3

26 min

There was music from my neighbour’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motorboats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On weekends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before.

Music came from my neighbor’s house throughout the summer nights. In his blue gardens, men and young women came and went like moths among the whispers, champagne, and stars. At high tide in the afternoon, I watched his guests dive from the tower on his raft. Others sunbathed on the hot sand of his beach. Meanwhile, his two motorboats sliced through the waters of the Sound, towing aquaplanes, boards for riding over cascades of foam. On weekends, his Rolls-Royce became a bus, carrying groups to and from the city. The trips ran from nine in the morning until long past midnight. Meanwhile, his station wagon scurried like a lively yellow bug to meet every train. And on Mondays, eight servants, including an extra gardener, worked hard all day. With mops, scrubbing brushes, hammers, and garden shears, they repaired the damage from the night before.

Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York—every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler’s thumb.

Every Friday, five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruit seller in New York. Every Monday, those same oranges and lemons left his back door as a pyramid of halves with no pulp left. A machine in the kitchen could juice two hundred oranges in half an hour. But only if a butler pressed a little button two hundred times with his thumb.

At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough coloured lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby’s enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d’oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another.

At least once every two weeks, a team of caterers arrived with several hundred feet of canvas. They brought enough colored lights to turn Gatsby’s enormous garden into a Christmas tree. Buffet tables were decorated with gleaming appetizers. Spiced baked hams crowded against salads in bright, diamond-shaped patterns, pigs made of pastry, and turkeys magically browned to dark gold. In the main hall, a bar with a real brass rail was set up. It was stocked with gins, liquors, and cordials. The cordials were so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to tell them apart.

By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing upstairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colours, and hair bobbed in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other’s names.

By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived. This is no small five-piece band, but a whole orchestra pit full of musicians. There are oboes, trombones, saxophones, viols, cornets, piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach and are now dressing upstairs. Cars from New York are parked five deep in the driveway. Already, the halls, sitting rooms, and verandas are filled with flashy primary colors and hair bobbed in strange new styles. There are shawls beyond anything Castile could dream of. The bar is in full swing, and rounds of cocktails make their way through the garden outside. Soon the air is alive with chatter and laughter, casual suggestive remarks, and introductions forgotten the moment they are made. Women who never knew each other’s names greet one another enthusiastically.

The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and colour under the constantly changing light.

The lights grow brighter as the earth swings away from the sun. Now the orchestra plays yellow cocktail music, and the chorus of voices rises a pitch. Laughter comes more easily by the minute, spilling freely, pouring out at a cheerful word. The groups shift faster, swell with new arrivals, and break apart and form again in the same breath. Already, some people are wandering, confident girls weaving among the heavier, more settled guests. For a brief, joyful moment, each girl becomes the center of a group. Then, thrilled by her triumph, she glides on through the shifting sea of faces, voices, and color. The light keeps changing overhead.

Suddenly one of these gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray’s understudy from the Follies. The party has begun.

Suddenly one of these free spirits, dressed in shimmering opal, snatches a cocktail out of the air. She downs it for courage and dances alone onto the canvas platform, moving her hands like Frisco. For a moment, everyone falls quiet. The orchestra leader obligingly changes his rhythm to suit her. Then chatter erupts as the false rumor spreads that she is Gilda Gray’s understudy from the Follies. The party has begun.

I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’s house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invited. People were not invited—they went there. They got into automobiles which bore them out to Long Island, and somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s door. Once there they were introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby, and after that they conducted themselves according to the rules of behaviour associated with an amusement park. Sometimes they came and went without having met Gatsby at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission.

I believe I was one of the few guests actually invited the first night I went to Gatsby’s house. People weren’t invited. They just went. They got into cars that took them out to Long Island, and somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s door. Once there, someone who knew Gatsby introduced them. After that, the guests behaved as people do at an amusement park. Sometimes they came and went without ever meeting Gatsby. They came for the party with an innocent eagerness that served as their ticket in.

I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in a uniform of robin’s-egg blue crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning with a surprisingly formal note from his employer: the honour would be entirely Gatsby’s, it said, if I would attend his “little party” that night. He had seen me several times, and had intended to call on me long before, but a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay Gatsby, in a majestic hand.

I had actually been invited. Early that Saturday morning, a chauffeur in a robin’s-egg blue uniform crossed my lawn. He carried a surprisingly formal note from his employer. The note said Gatsby would be honored if I attended his “little party” that night. Gatsby had seen me several times and had meant to visit me long before. But an unusual combination of circumstances had prevented him. The note was signed Jay Gatsby in grand, impressive handwriting.

Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after seven, and wandered around rather ill at ease among swirls and eddies of people I didn’t know—though here and there was a face I had noticed on the commuting train. I was immediately struck by the number of young Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a little hungry, and all talking in low, earnest voices to solid and prosperous Americans. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or insurance or automobiles. They were at least agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key.

Dressed in white flannel trousers, I went over to his lawn a little after seven. I wandered uneasily through the swirling crowd of strangers, though here and there I recognized faces from the commuter train. I immediately noticed how many young Englishmen were scattered through the crowd. All were well dressed, all looked a little hungry, and all spoke in low, earnest voices to respectable, prosperous Americans. I was sure the Englishmen were selling something: bonds, insurance, or cars. At the very least, they were painfully aware of the easy money around them. They were convinced that a few words in the right tone would make that money theirs.

