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25 min

On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages alongshore, the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby’s house and twinkled hilariously on his lawn.

On Sunday morning, church bells rang in the villages along the shore. Meanwhile, the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby’s house and sparkled with laughter on his lawn.

“He’s a bootlegger,” said the young ladies, moving somewhere between his cocktails and his flowers. “One time he killed a man who had found out that he was nephew to Von Hindenburg and second cousin to the devil. Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there crystal glass.”

“He sells illegal liquor,” said the young women, moving somewhere between his cocktails and his flowers. “Once he killed a man who had discovered he was Von Hindenburg’s nephew and the devil’s second cousin. Hand me a rose, honey, and pour me one last drop into that crystal glass.”

Once I wrote down on the empty spaces of a timetable the names of those who came to Gatsby’s house that summer. It is an old timetable now, disintegrating at its folds, and headed “This schedule in effect July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read the grey names, and they will give you a better impression than my generalities of those who accepted Gatsby’s hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of knowing nothing whatever about him.

Once I wrote the names of everyone who came to Gatsby’s house that summer in the blank spaces of a timetable. The timetable is old now and falling apart along its folds. At the top it says, “This schedule in effect July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read the faded names. Those names will give you a better picture than my broad descriptions of the people who accepted Gatsby’s hospitality. They paid him the subtle tribute of knowing absolutely nothing about him.

From East Egg, then, came the Chester Beckers and the Leeches, and a man named Bunsen, whom I knew at Yale, and Doctor Webster Civet, who was drowned last summer up in Maine. And the Hornbeams and the Willie Voltaires, and a whole clan named Blackbuck, who always gathered in a corner and flipped up their noses like goats at whosoever came near. And the Ismays and the Chrysties (or rather Hubert Auerbach and Mr. Chrystie’s wife), and Edgar Beaver, whose hair, they say, turned cotton-white one winter afternoon for no good reason at all.

From East Egg, then, came the Chester Beckers and the Leeches, and a man named Bunsen. I had known Bunsen at Yale. Doctor Webster Civet came too. He drowned last summer up in Maine. And the Hornbeams and the Willie Voltaires came, along with a whole clan named Blackbuck. The Blackbucks always gathered in a corner and turned up their noses like goats at anyone who came near. And the Ismays and the Chrysties came (or rather Hubert Auerbach and Mr. Chrystie’s wife). And Edgar Beaver came. People say his hair turned cotton-white one winter afternoon for no good reason at all.

Clarence Endive was from East Egg, as I remember. He came only once, in white knickerbockers, and had a fight with a bum named Etty in the garden. From farther out on the Island came the Cheadles and the O. R. P. Schraeders, and the Stonewall Jackson Abrams of Georgia, and the Fishguards and the Ripley Snells. Snell was there three days before he went to the penitentiary, so drunk out on the gravel drive that Mrs. Ulysses Swett’s automobile ran over his right hand. The Dancies came, too, and S. B. Whitebait, who was well over sixty, and Maurice A. Flink, and the Hammerheads, and Beluga the tobacco importer, and Beluga’s girls.

Clarence Endive was from East Egg, as I remember. He came only once, wearing white knee-length pants, and fought with a bum named Etty in the garden. The Cheadles and the O. R. P. Schraeders came from farther out on the Island. So did the Stonewall Jackson Abrams of Georgia, the Fishguards, and the Ripley Snells. Snell was there three days before he went to prison. He was so drunk out on the gravel driveway that Mrs. Ulysses Swett’s car ran over his right hand. The Dancies came, too, along with S. B. Whitebait, who was well over sixty. There were also Maurice A. Flink, the Hammerheads, Beluga the tobacco importer, and Beluga’s girls.

From West Egg came the Poles and the Mulreadys and Cecil Roebuck and Cecil Schoen and Gulick the State senator and Newton Orchid, who controlled Films Par Excellence, and Eckhaust and Clyde Cohen and Don S. Schwartz (the son) and Arthur McCarty, all connected with the movies in one way or another. And the Catlips and the Bembergs and G. Earl Muldoon, brother to that Muldoon who afterward strangled his wife. Da Fontano the promoter came there, and Ed Legros and James B. (“Rot-Gut”) Ferret and the De Jongs and Ernest Lilly—they came to gamble, and when Ferret wandered into the garden it meant he was cleaned out and Associated Traction would have to fluctuate profitably next day.

