2

19 min

About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.

About halfway between West Egg and New York, the road hurriedly joins the railroad and follows it for a quarter-mile. The road does this to shy away from a certain stretch of desolate land. This is a valley of ashes, a strange farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges, hills, and grotesque gardens. Here, ashes take the shape of houses, chimneys, and rising smoke. Finally, with an almost superhuman effort, the ashes take the shape of ash-gray men. The men move like shadows through the powdery air, already crumbling. Occasionally, a line of gray railroad cars crawls along an invisible track, makes a ghastly creaking sound, and stops. Immediately, the ash-gray men swarm up with heavy spades and stir up a cloud too thick to see through. The cloud hides their mysterious work from your sight.

But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days, under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground.

But above the gray land and the bursts of bleak dust endlessly drifting over it, you notice something after a moment. You see the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and enormous. Their retinas are a yard high. They look out from no face, but instead from enormous yellow glasses resting over a nose that doesn't exist. Apparently, some eye doctor with a wild sense of humor put the eyes there to attract more patients in Queens. Then the doctor himself sank into eternal blindness, or forgot the eyes and moved away. But his painted eyes, faded a little by many days without fresh paint in sun and rain, keep brooding over the somber dumping ground.

The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and, when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute, and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress.

A small, filthy river borders the valley of ashes on one side. When the drawbridge is raised to let barges through, passengers on waiting trains can stare at the bleak scene. The wait can last as long as half an hour. Trains always stop there for at least a minute. It was because of these stops that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress.

The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular cafés with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon, and when we stopped by the ash-heaps he jumped to his feet and, taking hold of my elbow, literally forced me from the car.

Wherever he was known, people insisted that he had one. His acquaintances resented how he showed up at popular cafés with her. He would leave her at a table and stroll around, chatting with anyone he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire to meet her. But I did. One afternoon, I took the train to New York with Tom. When we stopped by the ash heaps, he jumped to his feet, grabbed my elbow, and physically forced me off the train.

“We’re getting off,” he insisted. “I want you to meet my girl.”

“We’re getting off,” he insisted. “I want you to meet my girlfriend.”

I think he’d tanked up a good deal at luncheon, and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do.

I think he’d drunk quite a lot at lunch, and he was almost violent in insisting I join him. He arrogantly assumed I had nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon.

I followed him over a low whitewashed railroad fence, and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg’s persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it, and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant, approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage—Repairs. George B. Wilson. Cars bought and sold.—and I followed Tom inside.

I followed him over a low, whitewashed railroad fence. We walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg’s unrelenting stare. The only building in sight was a small yellow-brick block on the edge of the wasteland. It was a kind of miniature Main Street serving the wasteland, with absolutely nothing beside it. One of its three shops was for rent. Another was an all-night restaurant, reached by a trail of ashes. The third was a garage: Repairs. George B. Wilson. Cars bought and sold. I followed Tom inside.

The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind, and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead, when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blond, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes.

The inside looked run-down and bare. The only car in sight was a dust-covered wreck of a Ford, crouching in a dim corner. I had begun to think this sorry excuse for a garage must be a front. Perhaps luxurious, romantic apartments were hidden upstairs. Just then, the owner himself appeared in an office doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. He was a blond man with no energy, pale and slightly handsome. When he saw us, a moist gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes.

“Hello, Wilson, old man,” said Tom, slapping him jovially on the shoulder. “How’s business?”

“Hey, Wilson, buddy,” said Tom, giving him a cheerful slap on the shoulder. “How’s business?”

“I can’t complain,” answered Wilson unconvincingly. “When are you going to sell me that car?”

“I can’t complain,” Wilson said unconvincingly. “When are you going to sell me that car?”

“Next week; I’ve got my man working on it now.”

“Next week. I’ve got my man working on it now.”

“Works pretty slow, don’t he?”

“He works pretty slowly, doesn’t he?”