As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements, that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone.

As soon as I arrived, I tried to find my host. But the two or three people I asked stared at me in amazement. They denied so strongly that they knew anything about his whereabouts that I slunk off toward the cocktail table. It was the only place in the garden where a man on his own could linger without looking aimless and alone.

I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden.

I was on my way to get wildly drunk out of sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came outside. She stood at the top of the marble steps, leaning back a little. She looked down into the garden with a mix of contempt and interest.

Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby.

Whether I was welcome or not, I needed to join someone before I started making friendly remarks to passersby.

“Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden.

“Hello!” I shouted as I walked toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden.

“I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door to—”

“I thought you might be here,” she said distractedly as I approached. “I remembered you lived next door to...”

She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps.

She held my hand without warmth, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute. Then she listened to two girls in matching yellow dresses who had stopped at the foot of the steps.

“Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.”

“Hello!” they called out together. “Sorry you didn’t win.”

That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before.

“You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”

“You don’t know who we are,” one of the girls in yellow said. “But we met you here about a month ago.”

“You’ve dyed your hair since then,” remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble.

“You’ve dyed your hair since then,” Jordan said, and I gave a start. But the girls had casually moved on, and Jordan’s remark was directed at the moon, which had appeared early. Like the supper, the moon had no doubt come out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we went down the steps and strolled around the garden. A tray of cocktails floated toward us through the twilight. We sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men. Each man was introduced to us as Mr. Mumble.

“Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her.

“Do you come to these parties often?” Jordan asked the girl beside her.

“The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?”

“The last one was where I met you,” the girl replied in a lively, confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it the same for you, Lucille?”

It was for Lucille, too.

“I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.”

“I like coming here,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. The last time I was here, I tore my dress on a chair. He asked me for my name and address. Within a week, I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening dress inside.”

“Did you keep it?” asked Jordan.

“Did you keep it?” Jordan asked.

“Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.”

“Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too loose around the bust and needed altering. It was gas-flame blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.”

“There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,” said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with _any_body.”

“There’s something strange about a guy who would do something like that,” said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with _any_body.”

“Who doesn’t?” I inquired.

“Who doesn’t?” I asked.

“Gatsby. Somebody told me—”

“Gatsby. Someone told me...”

The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially.

The two girls and Jordan leaned close together, as if sharing a secret.

“Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.”

“Someone told me they thought he once killed a man.”

A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and listened eagerly.

We all felt a thrill. The three Mr. Mumbles leaned forward and listened eagerly.

“I don’t think it’s so much that,” argued Lucille sceptically; “It’s more that he was a German spy during the war.”

“I don’t think it’s so much that,” Lucille said skeptically. “It’s more that he was a German spy during the war.”

One of the men nodded in confirmation.

One of the men nodded to confirm.

“I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in Germany,” he assured us positively.

“I heard that from a man who knew all about him. The man grew up with him in Germany,” he assured us confidently.

“Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.”

“Oh, no,” said the first girl, “that couldn’t be true, because he was in the American army during the war.” As we went back to believing her, she leaned forward eagerly. “Watch him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.”

She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this world.

She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked around for Gatsby. Even people who rarely found anything in this world worth whispering about were whispering about him. That showed how much Gatsby stirred their imaginations with mysterious possibilities.

The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gaiety.

The first supper was now being served. There would be another after midnight. Jordan invited me to join her group, gathered around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan’s date, a persistent college student who made aggressively suggestive remarks. He clearly believed that sooner or later Jordan would give in to his sexual advances, at least to some degree. Instead of wandering around, the group had stayed together with a dignified air of belonging to the same social class. They had appointed themselves representatives of the countryside’s respectable aristocracy. Here was East Egg looking down on West Egg and carefully guarding against its whole spectrum of gaiety.

“Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.”

“Let’s leave,” Jordan whispered after half an hour that somehow felt wasted and out of place. “This is much too polite for me.”

We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way.

We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host. I had never met him, she said, and not having met him was making me uneasy. The college student nodded in a cynical, sad way.

The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas.

We looked first at the crowded bar, but Gatsby wasn’t there. She couldn’t spot him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. Taking a chance, we tried an impressive-looking door and walked into a Gothic library with a high ceiling. The walls were covered in carved English oak. The whole library had probably been brought over from some ruined building overseas.

A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot.

A heavyset, middle-aged man with huge, owl-like glasses sat on the edge of a large table, somewhat drunk. He stared at the bookshelves with wavering concentration. As we entered, he spun around excitedly and looked Jordan over from head to toe.

“What do you think?” he demanded impetuously.

“What do you think?” he demanded impulsively.

“About what?”

He waved his hand toward the bookshelves.

“About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.”

“About that. Actually, you don’t need to bother checking. I checked. They’re real.”

“The books?”

He nodded.

“Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.”

“Absolutely real. They have pages and everything. I thought they’d be made of nice, sturdy cardboard. In fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and everything. Here! Let me show you.”

Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures.

