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In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

When I was younger and more vulnerable, my father gave me some advice. I’ve been thinking about his advice ever since.

“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that not everyone has had the advantages you’ve had.”

He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

He said no more, but we’ve always communicated unusually well in our quiet way. I understood that he meant much more than he said. As a result, I tend to hold back all judgments. This habit has led many unusual people to open up to me. It has also left me at the mercy of quite a few practiced bores. An abnormal mind quickly spots this quality in a normal person and latches on to it. So in college, I was unfairly accused of being a politician because I knew the secret sorrows of wild strangers. Most of these men shared their secrets without my asking. Often, I’ve pretended to be asleep, busy, or dismissively joking when unmistakable signs warned me that a personal confession was coming. Young men’s personal confessions, or at least the words they use, are usually borrowed and spoiled by obvious omissions. Holding back judgment is an act of endless hope. I’m still a little afraid of missing something if I forget what my father snobbishly suggested and I snobbishly repeat. A sense of basic decency is handed out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

And after boasting about my tolerance, I have to admit that my tolerance has a limit. Behavior may rest on solid rock or soggy marshland. But beyond a certain point, I don’t care what that behavior rests on. When I returned from the East last autumn, I wanted the world in uniform, standing at moral attention forever. I wanted no more wild adventures that gave me privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man this book is named after, escaped my reaction. Yet Gatsby represented everything I genuinely scorn. If personality is a continuous series of successful gestures, then there was something magnificent about him. He had a heightened sensitivity to life’s promises. He seemed related to one of those complex machines that detect earthquakes ten thousand miles away. His sensitivity had nothing to do with the weak impressionability given the grand name of the “creative temperament”. Instead, he had an extraordinary gift for hope, a readiness for romance I have never found in anyone else. Nor am I likely ever to find such a readiness again. No, Gatsby turned out all right in the end. What preyed on Gatsby, the foul dust trailing behind his dreams, temporarily made me lose interest in other people’s feelings. I no longer cared about their sorrows that came to nothing or their short-lived joys.

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

My family has been prominent and well-off in this Midwestern city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and family tradition says we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch. But the actual founder of my family line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in 1851. He sent a substitute to fight in his place in the Civil War. He also started the wholesale hardware business that my father still runs today.

I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him, especially in the rather tough-looking portrait in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, exactly twenty-five years after my father. A little later, I joined that belated German migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counterattack so much that I came home restless. Instead of feeling like the warm center of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the universe’s ragged edge. So I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I figured the business could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles discussed my plans as if they were choosing a prep school for me. Finally, with very serious, hesitant faces, they said, “Well, ye-es.” Father agreed to support me financially for a year. After various delays, I came East in the spring of 1922, for good, I thought.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

The practical choice was to rent rooms in the city. But the weather was warm, and I had just left a place with wide lawns and friendly trees. So when a young man at the office suggested sharing a house in a commuter town, the idea sounded great. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow for eighty dollars a month. But at the last minute, the firm sent him to Washington, and I moved to the country alone. I had a dog, at least for a few days, until he ran away. I also had an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast. She muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

I felt lonely for a day or so. Then one morning, a man who had arrived after me stopped me on the road.

“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.

I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood.

I told him. And as I walked on, I no longer felt lonely. I was a guide, a trailblazer, one of the first settlers. Without much thought, he had made me feel free to call the neighborhood my own.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

And so the sun shone, and leaves burst from the trees, just as things grow in sped-up movies. With all this, I felt that familiar certainty that life was starting over again with the summer.

There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

For one thing, there was so much to read. And there was so much good health to draw from the fresh, life-giving air. I bought a dozen books on banking, credit, and investment securities. The books stood on my shelf in red and gold, like money fresh from the mint. They promised to reveal the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had lofty plans to read many other books besides. I had been fairly literary in college. One year I wrote a series of very serious and obvious editorials for the Yale News. And now I was going to bring all those interests back into my life. I would become once again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just a clever remark. After all, you get a much better view of life from a single window.