“No, he doesn’t,” said Tom coldly. “And if you feel that way about it, maybe I’d better sell it somewhere else after all.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Tom said coldly. “And if you feel that way, maybe I should sell it somewhere else after all.”

“I don’t mean that,” explained Wilson quickly. “I just meant—”

“I don’t mean that,” Wilson quickly explained. “I just meant...”

His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs, and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crêpe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips, and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice:

His voice trailed off, and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, a woman’s rather full figure blocked the light from the office doorway. She was in her mid-thirties and slightly stout, but she carried her weight sensually, as some women can. Above her spotted dress of dark blue silk crepe, her face had no trace or spark of beauty. But she had an immediately noticeable vitality, as if the nerves throughout her body were constantly smoldering. She smiled slowly and walked through her husband as if he were a ghost. She shook hands with Tom, looking him straight in the eye. Then she wet her lips and, without turning around, spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice:

“Get some chairs, why don’t you, so somebody can sit down.”

“Why don’t you get some chairs so somebody can sit down?”

“Oh, sure,” agreed Wilson hurriedly, and went toward the little office, mingling immediately with the cement colour of the walls. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity—except his wife, who moved close to Tom.

“Oh, sure,” Wilson quickly agreed and walked toward the little office, immediately blending into the cement-colored walls. White, ash-like dust covered his dark suit and pale hair, just as it covered everything nearby. The only exception was his wife, who moved close to Tom.

“I want to see you,” said Tom intently. “Get on the next train.”

“I want to see you,” Tom said earnestly. “Get on the next train.”

“All right.”

“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.”

She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with two chairs from his office door.

She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson came out of his office carrying two chairs.

We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track.

We waited for her farther down the road, out of sight. It was a few days before the Fourth of July. A gray, scrawny Italian child was lining up torpedo firecrackers along the railroad track.

“Terrible place, isn’t it,” said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg.

“Terrible place, isn’t it?” Tom said, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg.

“Awful.”

“It does her good to get away.”

“Getting away is good for her.”

“Doesn’t her husband object?”

“Doesn’t her husband have a problem with that?”

“Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He’s so dumb he doesn’t know he’s alive.”

“Wilson? He thinks she’s visiting her sister in New York. He’s so stupid he doesn’t even know he’s alive.”

So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train.

So Tom Buchanan, his girl, and I went up to New York together. But not quite together, since Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another train car. Tom showed at least that much respect for the feelings of any East Eggers who might be on the train.

She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin, which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the newsstand she bought a copy of Town Tattle and a moving-picture magazine, and in the station drugstore some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-coloured with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the front glass.

She had changed into a brown patterned muslin dress. It stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her onto the platform in New York. At the newsstand she bought a copy of Town Tattle and a movie magazine. In the station drugstore she bought some cold cream and a small bottle of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn, echoing driveway, she let four taxicabs drive away before choosing a new one. The taxi was lavender with gray upholstery. In it, we slid out from the bulk of the station into the glowing sunshine. But she immediately turned sharply away from the window, leaned forward, and tapped on the glass partition in front.

“I want to get one of those dogs,” she said earnestly. “I want to get one for the apartment. They’re nice to have—a dog.”

“I want to get one of those dogs,” she said earnestly. “I want to get a dog for the apartment. Dogs are nice to have.”

We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller. In a basket swung from his neck cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed.

We backed up to a gray old man who looked absurdly like John D. Rockefeller. A dozen very young puppies of no clear breed cowered in a basket hanging from his neck.

“What kind are they?” asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as he came to the taxi-window.

“What kind are they?” Mrs. Wilson asked eagerly as he came to the taxi window.

“All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?”

“I’d like to get one of those police dogs; I don’t suppose you got that kind?”

“I’d like to get one of those police dogs. I don’t suppose you have that kind?”

The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck.

The man looked doubtfully into the basket. He thrust his hand in and pulled one out by the back of the neck, wriggling.

“That’s no police dog,” said Tom.

“That’s not a police dog,” Tom said.