Assuming we were skeptical, he rushed to the bookcases. He returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures.

“See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?”

“See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a real printed book. It fooled me. This guy’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. So thorough! So realistic! He knew when to stop, too. He didn’t cut the pages open. But what do you want? What do you expect?”

He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse.

He snatched the book from me and hurriedly put it back on its shelf. He muttered that if one brick was removed, the whole library could collapse.

“Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.”

“Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just show up? Someone brought me. Someone brought most people.”

Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering.

Jordan looked at him with an alert, cheerful expression but didn't answer.

“I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.”

“A woman named Roosevelt brought me,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now. And I thought sitting in a library might sober me up.”

“Has it?”

“A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—”

“A little, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re...”

“You told us.”

We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors.

We shook hands with him solemnly and went back outside.

There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden, while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, did a baby act in costume, and champagne was served in glasses bigger than finger-bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny drip of the banjoes on the lawn.

People were now dancing on the canvas laid out in the garden. Old men pushed young girls backward in endless, clumsy circles. Couples with superior airs held each other in awkward, fashionable poses and stayed in the corners. Many girls without partners danced alone or briefly took over the banjo or drums from the orchestra. By midnight, the merriment had grown louder. A famous tenor had sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung jazz. Between songs, people performed “stunts” all over the garden, while happy, mindless bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. Two twins who performed onstage turned out to be the girls in yellow. They dressed up as babies and performed a routine. Champagne was served in glasses bigger than finger bowls. The moon had risen higher. A triangle of silvery scales floated on the Sound, trembling slightly to the stiff, tinny dripping of banjos on the lawn.

I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl, who gave way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two finger-bowls of champagne, and the scene had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental, and profound.

I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man about my age and a rowdy young girl. The girl burst into uncontrollable laughter at the slightest excuse. I was enjoying myself now. I had drunk two finger bowls of champagne. And before my eyes, the scene had become something meaningful, elemental, and profound.

At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled.

During a quiet moment in the entertainment, the man looked at me and smiled.

“Your face is familiar,” he said politely. “Weren’t you in the First Division during the war?”

“You look familiar,” he said politely. “Weren’t you in the First Division during the war?”

“Why yes. I was in the Twenty-eighth Infantry.”

“Yes. I served in the Twenty-eighth Infantry.”

“I was in the Sixteenth until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.”

“I served in the Sixteenth until June 1918. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.”

We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little villages in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning.

We talked for a moment about some wet, gray little villages in France. Apparently he lived nearby, because he told me he had just bought a seaplane. He was going to try it out in the morning.

“Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.”

“Want to come with me, my friend? Just along the Sound, close to shore.”

“What time?”

“Any time that suits you best.”

“Any time that works best for you.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled.

I was about to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled.

“Having a gay time now?” she inquired.

“Having a good time now?” she asked.

“Much better.” I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there—” I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, “and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.”

“Much better.” I turned back to the man I’d just met. “This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there.” I waved toward the hedge, hidden from view in the distance. “And this man Gatsby sent his chauffeur over with an invitation.”

For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand.

For a moment, he looked at me as if he didn’t understand.

“I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly.

“What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”

“What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.”

“I thought you knew, my friend. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.”

He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished—and I was looking at an elegant young roughneck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate formality of speech just missed being absurd. Some time before he introduced himself I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his words with care.

He smiled with understanding, and much more than understanding. It was one of those rare smiles that seem to offer endless reassurance. You may come across a smile like that four or five times in your life. For an instant, it faced, or seemed to face, the whole eternal world. Then it focused on you with an irresistible bias in your favor. The smile understood you only as much as you wanted to be understood. It believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself. It assured you that you had made exactly the impression you hoped to make when you were at your best. At that precise moment, the smile vanished. I was looking at a stylish young tough, a year or two past thirty. His overly formal way of speaking came just short of sounding ridiculous. Some time before he introduced himself, I’d had a strong impression that he was choosing his words carefully.

Almost at the moment when Mr. Gatsby identified himself a butler hurried toward him with the information that Chicago was calling him on the wire. He excused himself with a small bow that included each of us in turn.

Almost as soon as Mr. Gatsby introduced himself, a butler hurried over to him. The butler said someone from Chicago was calling him on the phone. Gatsby excused himself with a slight bow to each of us in turn.

“If you want anything just ask for it, old sport,” he urged me. “Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.”

“If you want anything, just ask, old sport,” he urged me. “Excuse me. I’ll join you again later.”

When he was gone I turned immediately to Jordan—constrained to assure her of my surprise. I had expected that Mr. Gatsby would be a florid and corpulent person in his middle years.

When he was gone, I immediately turned to Jordan. I felt I had to assure her I was surprised. I had expected Mr. Gatsby to be a red-faced, overweight, middle-aged man.

“Who is he?” I demanded. “Do you know?”

“He’s just a man named Gatsby.”

“Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?”

“I mean, where is he from? And what does he do?”

“Now you’re started on the subject,” she answered with a wan smile. “Well, he told me once he was an Oxford man.”

“Now you’re bringing it up,” she replied with a faint smile. “Well, he once told me he went to Oxford.”

A dim background started to take shape behind him, but at her next remark it faded away.