From West Egg came the Poles, the Mulreadys, Cecil Roebuck, Cecil Schoen, and Gulick the State senator. Newton Orchid came too, who controlled Films Par Excellence. So did Eckhaust, Clyde Cohen, Don S. Schwartz (the son), and Arthur McCarty. All were connected with the movies in one way or another. And there were the Catlips, the Bembergs, and G. Earl Muldoon. He was the brother of the Muldoon who later strangled his wife. Da Fontano the promoter came there, along with Ed Legros and James B. (“Rot-Gut”) Ferret. The De Jongs and Ernest Lilly came too. These men came to gamble. And when Ferret wandered into the garden, it meant he had lost all his money. It also meant Associated Traction would have to rise and fall profitably the next day.

A man named Klipspringer was there so often that he became known as “the boarder”—I doubt if he had any other home. Of theatrical people there were Gus Waize and Horace O’Donavan and Lester Myer and George Duckweed and Francis Bull. Also from New York were the Chromes and the Backhyssons and the Dennickers and Russel Betty and the Corrigans and the Kellehers and the Dewars and the Scullys and S. W. Belcher and the Smirkes and the young Quinns, divorced now, and Henry L. Palmetto, who killed himself by jumping in front of a subway train in Times Square.

A man named Klipspringer was there so often that he became known as “the boarder.” I doubt he had any other home. People from the theater included Gus Waize, Horace O’Donavan, Lester Myer, George Duckweed, and Francis Bull. Also from New York were the Chromes, the Backhyssons, the Dennickers, Russel Betty, the Corrigans, and the Kellehers. Others included the Dewars, the Scullys, S. W. Belcher, the Smirkes, and the young Quinns, who are now divorced. Then there was Henry L. Palmetto, who killed himself by jumping in front of a subway train in Times Square.

Benny McClenahan arrived always with four girls. They were never quite the same ones in physical person, but they were so identical one with another that it inevitably seemed they had been there before. I have forgotten their names—Jaqueline, I think, or else Consuela, or Gloria or Judy or June, and their last names were either the melodious names of flowers and months or the sterner ones of the great American capitalists whose cousins, if pressed, they would confess themselves to be.

Benny McClenahan always arrived with four girls. The girls were never quite the same people, but they were so alike they inevitably seemed to have been there before. I have forgotten their names. Jaqueline, I think, or else Consuela, or Gloria or Judy or June. Their last names were either the musical names of flowers and months or the more imposing names of great American capitalists. If pressed, the girls would admit to being cousins of those capitalists.

In addition to all these I can remember that Faustina O’Brien came there at least once and the Baedeker girls and young Brewer, who had his nose shot off in the war, and Mr. Albrucksburger and Miss Haag, his fiancée, and Ardita Fitz-Peters and Mr. P. Jewett, once head of the American Legion, and Miss Claudia Hip, with a man reputed to be her chauffeur, and a prince of something, whom we called Duke, and whose name, if I ever knew it, I have forgotten.

Besides all these, I remember that Faustina O’Brien came there at least once. So did the Baedeker girls and young Brewer, who had his nose shot off in the war. There were also Mr. Albrucksburger and his fiancée, Miss Haag, and Ardita Fitz-Peters. Then came Mr. P. Jewett, once head of the American Legion. Miss Claudia Hip came with a man said to be her chauffeur. And there was a prince of something whom we called Duke. If I ever knew his name, I have forgotten it.

All these people came to Gatsby’s house in the summer.

All these people came to Gatsby’s house during the summer.

At nine o’clock, one morning late in July, Gatsby’s gorgeous car lurched up the rocky drive to my door and gave out a burst of melody from its three-noted horn.

At nine one morning in late July, Gatsby’s gorgeous car jolted up the rocky driveway to my door. Its three-note horn sounded a burst of melody.

It was the first time he had called on me, though I had gone to two of his parties, mounted in his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation, made frequent use of his beach.