“No, it’s not exactly a police dog,” said the man with disappointment in his voice. “It’s more of an Airedale.” He passed his hand over the brown washrag of a back. “Look at that coat. Some coat. That’s a dog that’ll never bother you with catching cold.”

“No, it’s not exactly a police dog,” the man said, sounding disappointed. “It’s more of an Airedale.” He ran his hand over the dog’s back, which looked like a brown washcloth. “Look at that coat. What a coat. A dog like that will never give you trouble by catching a cold.”

“I think it’s cute,” said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. “How much is it?”

“I think it’s cute,” Mrs. Wilson said enthusiastically. “How much does it cost?”

“That dog?” He looked at it admiringly. “That dog will cost you ten dollars.”

“That dog?” He looked at the dog with admiration. “That dog will cost you ten dollars.”

The Airedale—undoubtedly there was an Airedale concerned in it somewhere, though its feet were startlingly white—changed hands and settled down into Mrs. Wilson’s lap, where she fondled the weatherproof coat with rapture.

The Airedale undoubtedly had some Airedale in its ancestry, though its feet were startlingly white. The dog changed hands and settled into Mrs. Wilson’s lap, where she stroked its weatherproof coat with delight.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked delicately.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked gently.

“That dog? That dog’s a boy.”

“That dog? That dog’s a male.”

“It’s a bitch,” said Tom decisively. “Here’s your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it.”

“It’s a female dog,” Tom said firmly. “Here’s your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it.”

We drove over to Fifth Avenue, warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the summer Sunday afternoon. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a great flock of white sheep turn the corner.

We drove over to Fifth Avenue on a summer Sunday afternoon. The avenue felt warm and gentle, almost like the countryside. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a huge flock of white sheep come around the corner.

“Hold on,” I said, “I have to leave you here.”

“No you don’t,” interposed Tom quickly. “Myrtle’ll be hurt if you don’t come up to the apartment. Won’t you, Myrtle?”

“No you don’t,” Tom quickly cut in. “Myrtle will be hurt if you don’t come up to the apartment. Won’t you, Myrtle?”

“Come on,” she urged. “I’ll telephone my sister Catherine. She’s said to be very beautiful by people who ought to know.”

“Come on,” she urged. “I’ll call my sister Catherine. People who ought to know say she’s very beautiful.”

“Well, I’d like to, but—”

“Well, I’d like to, but...”

We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of apartment-houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the neighbourhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other purchases, and went haughtily in.

We went on, heading back across the Park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th Street, the cab stopped at one slice of a long white cake of apartment buildings. Mrs. Wilson glanced around the neighbourhood like a queen returning home. She gathered up her dog and her other purchases and went inside with an air of superiority.

“I’m going to have the McKees come up,” she announced as we rose in the elevator. “And, of course, I got to call up my sister, too.”

“I’m going to invite the McKees up,” she announced as we rode up in the elevator. “And, of course, I have to call my sister, too.”

The apartment was on the top floor—a small living-room, a small dining-room, a small bedroom, and a bath. The living-room was crowded to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for it, so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock. Looked at from a distance, however, the hen resolved itself into a bonnet, and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the room. Several old copies of Town Tattle lay on the table together with a copy of Simon Called Peter, and some of the small scandal magazines of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant elevator boy went for a box full of straw and some milk, to which he added on his own initiative a tin of large, hard dog biscuits—one of which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk all afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whisky from a locked bureau door.

The apartment was on the top floor, with a small living room, a small dining room, a small bedroom, and a bathroom. The living room was packed to the doors with tapestry-covered furniture far too large for the space. Moving around meant constantly stumbling over scenes of ladies on swings in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an overly enlarged photograph, apparently showing a hen sitting on a blurry rock. From a distance, however, the hen turned out to be a bonnet. The face of a stout old lady smiled down into the room. Several old copies of Town Tattle lay on the table alongside a copy of Simon Called Peter. There were also some small magazines full of Broadway scandals. Mrs. Wilson’s first concern was the dog. A reluctant elevator boy went to get a box full of straw and some milk. On his own, he added a tin of large, hard dog biscuits. One biscuit spent the whole afternoon listlessly falling apart in the saucer of milk. Meanwhile, Tom took a bottle of whisky out of a locked compartment in a chest of drawers.