A faint background began to take shape behind him. But when she spoke again, it faded away.

“However, I don’t believe it.”

“But I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” she insisted, “I just don’t think he went there.”

“I don’t know,” she insisted. “I just don’t think he went there.”

Something in her tone reminded me of the other girl’s “I think he killed a man,” and had the effect of stimulating my curiosity. I would have accepted without question the information that Gatsby sprang from the swamps of Louisiana or from the lower East Side of New York. That was comprehensible. But young men didn’t—at least in my provincial inexperience I believed they didn’t—drift coolly out of nowhere and buy a palace on Long Island Sound.

Something in her tone reminded me of the other girl’s “I think he killed a man,” and stirred my curiosity. I would have accepted without question that Gatsby came from the swamps of Louisiana or New York’s lower East Side. That would have made sense. But young men didn’t casually appear out of nowhere and buy a palace on Long Island Sound. At least, that was what I believed, with my limited experience of the world.

“Anyhow, he gives large parties,” said Jordan, changing the subject with an urban distaste for the concrete. “And I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.”

“Anyway, he throws big parties,” Jordan said. She changed the subject with a city dweller’s distaste for specifics. “And I like big parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.”

There was the boom of a bass drum, and the voice of the orchestra leader rang out suddenly above the echolalia of the garden.

A bass drum boomed. Then the orchestra leader’s voice suddenly rang out above the echoing chatter in the garden.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried. “At the request of Mr. Gatsby we are going to play for you Mr. Vladmir Tostoff’s latest work, which attracted so much attention at Carnegie Hall last May. If you read the papers you know there was a big sensation.” He smiled with jovial condescension, and added: “Some sensation!” Whereupon everybody laughed.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out. “At Mr. Gatsby’s request, we’re going to play Mr. Vladmir Tostoff’s latest work for you. The work drew so much attention at Carnegie Hall last May. If you read the papers, you know there was a huge stir.” He smiled with cheerful superiority and added: “Quite a stir!” At that, everybody laughed.

“The piece is known,” he concluded lustily, “as ‘Vladmir Tostoff’s Jazz History of the World!’ ”

“The piece is called,” he finished loudly and enthusiastically, “‘Vladmir Tostoff’s Jazz History of the World!’”

The nature of Mr. Tostoff’s composition eluded me, because just as it began my eyes fell on Gatsby, standing alone on the marble steps and looking from one group to another with approving eyes. His tanned skin was drawn attractively tight on his face and his short hair looked as though it were trimmed every day. I could see nothing sinister about him. I wondered if the fact that he was not drinking helped to set him off from his guests, for it seemed to me that he grew more correct as the fraternal hilarity increased. When the “Jazz History of the World” was over, girls were putting their heads on men’s shoulders in a puppyish, convivial way, girls were swooning backward playfully into men’s arms, even into groups, knowing that someone would arrest their falls—but no one swooned backward on Gatsby, and no French bob touched Gatsby’s shoulder, and no singing quartets were formed with Gatsby’s head for one link.

I missed the character of Mr. Tostoff’s composition because, just as it began, I noticed Gatsby. He stood alone on the marble steps, looking from one group to another with approval. His tanned skin stretched attractively tight across his face, and his short hair looked as though he trimmed it daily. I could see nothing sinister about him. I wondered if his not drinking helped set him apart from his guests. As the friendly merriment grew, he seemed to become more proper and reserved. When the “Jazz History of the World” ended, girls were resting their heads on men’s shoulders with playful, puppyish friendliness. Girls were playfully falling backward into men’s arms, even into groups, knowing someone would catch them. But no one fell backward into Gatsby’s arms, and no French bob haircut brushed his shoulder. And no singing quartets formed with Gatsby’s head as one link in the chain.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Excuse me.”

Gatsby’s butler was suddenly standing beside us.

Suddenly, Gatsby’s butler was standing beside us.

“Miss Baker?” he inquired. “I beg your pardon, but Mr. Gatsby would like to speak to you alone.”

“Miss Baker?” he asked. “Excuse me, but Mr. Gatsby would like to speak to you alone.”

“With me?” she exclaimed in surprise.

“With me?” she said in surprise.

“Yes, madame.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She got up slowly, raising her eyebrows at me in astonishment, and followed the butler toward the house. I noticed that she wore her evening-dress, all her dresses, like sports clothes—there was a jauntiness about her movements as if she had first learned to walk upon golf courses on clean, crisp mornings.

She stood up slowly, raising her eyebrows at me in astonishment, and followed the butler toward the house. I noticed she wore her evening dress, like all her dresses, as if it were sportswear. Her movements had a carefree bounce, as if she had first learned to walk on golf courses on clear, crisp mornings.

I was alone and it was almost two. For some time confused and intriguing sounds had issued from a long, many-windowed room which overhung the terrace. Eluding Jordan’s undergraduate, who was now engaged in an obstetrical conversation with two chorus girls, and who implored me to join him, I went inside.

I was alone, and it was almost two. For some time, jumbled, intriguing sounds had come from a long room with many windows that extended over the terrace. I slipped away from Jordan’s college student, who was now talking about childbirth with two chorus girls. He begged me to join him, but I went inside.