It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

By chance, I rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. The house was on that narrow, unruly island stretching due east of New York. Among the island’s natural curiosities are two unusual land formations. Twenty miles from the city, a pair of enormous eggs, identical in outline, jut out into Long Island Sound. Only a bay, barely worth the name, separates the eggs. The Sound is the most domesticated stretch of salt water in the Western hemisphere, a great wet barnyard. The eggs are not perfect ovals. Like the egg in the Columbus story, both are flattened at the end where they touch the ground. But their physical resemblance must be a constant source of wonder to the gulls flying overhead. For those without wings, something else is more interesting: the eggs differ in every way except shape and size.

I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.

I lived at West Egg, the, well, less fashionable of the two. Though calling it less fashionable barely captures the strange and more than slightly sinister contrast between the two places. My house stood at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound. It was squeezed between two huge properties that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand dollars a season. The house on my right was enormous by any standard. It was a faithful copy of some Hôtel de Ville, or town hall, in Normandy, with a tower on one side. The house was brand-new beneath a thin beard of young ivy. It had a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawns and gardens. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or rather, since I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion occupied by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but a small one, and nobody had bothered with it. So I had a view of the water and a partial view of my neighbor’s lawn. I also had the comforting closeness of millionaires, all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.

Across what passed for a bay, the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water. And the story of that summer really begins the evening I drove there for dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war, I spent two days with them in Chicago.

Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Her husband had several athletic achievements, including being one of the most powerful ends ever to play football at New Haven. In a way, he was a national figure. He was one of those men who excel so intensely in one narrow field at twenty-one that everything afterward feels anticlimactic. His family was enormously wealthy. Even in college, he had been criticized for spending money so freely. But now he had left Chicago and come East in a style that almost took your breath away. For example, he had brought a whole group of polo ponies down from Lake Forest. It was hard to grasp that a man of my own generation had enough money to do that.

Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

I don’t know why they came East. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason. Then they drifted restlessly from place to place, wherever rich people gathered and played polo. Daisy said over the telephone that the move was permanent, but I didn’t believe her. I couldn’t see into Daisy’s heart, but I felt Tom would keep drifting forever. He would always be searching, a little wistfully, for the intense excitement of some football game he could never relive.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.

And so, on a warm, windy evening, I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends. I hardly knew them at all. Their house was even grander than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn began at the beach and ran a quarter of a mile toward the front door. It leaped over sundials, brick paths, and gardens blazing with color. Finally, at the house, the lawn flowed up the wall in bright vines, as though carried by its own momentum. A row of French windows stretched across the front, now glowing with reflected gold. The windows stood wide open to the warm, windy afternoon. Tom Buchanan stood on the front porch in riding clothes, with his legs apart.

He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.

He had changed since his years in New Haven. Now he was a sturdy, straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a superior manner. Two bright, arrogant eyes dominated his face and made him look as though he was always leaning aggressively forward. Even the feminine elegance of his riding clothes could not hide his body’s enormous power. He seemed to fill his gleaming boots so completely that he strained the laces at the top. When his shoulder moved beneath his thin coat, you could see a thick mass of muscle shifting. His body was capable of exerting enormous force. It was a cruel body.

His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.

His rough, husky tenor voice added to the impression that he was quick to argue. His voice carried a hint of fatherly contempt, even toward people he liked. And there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.

“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.

“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is the last word,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We belonged to the same senior society at college. Although we were never close, I always felt he approved of me and wanted me to like him. His longing for my approval had a harsh, defiant quality all his own.

We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes darting around restlessly.

Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.

He turned me around by one arm and swept his broad, flat hand across the view ahead. His gesture took in a sunken Italian garden and half an acre of richly colored, strongly scented roses. It also included a snub-nosed motorboat bobbing on the tide offshore.

“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”

“It belonged to Demaine, the oil businessman.” He turned me around again, politely but abruptly. “Let’s go inside.”