I have been drunk just twice in my life, and the second time was that afternoon; so everything that happened has a dim, hazy cast over it, although until after eight o’clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom’s lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes, and I went out to buy some at the drugstore on the corner. When I came back they had both disappeared, so I sat down discreetly in the living-room and read a chapter of Simon Called Peter—either it was terrible stuff or the whisky distorted things, because it didn’t make any sense to me.

I have been drunk only twice in my life, and the second time was that afternoon. So everything that happened seems dim and hazy, although the apartment was full of cheerful sunlight until after eight o’clock. Sitting on Tom’s lap, Mrs. Wilson called several people on the telephone. Then we ran out of cigarettes, and I went to buy some at the drugstore on the corner. When I came back, Tom and Mrs. Wilson had both disappeared. So I quietly sat down in the living room and read a chapter of Simon Called Peter. Either the book was terrible or the whisky distorted things, because the chapter didn’t make any sense to me.

Just as Tom and Myrtle (after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names) reappeared, company commenced to arrive at the apartment door.

Just as Tom and Myrtle reappeared, guests began arriving at the apartment door. (After the first drink, Mrs. Wilson and I had started calling each other by our first names.)

The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty, with a solid, sticky bob of red hair, and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more rakish angle, but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary haste, and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed immoderately, repeated my question aloud, and told me she lived with a girl friend at a hotel.

The sister, Catherine, was a slim, worldly woman of about thirty. Her red hair was cut in a thick, sticky bob, and her face was powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and drawn back on at a more daring angle. But the hairs growing back along their original lines gave her face a blurred look. Whenever she moved, countless pottery bracelets slid up and down her arms, clicking constantly. She hurried in as if she owned the place and looked around at the furniture so possessively that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her, she laughed far too much, repeated my question aloud, and said she shared a hotel room with a female friend.

Mr. McKee was a pale, feminine man from the flat below. He had just shaved, for there was a white spot of lather on his cheekbone, and he was most respectful in his greeting to everyone in the room. He informed me that he was in the “artistic game,” and I gathered later that he was a photographer and had made the dim enlargement of Mrs. Wilson’s mother which hovered like an ectoplasm on the wall. His wife was shrill, languid, handsome, and horrible. She told me with pride that her husband had photographed her a hundred and twenty-seven times since they had been married.

Mr. McKee was a pale, feminine man from the apartment below. He had just shaved, as a white spot of shaving lather on his cheekbone showed. He greeted everyone in the room very respectfully. He told me he was in the “art business.” I later gathered that he was a photographer. He had made the dim, enlarged photograph of Mrs. Wilson’s mother that hovered like a ghostly substance on the wall. His wife was shrill, listless, good-looking, and horrible. She proudly told me her husband had photographed her a hundred and twenty-seven times since their marriage.

Mrs. Wilson had changed her costume some time before, and was now attired in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream-coloured chiffon, which gave out a continual rustle as she swept about the room. With the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a change. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage was converted into impressive hauteur. Her laughter, her gestures, her assertions became more violently affected moment by moment, and as she expanded the room grew smaller around her, until she seemed to be revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air.

Mrs. Wilson had changed clothes some time earlier and now wore an elaborate afternoon dress of cream-colored chiffon. The dress rustled constantly as she swept around the room. Under the dress’s influence, her personality had changed too. The intense energy that had been so striking in the garage had turned into an imposing air of superiority. Her laughter, gestures, and statements became more exaggerated and artificial by the moment. As her presence expanded, the room grew smaller around her. Finally, she seemed to spin on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air.

“My dear,” she told her sister in a high, mincing shout, “most of these fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I had a woman up here last week to look at my feet, and when she gave me the bill you’d of thought she had my appendicitis out.”