The large room was full of people. One of the girls in yellow was playing the piano, and beside her stood a tall, red-haired young lady from a famous chorus, engaged in song. She had drunk a quantity of champagne, and during the course of her song she had decided, ineptly, that everything was very, very sad—she was not only singing, she was weeping too. Whenever there was a pause in the song she filled it with gasping, broken sobs, and then took up the lyric again in a quavering soprano. The tears coursed down her cheeks—not freely, however, for when they came into contact with her heavily beaded eyelashes they assumed an inky colour, and pursued the rest of their way in slow black rivulets. A humorous suggestion was made that she sing the notes on her face, whereupon she threw up her hands, sank into a chair, and went off into a deep vinous sleep.

The large room was full of people. One of the girls in yellow was playing the piano. Beside her stood a tall, red-haired young woman from a famous chorus, singing. She had drunk quite a bit of champagne. During her song, she had foolishly decided that everything was very, very sad. She was not only singing but crying too. Whenever the song paused, she filled the silence with gasping, broken sobs. Then she picked up the lyrics again in a trembling soprano. Tears streamed down her cheeks, though not freely. When the tears reached her eyelashes, thickly coated with mascara, they turned an inky color. Then the tears continued slowly down her face in little black streams. Someone jokingly suggested she sing the notes on her face. At that, she threw up her hands, sank into a chair, and fell into a deep, drunken sleep.

“She had a fight with a man who says he’s her husband,” explained a girl at my elbow.

“She had a fight with a man who says he’s her husband,” explained a girl beside me.

I looked around. Most of the remaining women were now having fights with men said to be their husbands. Even Jordan’s party, the quartet from East Egg, were rent asunder by dissension. One of the men was talking with curious intensity to a young actress, and his wife, after attempting to laugh at the situation in a dignified and indifferent way, broke down entirely and resorted to flank attacks—at intervals she appeared suddenly at his side like an angry diamond, and hissed: “You promised!” into his ear.

I looked around. Most of the remaining women were now arguing with men said to be their husbands. Even Jordan’s group, the four from East Egg, had been torn apart by disagreements. One of the men was talking with an odd intensity to a young actress. His wife tried to laugh off the situation with dignity, as though she didn’t care. Then she lost control entirely and began attacking from the side. Every so often, she suddenly appeared beside him like an angry diamond and hissed into his ear: “You promised!”

The reluctance to go home was not confined to wayward men. The hall was at present occupied by two deplorably sober men and their highly indignant wives. The wives were sympathizing with each other in slightly raised voices.

Men behaving badly weren’t the only ones reluctant to go home. Two regrettably sober men and their very angry wives were now in the hall. The wives were sympathizing with each other in slightly raised voices.

“Whenever he sees I’m having a good time he wants to go home.”

“Whenever he sees I’m having fun, he wants to go home.”

“Never heard anything so selfish in my life.”

“I’ve never heard anything so selfish in my life.”

“We’re always the first ones to leave.”

“We’re always the first to leave.”

“So are we.”

“Well, we’re almost the last tonight,” said one of the men sheepishly. “The orchestra left half an hour ago.”

“Well, we’re almost the last ones here tonight,” one of the men said sheepishly. “The orchestra left half an hour ago.”

In spite of the wives’ agreement that such malevolence was beyond credibility, the dispute ended in a short struggle, and both wives were lifted, kicking, into the night.

Although the wives agreed that such cruelty was impossible to believe, the argument ended in a brief struggle. Both wives were then lifted, kicking, into the night.

As I waited for my hat in the hall the door of the library opened and Jordan Baker and Gatsby came out together. He was saying some last word to her, but the eagerness in his manner tightened abruptly into formality as several people approached him to say goodbye.

As I waited for my hat in the hall, the library door opened. Jordan Baker and Gatsby came out together. He was saying a few final words to her. But his eager manner suddenly turned formal as several people approached him to say goodbye.

Jordan’s party were calling impatiently to her from the porch, but she lingered for a moment to shake hands.

Jordan’s group was calling impatiently to her from the porch. But she stayed a moment longer to shake hands.

“I’ve just heard the most amazing thing,” she whispered. “How long were we in there?”

“I just heard the most amazing thing,” she whispered. “How long were we in there?”

“Why, about an hour.”

“Well, about an hour.”

“It was… simply amazing,” she repeated abstractedly. “But I swore I wouldn’t tell it and here I am tantalizing you.” She yawned gracefully in my face. “Please come and see me… Phone book… Under the name of Mrs. Sigourney Howard… My aunt…” She was hurrying off as she talked—her brown hand waved a jaunty salute as she melted into her party at the door.

“It was… simply amazing,” she repeated distractedly. “But I swore I wouldn’t tell it, and here I am teasing you.” She yawned gracefully in my face. “Please come and see me… Phone book… Under the name of Mrs. Sigourney Howard… My aunt…” She hurried off as she spoke. Her brown hand gave a cheerful wave as she blended into her group at the door.

Rather ashamed that on my first appearance I had stayed so late, I joined the last of Gatsby’s guests, who were clustered around him. I wanted to explain that I’d hunted for him early in the evening and to apologize for not having known him in the garden.