He was visiting me for the first time, though I had already been to two of his parties. I had also climbed into his seaplane and, at his insistent invitation, often used his beach.

“Good morning, old sport. You’re having lunch with me today and I thought we’d ride up together.”

“Good morning, my friend. You’re having lunch with me today, and I thought we’d ride up together.”

He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American—that comes, I suppose, with the absence of lifting work in youth and, even more, with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand.

He was balancing on his car’s dashboard with a knack for movement that is so distinctively American. I suppose this knack comes from not doing heavy lifting in youth. Even more, it comes from the loose grace of our nervous games, played in fits and starts. This ease of movement kept breaking through his precise, proper manner as restlessness. He was never quite still. There was always a foot tapping somewhere, or a hand opening and closing impatiently.

He saw me looking with admiration at his car.

He saw me admiring his car.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it, old sport?” He jumped off to give me a better view. “Haven’t you ever seen it before?”

“It’s pretty, isn’t it, old sport?” He jumped down to give me a better view. “Have you never seen it before?”

I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream colour, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and toolboxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, we started to town.

I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream color, gleaming with nickel. Its enormous length bulged here and there with proudly displayed hatboxes, supper boxes, and toolboxes. A maze of windshields rose in tiers, reflecting a dozen suns. We sat behind layers of glass, in what felt like a greenhouse lined with green leather, and headed into town.

I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past month and found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So my first impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an elaborate roadhouse next door.

I had talked with him perhaps six times in the past month. To my disappointment, I found he had little to say. So my first impression, that he was someone important in some unclear way, had gradually faded. He had become simply the owner of an elaborate roadhouse next door.

And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-coloured suit.

Then came that unsettling ride. Before we reached West Egg village, Gatsby began leaving his polished sentences unfinished. He also began slapping the knee of his caramel-colored suit, as if unsure what to do.

“Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your opinion of me, anyhow?”

“Listen, old sport,” he blurted out unexpectedly, “what do you think of me, anyway?”

A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that question deserves.

A little overwhelmed, I began giving the vague, evasive answers that question deserves.

“Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted. “I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you hear.”

“Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted. “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me from all these stories you hear.”

So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavoured conversation in his halls.

So he knew about the strange accusations that colored conversations in his halls.

“I’ll tell you God’s truth.” His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the Middle West—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition.”

“I’ll tell you God’s truth.” His right hand suddenly signaled for God’s punishment to stand ready. “I’m the son of some wealthy people in the Middle West. They’re all dead now. I grew up in America but was educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors studied there, going back many years. Studying at Oxford is a family tradition.”

He looked at me sideways—and I knew why Jordan Baker had believed he was lying. He hurried the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered him before. And with this doubt, his whole statement fell to pieces, and I wondered if there wasn’t something a little sinister about him, after all.

He glanced sideways at me, and I knew why Jordan Baker had thought he was lying. He rushed through the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed it, or choked on it. It was as though the phrase had bothered him before. And with that doubt, his whole story fell apart. I wondered if there wasn’t something a little sinister about him after all.

“What part of the Middle West?” I inquired casually.

“What part of the Middle West?” I asked casually.

“San Francisco.”

“I see.”

“My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.”

“My whole family died, and I inherited a lot of money.”

His voice was solemn, as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a clan still haunted him. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling my leg, but a glance at him convinced me otherwise.

His voice was serious, as if the memory of his whole family’s sudden death still haunted him. For a moment I suspected he was joking with me, but one look at him convinced me otherwise.

“After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of Europe—Paris, Venice, Rome—collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago.”

“After that I lived like a young Indian prince in all the capitals of Europe: Paris, Venice, Rome. I collected jewels, mostly rubies, hunted big game, and painted a little, all just for myself. And I tried to forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago.”

With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that of a turbaned “character” leaking sawdust at every pore as he pursued a tiger through the Bois de Boulogne.

With some effort, I held back my disbelieving laughter. The phrases were so worn out that they brought only one image to mind. It was a turbaned “character” leaking sawdust from every pore as he chased a tiger through the Bois de Boulogne.

“Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief, and I tried very hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest I took the remains of my machine-gun battalion so far forward that there was a half mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn’t advance. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of dead. I was promoted to be a major, and every Allied government gave me a decoration—even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the Adriatic Sea!”

“Then came the war, old sport. The war was a great relief, and I tried very hard to die. But I seemed to live a charmed life. I accepted a commission as first lieutenant when the war began. In the Argonne Forest, I led what remained of my machine-gun battalion far ahead of the infantry. We were so far forward that a half-mile gap stretched along either side of us, where the infantry couldn’t advance. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty men with sixteen Lewis guns. When the infantry finally reached us, they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of dead. I was promoted to major, and every Allied government gave me a medal. Even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the Adriatic Sea!”

Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro’s troubled history and sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. It appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had elicited this tribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. My incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming hastily through a dozen magazines.

Little Montenegro! He seemed to lift the words up and nod at them with his smile. His smile understood Montenegro’s troubled history and sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. His smile fully appreciated the chain of national events that had drawn this tribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. Fascination now overwhelmed my disbelief. The experience was like quickly skimming through a dozen magazines.

He reached in his pocket, and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon, fell into my palm.

He reached into his pocket, and a piece of metal hanging from a ribbon fell into my palm.

“That’s the one from Montenegro.”

To my astonishment, the thing had an authentic look. “Orderi di Danilo,” ran the circular legend, “Montenegro, Nicolas Rex.”

To my astonishment, the thing looked genuine. “Orderi di Danilo,” read the inscription around the edge, “Montenegro, Nicolas Rex.”

“Turn it.”

“Major Jay Gatsby,” I read, “For Valour Extraordinary.”

“Major Jay Gatsby,” I read, “For Extraordinary Bravery.”

“Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. It was taken in Trinity Quad—the man on my left is now the Earl of Doncaster.”

“Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir from my days at Oxford. The photo was taken in Trinity Quad. The man on my left is now the Earl of Doncaster.”

It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby, looking a little, not much, younger—with a cricket bat in his hand.

The photograph showed half a dozen young men in blazers lounging in an archway, with many spires visible through it. There was Gatsby, looking a little younger, but not much. He held a cricket bat in his hand.

Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart.

Then it was all true. I saw tiger skins blazing in his palace on the Grand Canal. I saw him opening a chest of rubies to soothe his aching, broken heart with their deep crimson glow.

“I’m going to make a big request of you today,” he said, pocketing his souvenirs with satisfaction, “so I thought you ought to know something about me. I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad things that happened to me.” He hesitated. “You’ll hear about it this afternoon.”

“I’m going to ask a big favor of you today,” he said, putting his souvenirs in his pocket with satisfaction. “So I thought you should know something about me. I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see, I’m usually among strangers because I move from place to place, trying to forget my past sadness.” He hesitated. “You’ll hear about it this afternoon.”

“At lunch?”

“No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss Baker to tea.”

“No, this afternoon. I happened to find out you’re taking Miss Baker out for tea.”

“Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?”

“Are you saying you’re in love with Miss Baker?”

“No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak to you about this matter.”

“No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly agreed to talk to you about this matter.”

I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon his overpopulated lawn.

I had no idea what “this matter” was, but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn’t invited Jordan to tea to discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something completely outlandish. And for a moment, I regretted ever setting foot on his overcrowded lawn.

He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted oceangoing ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by.

He wouldn’t say another word. He became more stiffly proper as we neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, catching a glimpse of oceangoing ships with red bands around their hulls. We sped through a slum on a cobbled street lined with dark saloons that still had customers. The saloons dated from the early 1900s, and their gilding had faded. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us. As we passed, I glimpsed Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump, panting with energy.

With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.

With fenders spread like wings, we scattered light through half of Astoria. Only half, because as we weaved among the elevated railway’s pillars, I heard a motorcycle’s familiar “jug-jug-spat!” A frantic policeman rode alongside us.

“All right, old sport,” called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes.

“All right, old sport,” Gatsby called out. We slowed down. He took a white card from his wallet and waved it in front of the man’s eyes.

“Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!”

“You’re right,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “I’ll recognize you next time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!”

“What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?”

“What was that?” I asked. “The picture of Oxford?”

“I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a Christmas card every year.”