“My dear,” she told her sister in a high-pitched, affected shout, “most of these guys will cheat you every time. All they think about is money. I had a woman come up here last week to look at my feet. And when she gave me the bill, you’d have thought she’d taken out my appendix.”

“What was the name of the woman?” asked Mrs. McKee.

“What was the woman’s name?” Mrs. McKee asked.

“Mrs. Eberhardt. She goes around looking at people’s feet in their own homes.”

“Mrs. Eberhardt. She visits people in their own homes to look at their feet.”

“I like your dress,” remarked Mrs. McKee, “I think it’s adorable.”

“I like your dress,” said Mrs. McKee. “I think it’s adorable.”

Mrs. Wilson rejected the compliment by raising her eyebrow in disdain.

Mrs. Wilson dismissed the compliment by raising an eyebrow with a look of contempt.

“It’s just a crazy old thing,” she said. “I just slip it on sometimes when I don’t care what I look like.”

“It’s just a silly old thing,” she said. “I just throw it on sometimes when I don’t care how I look.”

“But it looks wonderful on you, if you know what I mean,” pursued Mrs. McKee. “If Chester could only get you in that pose I think he could make something of it.”

“But it looks wonderful on you, if you know what I mean,” Mrs. McKee continued. “If only Chester could capture that pose, I think he could make something of it.”

We all looked in silence at Mrs. Wilson, who removed a strand of hair from over her eyes and looked back at us with a brilliant smile. Mr. McKee regarded her intently with his head on one side, and then moved his hand back and forth slowly in front of his face.

We all looked silently at Mrs. Wilson. She brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes and gave us a brilliant smile. Mr. McKee studied her closely with his head tilted to one side. Then he slowly moved his hand back and forth in front of his face.

“I should change the light,” he said after a moment. “I’d like to bring out the modelling of the features. And I’d try to get hold of all the back hair.”

“I should change the lighting,” he said after a moment. “I’d like to bring out the shape of the features. And I’d try to capture all the hair at the back.”

“I wouldn’t think of changing the light,” cried Mrs. McKee. “I think it’s—”

“I wouldn’t dream of changing the light,” Mrs. McKee exclaimed. “I think the light is...”

Her husband said “Sh!” and we all looked at the subject again, whereupon Tom Buchanan yawned audibly and got to his feet.

Her husband said “Sh!” and we all looked at the subject again. Then Tom Buchanan yawned loudly and stood up.

“You McKees have something to drink,” he said. “Get some more ice and mineral water, Myrtle, before everybody goes to sleep.”

“You McKees, have something to drink,” he said. “Myrtle, get some more ice and mineral water before everybody falls asleep.”

“I told that boy about the ice.” Myrtle raised her eyebrows in despair at the shiftlessness of the lower orders. “These people! You have to keep after them all the time.”

“I told that boy about the ice.” Myrtle raised her eyebrows in despair at the laziness of the lower classes. “These people! You have to keep after them all the time.”

She looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she flounced over to the dog, kissed it with ecstasy, and swept into the kitchen, implying that a dozen chefs awaited her orders there.

She looked at me and laughed for no reason. Then she strutted over to the dog and kissed it with delight. She swept into the kitchen as if a dozen chefs were waiting there for her orders.

“I’ve done some nice things out on Long Island,” asserted Mr. McKee.

“I’ve done some nice things out on Long Island,” Mr. McKee said confidently.

Tom looked at him blankly.

Tom looked at him with a blank expression.

“Two of them we have framed downstairs.”

“We have two of them framed downstairs.”

“Two what?” demanded Tom.

“Two what?” Tom demanded.

“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”

“Two studies. I call one Montauk Point: The Gulls. I call the other Montauk Point: The Sea.”

The sister Catherine sat down beside me on the couch.

Catherine, the sister, sat down beside me on the couch.

“Do you live down on Long Island, too?” she inquired.

“Do you live on Long Island, too?” she asked.

“I live at West Egg.”

“I live in West Egg.”

“Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. At a man named Gatsby’s. Do you know him?”

“Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. It was at the home of a man named Gatsby. Do you know him?”