I felt rather ashamed that I had stayed so late on my first visit. I joined the last of Gatsby’s guests, who were gathered around him. I wanted to explain that I’d looked for him earlier in the evening. I also wanted to apologize for not recognizing him in the garden.

“Don’t mention it,” he enjoined me eagerly. “Don’t give it another thought, old sport.” The familiar expression held no more familiarity than the hand which reassuringly brushed my shoulder. “And don’t forget we’re going up in the hydroplane tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock.”

“Don’t mention it,” he urged me eagerly. “Don’t give it another thought, old sport.” The familiar phrase felt no more personal than the hand that brushed my shoulder reassuringly. “And don’t forget we’re going up in the seaplane tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock.”

Then the butler, behind his shoulder:

Then the butler spoke from behind his shoulder:

“Philadelphia wants you on the phone, sir.”

“Someone from Philadelphia wants to speak to you on the phone, sir.”

“All right, in a minute. Tell them I’ll be right there… Good night.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.” He smiled—and suddenly there seemed to be a pleasant significance in having been among the last to go, as if he had desired it all the time. “Good night, old sport… Good night.”

“Good night.” He smiled. Suddenly, being among the last to leave seemed to have a pleasant significance, as if he had wanted that all along. “Good night, old sport… Good night.”

But as I walked down the steps I saw that the evening was not quite over. Fifty feet from the door a dozen headlights illuminated a bizarre and tumultuous scene. In the ditch beside the road, right side up, but violently shorn of one wheel, rested a new coupé which had left Gatsby’s drive not two minutes before. The sharp jut of a wall accounted for the detachment of the wheel, which was now getting considerable attention from half a dozen curious chauffeurs. However, as they had left their cars blocking the road, a harsh, discordant din from those in the rear had been audible for some time, and added to the already violent confusion of the scene.

But as I walked down the steps, I saw that the evening was not quite over. Fifty feet from the door, a dozen headlights lit up a strange, chaotic scene. A new coupé sat upright in the ditch beside the road, but one wheel had been violently torn off. The car had left Gatsby’s driveway less than two minutes earlier. A sharp corner of a wall had torn off the wheel. Now half a dozen curious chauffeurs were giving the wheel considerable attention. But the chauffeurs had left their cars blocking the road. As a result, drivers farther back had been honking harshly for some time, adding to the scene’s already wild confusion.

A man in a long duster had dismounted from the wreck and now stood in the middle of the road, looking from the car to the tyre and from the tyre to the observers in a pleasant, puzzled way.

A man in a long dust coat had climbed out of the wrecked car. He now stood in the middle of the road, looking from the car to the tire, then to the onlookers. He looked pleasantly puzzled.

“See!” he explained. “It went in the ditch.”

“See!” he explained. “It went into the ditch.”

The fact was infinitely astonishing to him, and I recognized first the unusual quality of wonder, and then the man—it was the late patron of Gatsby’s library.

The fact amazed him beyond measure. First I recognized his unusual sense of wonder, and then I recognized the man himself. He was the man who had recently visited Gatsby’s library.

“How’d it happen?”

“How did it happen?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

He shrugged.

“I know nothing whatever about mechanics,” he said decisively.

“I know absolutely nothing about mechanics,” he said firmly.

“But how did it happen? Did you run into the wall?”

“But how did it happen? Did you hit the wall?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Owl Eyes, washing his hands of the whole matter. “I know very little about driving—next to nothing. It happened, and that’s all I know.”

“Don’t ask me,” said Owl Eyes, refusing to take any responsibility for the whole matter. “I know very little about driving, almost nothing. It happened, and that’s all I know.”

“Well, if you’re a poor driver you oughtn’t to try driving at night.”

“Well, if you’re a bad driver, you shouldn’t try driving at night.”

“But I wasn’t even trying,” he explained indignantly, “I wasn’t even trying.”

“But I wasn’t even trying,” he explained, sounding offended. “I wasn’t even trying.”

An awed hush fell upon the bystanders.

The onlookers fell silent in awe.

“Do you want to commit suicide?”

“Do you want to kill yourself?”

“You’re lucky it was just a wheel! A bad driver and not even _try_ing!”

“You’re lucky it was just a wheel! You’re a bad driver, and you’re not even _try_ing!”

“You don’t understand,” explained the criminal. “I wasn’t driving. There’s another man in the car.”

“You don’t understand,” the criminal explained. “I wasn’t driving. There’s another man in the car.”

The shock that followed this declaration found voice in a sustained “Ah-h-h!” as the door of the coupé swung slowly open. The crowd—it was now a crowd—stepped back involuntarily, and when the door had opened wide there was a ghostly pause. Then, very gradually, part by part, a pale, dangling individual stepped out of the wreck, pawing tentatively at the ground with a large uncertain dancing shoe.

The shock after this announcement came out in a long “Ah-h-h!” as the coupé’s door slowly swung open. The crowd had now become a real crowd. Everyone stepped back without thinking, and when the door was fully open, there was an eerie pause. Then, very slowly, a pale figure with dangling limbs emerged from the wreck, one part at a time. He cautiously felt for the ground with a large dancing shoe, his foot unsteady.