“I once did the commissioner a favor. And he sends me a Christmas card every year.”

Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of nonolfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world.

As we crossed the great bridge, sunlight flickered constantly through the girders onto the moving cars. Across the river, the city rose in white heaps and sugar lumps, all built from a wish with odorless money. Seen from the Queensboro Bridge, the city always looks as though you’re seeing it for the first time. The city offers its first wild promise of all the mystery and beauty in the world.

A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their sombre holiday. As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry.

A dead man passed us in a hearse piled high with flowers. Two carriages with closed blinds followed, then more cheerful carriages carrying friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of southeastern Europe. I was glad the sight of Gatsby’s magnificent car was part of their gloomy day off. As we crossed Blackwell’s Island, a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur. Inside sat three stylish Black people, two young men and a young woman. I laughed aloud as their yellowish eyes rolled toward us in proud rivalry.

“Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought; “anything at all…”

“Anything can happen now that we’ve crossed this bridge,” I thought. “Anything at all…”

Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder.

Even Gatsby could exist without causing any particular surprise.

Roaring noon. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man.

Noon roared. I met Gatsby for lunch in a basement on Forty-second Street, cooled by fans. I blinked away the brightness of the street outside and barely made him out in the entrance room. He was talking to another man.

“Mr. Carraway, this is my friend Mr. Wolfshiem.”

A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a moment I discovered his tiny eyes in the half-darkness.

A small, flat-nosed Jewish man raised his large head and looked at me. Two thick tufts of hair grew lushly from his nostrils, one on each side. After a moment, I spotted his tiny eyes in the dim light.

“—So I took one look at him,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, shaking my hand earnestly, “and what do you think I did?”

“So I took one look at him,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, shaking my hand earnestly. “And what do you think I did?”

“What?” I inquired politely.

“What?” I asked politely.

But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my hand and covered Gatsby with his expressive nose.

But apparently he wasn't talking to me, because he let go of my hand. Then he pointed his expressive nose at Gatsby.

“I handed the money to Katspaugh and I said: ‘All right, Katspaugh, don’t pay him a penny till he shuts his mouth.’ He shut it then and there.”

“I handed the money to Katspaugh and said: ‘All right, Katspaugh, don’t pay him a penny until he shuts his mouth.’ He shut his mouth right then and there.”

Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfshiem swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction.

Gatsby took each of us by the arm and led us into the restaurant. At that, Mr. Wolfshiem cut off the sentence he was starting and drifted into a sleepwalker’s daze.

“Highballs?” asked the head waiter.

“This is a nice restaurant here,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, looking at the presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like across the street better!”

“This is a nice restaurant,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, looking at the Presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like the one across the street better!”

“Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfshiem: “It’s too hot over there.”

“Yes, highballs,” Gatsby agreed. Then he said to Mr. Wolfshiem: “It’s too hot over there.”

“Hot and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “but full of memories.”

“Hot and small, yes,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “but full of memories.”

“What place is that?” I asked.

“What’s that place?” I asked.

“The old Metropole.”

“The old Metropole,” brooded Mr. Wolfshiem gloomily. “Filled with faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can’t forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. ‘All right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his chair.

“The old Metropole,” Mr. Wolfshiem said gloomily. “Full of faces now dead and gone. Full of friends gone forever. As long as I live, I’ll never forget the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. Six of us were at the table, and Rosy had eaten and drunk a lot all evening. It was almost morning when the waiter came up to him with a strange look on his face. He said somebody wanted to speak to Rosy outside. ‘All right,’ Rosy said, and began to get up, but I pulled him back down into his chair.

“ ‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t you, so help me, move outside this room.’

“ ‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy. But I swear, don’t you leave this room.’

“It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the blinds we’d of seen daylight.”

“It was four in the morning then. If we’d raised the blinds, we’d have seen daylight.”

“Did he go?” I asked innocently.

“Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.”

“Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flared at me indignantly. “He turned around in the doorway and said: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee!’ Then he went out onto the sidewalk. They shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.”

“Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering.

“Four of them were electrocuted,” I said as I remembered.

“Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. “I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.”

“Five, with Becker.” He turned his nostrils toward me with interest. “I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.”