“I live next door to him.”

“Well, they say he’s a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm’s. That’s where all his money comes from.”

“Well, they say he’s Kaiser Wilhelm’s nephew or cousin. That family connection is where all his money comes from.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

“I’m scared of him. I’d hate to have him get anything on me.”

“I’m scared of him. I’d hate for him to find anything he could use against me.”

This absorbing information about my neighbour was interrupted by Mrs. McKee’s pointing suddenly at Catherine:

Mrs. McKee interrupted this fascinating information about my neighbor by suddenly pointing at Catherine:

“Chester, I think you could do something with her,” she broke out, but Mr. McKee only nodded in a bored way, and turned his attention to Tom.

“Chester, I think you could do something with her,” she blurted out. But Mr. McKee just nodded, looking bored, and turned his attention to Tom.

“I’d like to do more work on Long Island, if I could get the entry. All I ask is that they should give me a start.”

“I’d like to do more work on Long Island, if I could get a foot in the door. All I ask is that they give me a start.”

“Ask Myrtle,” said Tom, breaking into a short shout of laughter as Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. “She’ll give you a letter of introduction, won’t you, Myrtle?”

“Ask Myrtle,” said Tom, bursting into a short, loud laugh as Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. “She’ll write you a letter of introduction, won’t you, Myrtle?”

“Do what?” she asked, startled.

“You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can do some studies of him.” His lips moved silently for a moment as he invented, “ ‘George B. Wilson at the Gasoline Pump,’ or something like that.”

“You’ll give McKee a letter introducing him to your husband, so he can do some studies of your husband.” His lips moved silently for a moment as he came up with a title, “ ‘George B. Wilson at the Gasoline Pump,’ or something like that.”

Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear:

Catherine leaned in close and whispered in my ear:

“Neither of them can stand the person they’re married to.”

“Can’t they?”

“Can’t stand them.” She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. “What I say is, why go on living with them if they can’t stand them? If I was them I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away.”

“Can’t stand them.” She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. “What I’m saying is, why keep living with people you can’t stand? If I were them, I’d get divorced and marry each other right away.”

“Doesn’t she like Wilson either?”

The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene.

The answer was unexpected. Myrtle had overheard the question, and her response was violent and obscene.

“You see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. “It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and they don’t believe in divorce.”

“You see,” Catherine cried triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. “His wife is really the one keeping them apart. She’s Catholic, and Catholics don’t believe in divorce.”

Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie.

Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked by how elaborate the lie was.

“When they do get married,” continued Catherine, “they’re going West to live for a while until it blows over.”

“When they do get married,” Catherine continued, “they’re moving West for a while until it blows over.”

“It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.”

“Going to Europe would draw less attention.”

“Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back from Monte Carlo.”

“Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed unexpectedly. “I just got back from Monte Carlo.”

“Really.”

“Just last year. I went over there with another girl.”

“Just last year. I went there with another girl.”

“Stay long?”

“Are you staying long?”

“No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”

“No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went through Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started. But we got cheated out of all our money in two days in the private rooms. We had a terrible time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”

The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.

For a moment, the late afternoon sky bloomed in the window like the blue honey of the Mediterranean. Then Mrs. McKee’s shrill voice called me back into the room.

“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.”

“I almost made a mistake, too,” she said forcefully. “I almost married a little kike who’d been pursuing me for years. I knew he was beneath me. Everyone kept telling me: ‘Lucille, that man is way beneath you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, I would definitely have ended up marrying him.”

“Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, “at least you didn’t marry him.”

“Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding. “At least you didn’t marry him.”

“I know I didn’t.”

“Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the difference between your case and mine.”

“Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, her meaning unclear. “And that’s the difference between your situation and mine.”

“Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.”

“Why did you do it, Myrtle?” Catherine demanded. “No one forced you to.”

Myrtle considered.

Myrtle thought it over.

“I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she said finally. “I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn’t fit to lick my shoe.”

“I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she finally said. “I thought he had good manners and a proper upbringing, but he wasn’t fit to lick my shoe.”