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

We walked through a tall hallway into a bright, rosy room. French windows at either end seemed to connect the room only lightly to the house. The windows stood partly open, gleaming white against the fresh grass outside. The grass seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, pushing curtains in at one end and out at the other like pale flags. The curtains twisted upward toward the ceiling, which looked like a frosted wedding cake. Then the breeze rippled over the wine-colored rug, casting a shadow across it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.

The only completely still object in the room was an enormous couch. Two young women floated on it as though on an anchored balloon. Both wore white, and their dresses rippled and fluttered. It was as if the women had just been blown back inside after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments, listening to the curtains whip and snap and a wall picture groan. Then came a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows, and the wind trapped in the room died away. The curtains, the rugs, and the two young women floated slowly down to the floor.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.

The younger of the two was someone I didn’t know. She lay stretched out at her end of the sofa, completely still, with her chin raised a little. It was as if she were balancing something on her chin that could easily fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eye, she gave no sign of noticing me. In fact, I was so taken aback that I almost murmured an apology for disturbing her by coming in.

The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

The other girl, Daisy, tried to stand up. She leaned slightly forward, looking as though she was making a sincere effort. Then she gave an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and stepped into the room.

“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”

“I’m s-so happy I can’t move.”

She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)

She laughed again, as if she had said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment. She looked up into my face, promising there was no one in the world she wanted to see more. She had a way of doing that. In a murmur, she hinted that the girl balancing herself had the last name Baker. (I’ve heard people say Daisy murmured only to make people lean toward her. That criticism was beside the point and made her murmur no less charming.)

At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.

At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, and she gave me a barely noticeable nod. Then she quickly tipped her head back again. The object she was balancing had obviously wobbled a little and given her a bit of a scare. Once again, I almost apologized. Almost any display of complete self-sufficiency leaves me so awed that I feel compelled to pay tribute.

I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

I looked back at my cousin, who began asking me questions in her low, thrilling voice. Her voice drew the listener’s ear up and down, as if each sentence were music that would never play again. Her face was sad and lovely, with bright eyes and a bright, passionate mouth. But her voice held an excitement that men who had cared for her found hard to forget. There was an irresistible pull in its music, a whispered “Listen,” a promise of recent fun and excitement. And there was a promise of more fun and excitement hovering in the next hour.

I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.

I told her I had stopped in Chicago for a day on my way East. I also told her a dozen people had asked me to send her their love.

“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.

“Do they miss me?” she exclaimed with delight.

“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”

“The whole town is miserable. All the cars have their left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath. And there’s a constant wail all night along the north shore.”

“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”

“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she changed the subject: “You should see the baby.”

“I’d like to.”

“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”

“Never.”

“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”

“Well, you should see her. She’s...”

Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

Tom Buchanan had been moving restlessly around the room. He stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

“What you doing, Nick?”

“What are you doing, Nick?”

“I’m a bond man.”

“I work in the bond business.”

“Who with?”

I told him.

“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.

“Never heard of them,” he said firmly.

This annoyed me.

“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”

“You will,” I replied curtly. “You will if you stay in the East.”

“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”

“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me. He seemed to be watching for something more. “I’d be a goddamn fool to live anywhere else.”

At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.

At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” so suddenly that I jumped. It was the first word she had spoken since I entered the room. Her outburst apparently surprised her as much as me, because she yawned and stood up with quick, graceful movements.

“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”

“I’m stiff,” she complained. “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”

“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”

“Don’t look at me,” Daisy shot back. “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”

“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.”

“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just brought in from the pantry. “I’m definitely in training.”

Her host looked at her incredulously.

Her host looked at her in disbelief.

“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”

“You are!” He downed his drink as if it were just a drop at the bottom of a glass. “I don’t know how you ever get anything done.”

I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl who stood very straight. She emphasized her posture by leaning back at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey eyes, strained by the sun, met mine with the same polite curiosity. Her face was pale, charming, and dissatisfied. It occurred to me then that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”

“You live in West Egg,” she said with contempt. “I know someone there.”