Blinded by the glare of the headlights and confused by the incessant groaning of the horns, the apparition stood swaying for a moment before he perceived the man in the duster.

Blinded by the headlights’ glare and confused by the constant blaring horns, the ghostly figure stood swaying for a moment. Then he noticed the man in the long dust coat.

“Wha’s matter?” he inquired calmly. “Did we run outa gas?”

“What’s wrong?” he asked calmly. “Did we run out of gas?”

“Look!”

Half a dozen fingers pointed at the amputated wheel—he stared at it for a moment, and then looked upward as though he suspected that it had dropped from the sky.

Half a dozen fingers pointed at the wheel that had broken off. He stared at it for a moment. Then he looked up as though he suspected the wheel had dropped from the sky.

“It came off,” someone explained.

He nodded.

“At first I din’ notice we’d stopped.”

“At first I didn’t notice we’d stopped.”

A pause. Then, taking a long breath and straightening his shoulders, he remarked in a determined voice:

A pause. Then he took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and said in a determined voice:

“Wonder’ff tell me where there’s a gas’line station?”

“I wonder if you could tell me where there’s a gas station?”

At least a dozen men, some of them a little better off than he was, explained to him that wheel and car were no longer joined by any physical bond.

At least a dozen men explained the situation to him. Some were a little better off than he was. They explained that the wheel was no longer physically connected to the car.

“Back out,” he suggested after a moment. “Put her in reverse.”

“Back up,” he suggested after a moment. “Put the car in reverse.”

“But the wheel’s off!”

“But the wheel came off!”

He hesitated.

“No harm in trying,” he said.

The caterwauling horns had reached a crescendo and I turned away and cut across the lawn toward home. I glanced back once. A wafer of a moon was shining over Gatsby’s house, making the night fine as before, and surviving the laughter and the sound of his still glowing garden. A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host, who stood on the porch, his hand up in a formal gesture of farewell.

The blaring horns had reached their loudest point, and I turned away and crossed the lawn toward home. I glanced back once. A thin slice of moon shone over Gatsby’s house, making the night as beautiful as before. The moonlight outlasted the laughter and the noise from his still-glowing garden. A sudden emptiness now seemed to flow from the windows and the great doors, leaving the host looking completely alone. He stood on the porch, his hand raised in a formal gesture of goodbye.

Reading over what I have written so far, I see I have given the impression that the events of three nights several weeks apart were all that absorbed me. On the contrary, they were merely casual events in a crowded summer, and, until much later, they absorbed me infinitely less than my personal affairs.

Reading over what I have written so far, I see I have given the wrong impression. I have made the events of three nights, several weeks apart, seem like all I cared about. In fact, those events were just passing moments in a busy summer. Until much later, those events mattered far less to me than my own affairs.

Most of the time I worked. In the early morning the sun threw my shadow westward as I hurried down the white chasms of lower New York to the Probity Trust. I knew the other clerks and young bond-salesmen by their first names, and lunched with them in dark, crowded restaurants on little pig sausages and mashed potatoes and coffee. I even had a short affair with a girl who lived in Jersey City and worked in the accounting department, but her brother began throwing mean looks in my direction, so when she went on her vacation in July I let it blow quietly away.

Most of the time I worked. In the early morning, the sun cast my shadow westward as I hurried to the Probity Trust. I walked through the white canyons of lower New York. I knew the other clerks and young bond salesmen by their first names. I ate lunch with them in dark, crowded restaurants, having little pork sausages, mashed potatoes, and coffee. I even had a brief affair with a girl who lived in Jersey City and worked in the accounting department. But her brother began giving me dirty looks. So when she went on vacation in July, I quietly let the affair fade away.

I took dinner usually at the Yale Club—for some reason it was the gloomiest event of my day—and then I went upstairs to the library and studied investments and securities for a conscientious hour. There were generally a few rioters around, but they never came into the library, so it was a good place to work. After that, if the night was mellow, I strolled down Madison Avenue past the old Murray Hill Hotel, and over 33rd Street to the Pennsylvania Station.

I usually ate dinner at the Yale Club. For some reason, dinner there was the gloomiest part of my day. Then I went upstairs to the library and spent a diligent hour studying investments and securities. There were usually a few rowdy people around, but they never came into the library, so it was a good place to work. After that, if the night was mild and pleasant, I strolled down Madison Avenue past the old Murray Hill Hotel. Then I walked along 33rd Street to the Pennsylvania Station.

I began to like New York, the racy, adventurous feel of it at night, and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and machines gives to the restless eye. I liked to walk up Fifth Avenue and pick out romantic women from the crowd and imagine that in a few minutes I was going to enter into their lives, and no one would ever know or disapprove. Sometimes, in my mind, I followed them to their apartments on the corners of hidden streets, and they turned and smiled back at me before they faded through a door into warm darkness. At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others—poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner—young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.