“You were crazy about him for a while,” said Catherine.

“You were crazy about him for a while,” Catherine said.

“Crazy about him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Who said I was crazy about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that man there.”

“Crazy about him!” Myrtle cried in disbelief. “Who said I was crazy about him? I was never any crazier about him than I was about that man over there.”

She pointed suddenly at me, and everyone looked at me accusingly. I tried to show by my expression that I expected no affection.

She suddenly pointed at me, and everyone gave me an accusing look. I tried to make my face show that I expected no affection.

“The only crazy I was was when I married him. I knew right away I made a mistake. He borrowed somebody’s best suit to get married in, and never even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he was out: ‘Oh, is that your suit?’ I said. ‘This is the first I ever heard about it.’ But I gave it to him and then I lay down and cried to beat the band all afternoon.”

“The only time I was crazy was when I married him. I knew right away I’d made a mistake. He borrowed somebody’s best suit to get married in and never even told me. One day, while he was out, the man came to get his suit: ‘Oh, is that your suit?’ I said. ‘This is the first I’ve heard about it.’ But I gave him the suit. Then I lay down and cried my eyes out all afternoon.”

“She really ought to get away from him,” resumed Catherine to me. “They’ve been living over that garage for eleven years. And Tom’s the first sweetie she ever had.”

“She really should leave him,” Catherine continued, speaking to me. “They’ve been living above that garage for eleven years. And Tom’s the first lover she’s ever had.”

The bottle of whisky—a second one—was now in constant demand by all present, excepting Catherine, who “felt just as good on nothing at all.” Tom rang for the janitor and sent him for some celebrated sandwiches, which were a complete supper in themselves. I wanted to get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight, but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild, strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I saw him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.

Everyone kept reaching for the whisky bottle, now the second one, except Catherine, who “felt just as good on nothing at all.” Tom rang for the janitor and sent him to buy some famous sandwiches. The sandwiches were a full supper on their own. I wanted to leave and walk east toward the park through the gentle twilight. But every time I tried to go, I got caught up in some wild, loud argument. The argument pulled me back into my chair, as if with ropes. Yet high above the city, our row of yellow windows must have added its share of human secrets. Those secrets were there for a passing observer in the darkening streets, and I pictured him too, looking up and wondering. I was both inside and outside, at once fascinated and repelled by life's endless variety.

Myrtle pulled her chair close to mine, and suddenly her warm breath poured over me the story of her first meeting with Tom.

Myrtle pulled her chair close to mine. Suddenly, her warm breath washed over me as she told me how she first met Tom.

“It was on the two little seats facing each other that are always the last ones left on the train. I was going up to New York to see my sister and spend the night. He had on a dress suit and patent leather shoes, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, but every time he looked at me I had to pretend to be looking at the advertisement over his head. When we came into the station he was next to me, and his white shirtfront pressed against my arm, and so I told him I’d have to call a policeman, but he knew I lied. I was so excited that when I got into a taxi with him I didn’t hardly know I wasn’t getting into a subway train. All I kept thinking about, over and over, was ‘You can’t live forever; you can’t live forever.’ ”

“We were sitting in the two little seats facing each other, always the last ones left on the train. I was going up to New York to see my sister and spend the night. He was wearing a formal suit and shiny patent leather shoes, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. But every time he looked at me, I had to pretend I was looking at the advertisement above his head. When we pulled into the station, he was next to me, and his white shirt pressed against my arm. So I told him I’d have to call a policeman, but he knew I was lying. I was so excited when I got into a taxi with him, I barely realized I wasn’t boarding a subway train. All I kept thinking, over and over, was ‘You can’t live forever; you can’t live forever.’ ”

She turned to Mrs. McKee and the room rang full of her artificial laughter.

She turned to Mrs. McKee, and her fake laughter filled the room.

“My dear,” she cried, “I’m going to give you this dress as soon as I’m through with it. I’ve got to get another one tomorrow. I’m going to make a list of all the things I’ve got to get. A massage and a wave, and a collar for the dog, and one of those cute little ashtrays where you touch a spring, and a wreath with a black silk bow for mother’s grave that’ll last all summer. I got to write down a list so I won’t forget all the things I got to do.”