“I don’t know a single—”

“I don’t know a single...”

“You must know Gatsby.”

“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”

“Gatsby?” Daisy demanded. “What Gatsby?”

Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.

Before I could reply that he was my neighbor, dinner was announced. Tom Buchanan firmly wedged his tense arm under mine and forced me out of the room. It was as though he were moving a checker to another square.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.

The two slender young women moved slowly ahead of us, their hands resting lightly on their hips. They stepped onto a rose-colored porch that opened toward the sunset. Four candles flickered on the table there in the fading breeze.

“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”

“Why candles?” Daisy protested, frowning. She pinched them out with her fingers. “In two weeks, it’ll be the longest day of the year.” She gave us all a radiant look. “Do you always look out for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always look out for the longest day of the year and then miss it.”

“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

“We should plan something,” Miss Baker said with a yawn. She sat down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”

“All right,” said Daisy. “What should we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”

Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.

Before I could answer, she fixed her eyes on her little finger with a look of awe.

“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”

“Look!” she complained. “I hurt it.”

We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.

We all looked. The knuckle was black and blue.

“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—”

“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a huge, hulking lump of a...”

“I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.”

“I hate the word ‘hulking,’” Tom said irritably, “even as a joke.”

“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.

“Big and bulky,” Daisy insisted.

Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.

Sometimes she and Miss Baker spoke at the same time, quietly, with playful remarks that never quite became chatter. Their talk was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes, free of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me. They made only a polite, pleasant effort to entertain us or let us entertain them. They knew dinner would soon be over, and a little later the evening would also end and be casually set aside. It was very different from the West, where people rushed an evening from one stage to the next toward its end. They did so with expectations that kept being disappointed, or else out of sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.

“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”

“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I admitted. I was on my second glass of red wine, which tasted like cork but was rather impressive. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”

I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.

I meant nothing in particular by my comment, but it got an unexpected response.

“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?”

“Civilization is falling apart,” Tom burst out angrily. “I’ve become terribly pessimistic about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by a man named Goddard?”

“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.

“Well, no,” I said, somewhat surprised by his tone.

“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”

“Well, it’s a fine book, and everyone should read it. The idea is that if we aren’t careful, the white race will be, will be completely overwhelmed. It’s all scientific stuff. It’s been proved.”

“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—”

“Tom’s becoming quite a deep thinker,” said Daisy, looking sad without thinking much about it. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we...”

“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”

“Well, these books are all scientific,” Tom insisted, glancing at her impatiently. “This man has figured the whole thing out. We’re the dominant race, so we have to watch out or these other races will take control.”

“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.

“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking fiercely toward the blazing sun.

“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.

“You should live in California,” Miss Baker began. But Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.

“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”

“The idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and...” After the briefest hesitation, he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “And we’ve produced all the things that make up civilization. Oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”

There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me.

There was something pitiful about his concentration. It was as if his self-satisfaction, stronger than before, was no longer enough for him. Almost immediately, the telephone rang inside, and the butler left the porch. Daisy took advantage of the brief interruption and leaned toward me.

“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”

“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered excitedly. “The secret is about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”

“That’s why I came over tonight.”

“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—”

“Well, he wasn’t always a butler. He used to polish silver for some people in New York. They had enough silver tableware for two hundred people. He had to polish the silver from morning to night, until finally the work began to affect his nose...”

“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.

“Things went from bad to worse,” Miss Baker suggested.

“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.”

“Yes. Things kept getting worse until he finally had to give up his job.”

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

For a moment, the last sunlight fell with romantic affection on her glowing face. As I listened, her voice drew me forward, breathless. Then the glow faded. Each ray of light left her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.

The butler returned and murmured something close to Tom’s ear. Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and went inside without a word. As if his absence stirred something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice warm and musical.

“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”

“I love having you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a, of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for agreement: “An absolute rose?”

This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.

