chance we walked into a high Gothic library, paneled with carved English oak.
A middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed glasses, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, looking at the shelves of books. As we entered he turned around and examined Jordan from head to foot.
What do you think about that? he waved his hand toward the book-shelves. As a matter of fact theyre real. Ive checked.
The books?
He nodded.
Absolutely real have pages and everything. I thought they would be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, theyre absolutely real! Let me show you, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with a book. See! he cried triumphantly. It fooled me. Its a triumph. What realism! What do you expect?
He snatched the book from me and replaced it quickly on its shelf.
Who brought you? he asked. Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.
Jordan looked at him cheerfully, without answering.
I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt, he continued. Mrs. Claude Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. Ive been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.
Has it?
A little bit, I think. I cant tell yet. Ive only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? Theyre real. Theyre
You told us.
We shook hands with him and went back outdoors. There was dancing now in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in circles, couples holding each other fashionably, and a great number of single girls dancing individualistically. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian, and a famous contralto had sung in jazz, and happy bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. Champagne was served in glasses bigger than nger-bowls66. I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a little girl, who gave way to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two nger-bowls of champagne, and the scene had changed before my eyes into something important.
At a pause in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled.
Your face is familiar, he said, politely. Werent you in the Third Division during the War?
Why, yes. I was in the ninth machine-gun battalion.
I was in the Seventh Infantry67 until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew Id seen you somewhere before.
We talked for a moment about some wet, gray little villages in France. Evidently he lived in this neighborhood, as he told me that he had just bought a hydroplane68, and was going to try it out in the morning.
Want to go with me, old sport69? Just near the shore along the bay.
What time?
Any time you like.
I was about to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled.
Having a gay time now? she asked.
Much better. I turned again to my new acquaintance. This is an unusual party for me. I havent even seen the host. I live over there I waved my hand at the invisible fence in the distance, and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.
For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand.
Im Gatsby, he said suddenly.
What! I exclaimed. Oh, I beg your pardon.
I thought you knew, old sport. Im afraid Im not a very good host.
He smiled understandingly much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with eternal reassurance in it, that you may see four or ve times in life. It faced or seemed to face the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor.70 It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had exactly the impression of you that you hoped to make. Just at that point it disappeared and I was looking at an elegant young roughneck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate formality of speech just missed being absurd71. Some time before he introduced himself Id got a strong impression that he was picking his words with care.
Almost at the moment when Mr. Gatsby identied himself, a butler hurried toward him with the information that Chicago was calling him on the wire. He excused himself with a small bow to each of us.
If you want anything just ask for it, old sport, he told me. Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.
When he was gone I turned immediately to Jordan to assure her of my surprise. I had expected that Mr. Gatsby would be a orid and corpulent person in his middle years72.
Who is he? I asked. Do you know?
Hes just a man named Gatsby.
Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do? Well, he told me once he was an Oxford man. However, I dont believe it.
Why not?
I dont know, she insisted, I just dont think he went there.
Something in her tone reminded me of the other girls I think he killed a man, and had the effect of stimulating my curiosity. Young men didnt at least in my provincial inexperience I believed they didnt appear coolly out of nowhere and buy a palace on Long Island.
Anyhow, he gives large parties, said Jordan, changing the subject. And I like large parties. Theyre so intimate. At small parties there isnt any privacy.
The voice of the orchestra leader rang out suddenly above the garden.
Ladies and gentlemen, he cried. At the request of Mr. Gatsby we are going to play for you Mr. Vladimir Tostoff73s latest work, which attracted so much attention at Carnegie Hall74 last May. If you read the papers, you know there was a big sensation. The piece is known as Vladimir Tostoffs Jazz History of the World.
Just as the composition began my eyes fell on Gatsby, standing alone on the marble steps and looking from one group to another with approving eyes. His tanned skin was drawn attractively tight on his face and his short hair looked as though it was cut every day. I could see nothing sinister about him. When the Jazz History of the World was over, girls were putting their heads on mens shoulders in a puppyish way but no one looked at Gatsby.
I beg your pardon.
Gatsbys butler was suddenly standing beside us.
Miss Baker? he inquired. I beg your pardon, but Mr. Gatsby would like to speak to you alone.