“My dear,” she cried, “I’m going to give you this dress as soon as I’m done with it. I have to get another one tomorrow. I’m going to make a list of all the things I need to get. A massage and a hair wave, and a collar for the dog. And one of those cute little ashtrays that work by pressing a spring. And a wreath with a black silk bow for Mother’s grave, a wreath that’ll last all summer. I have to make a list so I won’t forget all the things I need to do.”

It was nine o’clock—almost immediately afterward I looked at my watch and found it was ten. Mr. McKee was asleep on a chair with his fists clenched in his lap, like a photograph of a man of action. Taking out my handkerchief I wiped from his cheek the spot of dried lather that had worried me all the afternoon.

It was nine o’clock. Almost immediately afterward, I looked at my watch and found it was ten. Mr. McKee was asleep in a chair, his fists clenched in his lap, like a photograph of a man of action. I took out my handkerchief and wiped the spot of dried shaving cream from his cheek. The spot had bothered me all afternoon.

The little dog was sitting on the table looking with blind eyes through the smoke, and from time to time groaning faintly. People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away. Some time toward midnight Tom Buchanan and Mrs. Wilson stood face to face discussing, in impassioned voices, whether Mrs. Wilson had any right to mention Daisy’s name.

The little dog sat on the table, staring blindly through the smoke and groaning faintly from time to time. People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other. They searched for each other and found each other a few feet away. Sometime around midnight, Tom Buchanan and Mrs. Wilson stood face to face, arguing passionately. The argument was about whether Mrs. Wilson had any right to mention Daisy’s name.

“Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!” shouted Mrs. Wilson. “I’ll say it whenever I want to! Daisy! Dai—”

“Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!” shouted Mrs. Wilson. “I’ll say Daisy whenever I want to! Daisy! Dai...”

Making a short deft movement, Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his open hand.

With a short, precise movement, Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his open hand.

Then there were bloody towels upon the bathroom floor, and women’s voices scolding, and high over the confusion a long broken wail of pain. Mr. McKee awoke from his doze and started in a daze toward the door. When he had gone halfway he turned around and stared at the scene—his wife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled here and there among the crowded furniture with articles of aid, and the despairing figure on the couch, bleeding fluently, and trying to spread a copy of Town Tattle over the tapestry scenes of Versailles. Then Mr. McKee turned and continued on out the door. Taking my hat from the chandelier, I followed.

Then there were bloody towels on the bathroom floor, and women’s voices scolding. Above the confusion rose a long, broken cry of pain. Mr. McKee woke from his doze and headed toward the door in a daze. Halfway there, he turned and stared at the scene. His wife and Catherine were scolding and comforting, stumbling among the crowded furniture with things to help. The despairing figure on the couch was bleeding heavily, trying to spread a copy of Town Tattle over the tapestry scenes of Versailles. Then Mr. McKee turned and continued out the door. I took my hat from the chandelier and followed.

“Come to lunch some day,” he suggested, as we groaned down in the elevator.

“Come to lunch sometime,” he suggested, as we rode down in the groaning elevator.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Keep your hands off the lever,” snapped the elevator boy.

“Keep your hands off the lever,” snapped the elevator operator.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. McKee with dignity, “I didn’t know I was touching it.”

“Excuse me,” said Mr. McKee with dignity. “I didn’t realize I was touching it.”

“All right,” I agreed, “I’ll be glad to.”

“All right,” I agreed, “I’d be happy to.”

… I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in his hands.

… I was standing beside his bed. He was sitting up between the sheets in his underwear, holding a large portfolio in his hands.

“Beauty and the Beast… Loneliness… Old Grocery Horse… Brook’n Bridge…”

Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the Pennsylvania Station, staring at the morning Tribune, and waiting for the four o’clock train.

Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of Pennsylvania Station. I stared at the morning Tribune and waited for the four o’clock train.