That was not true. I am not even remotely like a rose. She was only making it up as she went along, but a moving warmth flowed from her. It was as if her heart were trying to reach you, hidden in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table, excused herself, and went into the house.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a quick glance, deliberately giving nothing away. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A quiet, passionate murmur could be heard in the next room. Miss Baker leaned forward without embarrassment, trying to listen. The murmur hovered on the edge of becoming clear, grew quieter, rose excitedly, and then stopped altogether.

“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began.

“This Mr. Gatsby you mentioned is my neighbor,” I began.

“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”

“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.

“Is something happening?” I asked innocently.

“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”

“You’re saying you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, genuinely surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”

“I don’t.”

“Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”

“Well,” she said hesitantly. “Tom has some woman in New York.”

“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.

“Got some woman?” I repeated without understanding.

Miss Baker nodded.

“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”

“She could at least have the decency not to call him during dinner. Don’t you think?”

Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.

Almost before I understood what she meant, a dress fluttered and leather boots crunched. Tom and Daisy were back at the table.

“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.

“It couldn’t be helped!” Daisy cried with tense cheerfulness.

She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”

She sat down, looked closely at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outside for a minute. It’s very romantic out there. There’s a bird on the lawn. I think he must be a nightingale who came over on a Cunard or White Star Line ship. He’s singing away.” Her voice became singsong: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”

“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”

“Very romantic,” he said. Then he said miserably to me: “If it’s still light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”

The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.

The telephone rang inside, startling us. As Daisy firmly shook her head at Tom, the subject of the stables vanished, along with every other subject. My memories of the last five minutes at the table are only fragments. I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly. I wanted to look everyone straight in the face, yet avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking. But I doubted even Miss Baker could completely ignore this fifth guest’s shrill, metallic insistence. She seemed to have mastered a tough skepticism. Some people might have found the situation intriguing. My own instinct was to call the police immediately.

The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.

Needless to say, the horses were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker strolled back into the library, with several feet of twilight between them. They moved as if going to keep watch beside a body that was solid and real. Meanwhile, I followed Daisy along a series of connected verandas to the front porch. I tried to look pleasantly interested and a little hard of hearing. In the porch’s deep darkness, we sat side by side on a wicker sofa.

Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.

Daisy held her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape. Her gaze slowly moved out into the soft, velvety dusk. I saw that she was overwhelmed by intense emotions. So I asked some questions about her little girl, hoping they would calm her.

“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”

“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even though we’re cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”

“I wasn’t back from the war.”

“I hadn’t returned from the war yet.”

“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”

“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve been through a very hard time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”

Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.

Apparently she had reason to be. I waited, but she didn’t say anything more. After a moment, I made a rather weak attempt to return to the subject of her daughter.

“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”

“I suppose she talks, and eats, and everything.”

“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”

“Oh, yes.” She looked at me with her mind elsewhere. “Listen, Nick. Let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”

“Very much.”

“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’

“It’ll show you how I’ve come to feel about things. Well, she was less than an hour old, and Tom was God knows where. I woke up from the anesthesia feeling completely abandoned. Right away, I asked the nurse if the baby was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, so I turned my head away and cried. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool. A beautiful little fool is the best thing a girl can be in this world.’

“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m sophisticated!”

“You see, I think everything’s terrible anyway,” she went on with certainty. “Everybody thinks so, especially the most forward-thinking people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” She looked around defiantly, her eyes flashing, rather like Tom’s, and laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated. God, I’m sophisticated!”

The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.

The moment her voice stopped, it no longer held my attention or made me believe her. I felt how fundamentally insincere her words had been. Her insincerity made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been some kind of trick to draw an emotional response from me. I waited, and sure enough, a moment later she looked at me with an unmistakable smirk on her lovely face. It was as if she had declared her membership in a rather exclusive secret society that she and Tom belonged to.

Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamplight, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.

Inside, the crimson room glowed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at opposite ends of the long couch. She read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post. Her softly murmured words had no changes in tone and blended into a soothing tune. The lamplight shone brightly on his boots and softly on her hair, yellow as autumn leaves. The light glinted along the paper as she turned a page, the slender muscles in her arms fluttering.