I began to like New York and its lively, adventurous feel at night. The constant flicker of men, women, and machines satisfied my restless eyes. I liked walking up Fifth Avenue and picking out women in the crowd who stirred romantic feelings in me. I imagined that in a few minutes I would enter their lives, and no one would ever know or disapprove. Sometimes, in my mind, I followed them to their apartments on the corners of hidden streets. The women turned and smiled back at me before disappearing through a door into warm darkness. In the city's magical twilight, I sometimes felt a haunting loneliness. I sensed the same loneliness in others, poor young clerks lingering in front of shop windows. They were waiting until it was time to eat dinner alone at a restaurant. Those young clerks stood in the dusk, wasting the most deeply moving moments of night and life.

Again at eight o’clock, when the dark lanes of the Forties were lined five deep with throbbing taxicabs, bound for the theatre district, I felt a sinking in my heart. Forms leaned together in the taxis as they waited, and voices sang, and there was laughter from unheard jokes, and lighted cigarettes made unintelligible circles inside. Imagining that I, too, was hurrying towards gaiety and sharing their intimate excitement, I wished them well.

Again at eight o’clock, my heart sank as rumbling taxicabs lined the dark streets of the Forties, five rows deep. The cabs were headed for the theatre district. People leaned close together in the waiting taxis. Voices sang, and laughter rose at jokes I couldn’t hear. Lit cigarettes traced puzzling circles inside. I imagined that I, too, was rushing toward a good time and sharing in their intimate excitement. With that thought, I wished them well.

For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, and then in midsummer I found her again. At first I was flattered to go places with her, because she was a golf champion, and everyone knew her name. Then it was something more. I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity. The bored haughty face that she turned to the world concealed something—most affectations conceal something eventually, even though they don’t in the beginning—and one day I found what it was. When we were on a house-party together up in Warwick, she left a borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, and then lied about it—and suddenly I remembered the story about her that had eluded me that night at Daisy’s. At her first big golf tournament there was a row that nearly reached the newspapers—a suggestion that she had moved her ball from a bad lie in the semifinal round. The thing approached the proportions of a scandal—then died away. A caddy retracted his statement, and the only other witness admitted that he might have been mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind.

For a while I lost touch with Jordan Baker, and then I found her again in midsummer. At first I was flattered to go places with her because she was a golf champion, and everyone knew her name. Then it became something more. I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a kind of tender curiosity. The bored, arrogant face she showed the world hid something. Most pretenses eventually hide something, even if they don’t at first. One day I discovered what she was hiding. We were staying at a house party together up in Warwick. She left a borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, then lied about it. Suddenly I remembered the story about her that I hadn’t been able to recall that night at Daisy’s. At her first big golf tournament, there was a dispute that nearly made the newspapers. Someone had suggested she had moved her ball from a difficult position in the semifinal round. The incident nearly became a scandal, then faded away. A caddy took back his statement, and the only other witness admitted he might have been mistaken. The incident and her name had stayed linked in my mind.

Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever, shrewd men, and now I saw that this was because she felt safer on a plane where any divergence from a code would be thought impossible. She was incurably dishonest. She wasn’t able to endure being at a disadvantage and, given this unwillingness, I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she was very young in order to keep that cool, insolent smile turned to the world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard, jaunty body.

Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever, shrewd men, and now I understood why. She felt safer among people who would think breaking the rules was impossible. She was dishonest beyond any hope of changing. She couldn’t stand being at a disadvantage. Because of that, I suppose she had started using deception when she was very young. She wanted to keep showing the world that cool, arrogant smile while satisfying the demands of her firm, lively body.

It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. It was on that same house-party that we had a curious conversation about driving a car. It started because she passed so close to some workmen that our fender flicked a button on one man’s coat.

It made no difference to me. You never blame a woman too harshly for dishonesty. I felt a little sorry, and then I forgot. At that same house party, we had an odd conversation about driving. The conversation started because she drove so close to some workmen that our fender brushed a button on one man’s coat.

“You’re a rotten driver,” I protested. “Either you ought to be more careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.”

“You’re a terrible driver,” I protested. “Either you need to be more careful, or you shouldn’t drive at all.”

“I am careful.”

“I’m careful.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Well, other people are,” she said lightly.

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“They’ll keep out of my way,” she insisted. “It takes two to make an accident.”

“They’ll stay out of my way,” she insisted. “It takes two people to cause an accident.”

“Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.”

“Suppose you met someone just as careless as you.”

“I hope I never will,” she answered. “I hate careless people. That’s why I like you.”

“I hope I never will,” she said. “I hate careless people. That’s why I like you.”

Her grey, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires, and I knew that first I had to get myself definitely out of that tangle back home. I’d been writing letters once a week and signing them: “Love, Nick,” and all I could think of was how, when that certain girl played tennis, a faint moustache of perspiration appeared on her upper lip. Nevertheless there was a vague understanding that had to be tactfully broken off before I was free.

Her grey eyes, strained by the sun, stared straight ahead. But she had deliberately changed our relationship, and for a moment I thought I loved her. But I think slowly, and I’m full of inner rules that hold back my desires. I knew I first had to get myself completely out of the mess back home. I’d been writing letters once a week and signing them: “Love, Nick,”. All I could think of was how that particular girl’s upper lip developed a faint moustache of sweat during tennis. Still, there was a vague understanding between us, and I had to end it tactfully before I was free.

Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.

Everyone thinks they have at least one major virtue. Here is mine: I am one of the few honest people I have ever known.