With me? she was surprised.
Yes, madam.
She got up slowly, raising her eyebrows at me, and followed the butler toward the house. I was alone and it was almost two. For some time intriguing sounds could be heard from a long, many-windowed room; I went inside.
The large room was full of people. One of the girls in yellow was playing the piano, and a tall, red-haired young lady from a famous chorus stood beside her. She was singing. She had drunk a lot of champagne, and during the song she had decided that everything was very, very sad she was not only singing, she was crying too. The tears streamed down her cheeks. Then she threw up her hands, sank into a chair, and went off into a deep sleep.
She had a ght with a man who says hes her husband, explained a girl at my elbow.
I looked around. Most of the remaining women were now having ghts with men said to be their husbands. Even Jordans party, the quartet from East Egg, were quarreling. One of the men was talking with curious intensity to a young actress, and his wife, after trying to laugh at the situation in an indifferent way, broke down and every ve minutes appeared suddenly at his side like and hissed: You promised! into his ear.
The reluctance to go home was not conned to wayward men.75 Two sober men and their highly indignant wives were quarreling in the hall. The wives were sympathizing with each other in slightly raised voices.
Whenever he sees Im having a good time he wants to go home.
Never heard anything so selsh in my life.
Were always the rst ones to leave.
So are we.
Well, were almost the last tonight, said one of the men sheepishly. The orchestra left half an hour ago.
The dispute ended in a short struggle, and both wives were lifted, kicking, into the night.76
As I waited for my hat in the hall the door of the library opened and Jordan Baker and Gatsby came out together. Jordans party were calling impatiently to her from the porch, but she stopped for a moment to shake hands.
Ive just heard the most amazing thing, she whispered. How long were we in there?
Why, about an hour.
It was simply amazing, she repeated abstractedly. But I swore I wouldnt tell it. Please come and see me Phone book Under the name of Mrs. Sigourney Howard My aunt She was hurrying off as she talked her brown hand waved goodbye as she went outside.
Rather ashamed that on my rst appearance I had stayed so late, I joined the last of Gatsbys guests, who crowded around him. I wanted to apologize for not having known him in the garden.
Dont mention it, he told me eagerly. Dont give it another thought, old sport. And dont forget were going up in the hydroplane tomorrow morning, at nine oclock.
Then the butler, behind his shoulder:
Philadelphia wants you on the phone, sir.
All right, in a minute. Tell them Ill be right there Good night.
Good night.
Good night, old sport Good night.
But as I walked down the steps I saw that the evening was not quite over. Fifty feet from the door a dozen headlights illuminated77 a strange scene. In the ditch beside the road there was a new coupe78 without one wheel. The sharp jut of a wall was to blame for the separation of the wheel, which was now getting attention from half a dozen curious chauffeurs. However, as they had left their cars blocking the road, the beeps of other cars added to the confusion of the scene.
A man stood in the middle of the road, looking from the car to the tire and from the tire to the observers in a pleasant, puzzled way.
See! he explained. It went in the ditch.
He was so surprised, that I recognized the man it was the late customer of Gatsbys library.
How did it happen?
He shrugged his shoulders.
I know nothing whatever about mechanics, he said decisively.
But how did it happen? Did you run into the wall? Dont ask me, said Owl Eyes. I know very little about driving next to nothing. It happened, and thats all I know. I wasnt driving. Theres another man in the car.
The door of the coupe opened slowly. The crowd it was now a crowd stepped back involuntarily, and when the door had opened wide there was a ghostly pause. Then, very gradually, part by part, a pale individual stepped out.
Whas matter? he inquired calmly. Did we run out of gas?79
Look!
Half a dozen fingers pointed at the amputated wheel he stared at it for a moment. A pause. Then he remarked in a determined voice:
Wonderff tell me where theres a gasline station?80 At least a dozen men explained to him that wheel and car were no longer joined.
The beeping had reached its culmination and I turned away toward home. I glanced back once. The night was ne as before, but a sudden emptiness seemed to ow now from the windows and the great doors, giving the impression of complete loneliness to the gure of the host, who stood on the porch, his hand up in a formal gesture of farewell.