When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.

When we came in, she raised a hand and kept us silent for a moment.

“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue.”

“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table. “In our very next issue.”

Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.

Her body stirred as she moved her knee restlessly, and she stood up.

“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”

“Ten o’clock,” she said, apparently reading the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”

“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”

“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” Daisy explained, “over at Westchester.”

“Oh—you’re _Jor_dan Baker.”

“Oh, you’re _Jor_dan Baker.”

I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.

I now knew why her face looked familiar. I had seen her pleasing, contemptuous expression in many newspaper photos of the sporting life in Asheville, Hot Springs, and Palm Beach. I had also heard some critical, unpleasant story about her, but I had long ago forgotten the details.

“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”

“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, okay?”

“If you’ll get up.”

“If you could get up.”

“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”

“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you soon.”

“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—”

“Of course you will,” Daisy agreed. “In fact, I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of, oh, throw you two together. You know, accidentally lock you in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat. And all that sort of thing...”

“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”

“Good night,” Miss Baker called from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”

“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”

“She’s a nice girl,” Tom said after a moment. “They shouldn’t let her run around the country like this.”

“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.

“Who shouldn’t?” Daisy asked coldly.

“Her family.”

“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”

“Her only family is an aunt who’s about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of weekends out here this summer. I think being in a family home will be very good for her.”

Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.

Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment without speaking.

“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.

“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—”

“From Louisville. We spent our white girlhood together there. Our beautiful white...”

“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.

“Did you have a little heart-to-heart talk with Nick on the porch?” Tom suddenly demanded.

“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—”

“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. The topic sort of crept into our conversation, and before we knew it...”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.

I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!

I said casually that I had heard nothing at all. A few minutes later, I got up to go home. They walked me to the door and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my engine, Daisy called out firmly: “Wait!

“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”

“I forgot to ask you something important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”

“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”

“That’s right,” Tom confirmed kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”

“It’s a libel. I’m too poor.”

“That’s a false accusation. I’m too poor.”

“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”

“But we heard it,” Daisy insisted. She surprised me by opening up again like a flower. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”

Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumours, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumoured into marriage.

Of course I knew what they meant, but I wasn’t even close to being engaged. Gossip had already announced my wedding, and that was one reason I had come East. You can’t stop seeing an old friend because of rumors. On the other hand, I had no intention of letting rumors push me into marriage.

Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.

Their interest touched me a little and made their wealth seem less remote. Still, I felt confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that Daisy should rush out of the house with her child in her arms. But apparently she had no intention of doing so. As for Tom, his having “had some woman in New York” was less surprising than his being depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edges of stale ideas. It was as if his strong physical sense of superiority no longer fed his demanding heart.

Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbour’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.

Deep summer had already settled on roadside tavern roofs and in front of roadside garages. New red gas pumps stood outside the garages in pools of light. When I reached my estate at West Egg, I parked the car under its shelter. I sat for a while on an abandoned lawn roller in the yard. The wind had died down, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees. The frogs made a steady organ-like sound, as the earth’s great bellows filled them with life. A moving cat’s silhouette flickered across the moonlight. As I turned my head to watch the cat, I saw that I was not alone. Fifty feet away, a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbour’s mansion. He stood with his hands in his pockets, gazing at the stars scattered like silver pepper across the sky. Something about his relaxed movements and the firm way he stood on the lawn suggested he was Mr. Gatsby himself. He seemed to have come outside to decide what share of our local heavens belonged to him.

I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.

I decided to call out to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and her mention would be enough to introduce myself. But I didn’t call out, because he suddenly gave a sign that he was happy to be alone. He stretched his arms toward the dark water in a strange way. Even from so far away, I could have sworn he was trembling. Without thinking, I glanced out toward the sea. I could make out nothing except a single green light, tiny and far away. The light might have been at the end of a dock. When I looked for Gatsby again, he had vanished, and I was alone again in the restless darkness.