The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me:

Hearing these two remarks side by side was startling. Gatsby answered for me:

“Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.”

“Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the right man.”

“No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.

“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.”

“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that another time.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a wrong man.”

“I'm sorry,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had the wrong man.”

A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one short glance beneath our own table.

A delicious hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem forgot the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole. He began to eat with fierce but delicate care. Meanwhile, his eyes moved very slowly around the whole room. He finished his sweep by turning to inspect the people directly behind him. I think he would have taken a quick glance beneath our own table if I hadn’t been there.

“Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I made you a little angry this morning in the car.”

“Listen, my friend,” Gatsby said, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I made you a little angry in the car this morning.”

There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it.

There was that smile again, but this time I resisted it.

“I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you won’t come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got to come through Miss Baker?”

“I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you won’t just tell me honestly what you want. Why does it all have to go through Miss Baker?”

“Oh, it’s nothing underhand,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great sportswoman, you know, and she’d never do anything that wasn’t all right.”

“Oh, it’s nothing shady,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great sportswoman, you know. And she’d never do anything wrong.”

Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room, leaving me with Mr. Wolfshiem at the table.

Suddenly he checked his watch, jumped up, and hurried out of the room. He left me at the table with Mr. Wolfshiem.

“He has to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, following him with his eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman.”

“He has to make a phone call,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, watching him go. “Great guy, isn’t he? Good-looking and a perfect gentleman.”

“Yes.”

“He’s an Oggsford man.”

“He went to Oggsford.”

“Oh!”

“He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?”

“He went to Oggsford College in England. Do you know Oggsford College?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.”

“Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired.

“Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I asked.

“Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce to your mother and sister.’ ” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my cuff buttons.”

“Several years,” he answered with satisfaction. “I had the pleasure of meeting him just after the war. But after talking with him for an hour, I knew I’d found a man from a good family. I said to myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce to your mother and sister.’ ” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my cufflinks.”

I hadn’t been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory.

I hadn’t been looking at them, but now I did. They were made of oddly familiar pieces of ivory.

“Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me.

“The finest examples of human molars,” he told me.

“Well!” I inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.”

“Well!” I looked them over. “That’s a very interesting idea.”

“Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s wife.”

“Yeah.” He pushed his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very careful about women. He would never even look at a friend’s wife.”

When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet.

The man who inspired this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat down. As he did, Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with a sudden jerk and stood up.

“I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you two young men before I outstay my welcome.”

“I enjoyed my lunch,” he said. “And I’m going to leave you two young men before I overstay my welcome.”

“Don’t hurry Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem raised his hand in a sort of benediction.

“Don’t rush, Meyer,” Gatsby said without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem raised his hand in a gesture like a blessing.

“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,” he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on you any longer.”

“You’re very polite, but I’m from a different generation,” he said solemnly. “You sit here and talk about your sports and your young women and your...” He filled in the missing word with another wave of his hand. “As for me, I’m fifty years old, and I won’t impose on you any longer.”

As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I wondered if I had said anything to offend him.

As he shook hands and turned away, his sad-looking nose was trembling. I wondered if I had said anything to offend him.

“He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York—a denizen of Broadway.”

“He gets very sentimental sometimes,” Gatsby explained. “Today is one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York, a regular on Broadway.”

“Who is he, anyhow, an actor?”

“Who is he, anyway? An actor?”

“No.”

“A dentist?”

“Meyer Wolfshiem? No, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added, coolly: “He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919.”

“Meyer Wolfshiem? No, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added calmly: “He’s the man who rigged the World’s Series back in 1919.”

“Fixed the World’s Series?” I repeated.

“Rigged the World’s Series?” I repeated.

The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World’s Series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it at all I would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, the end of some inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could start to play with the faith of fifty million people—with the single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe.

The idea stunned me. Of course, I remembered that the World’s Series had been fixed in 1919. But if I had thought about the scandal at all, I would have seen it as something that simply happened. I would have seen it as the end of some unavoidable chain of events. I had never imagined one man could set out to toy with the faith of fifty million people. And he could do so with the single-minded focus of a burglar blowing open a safe.

“How did he happen to do that?” I asked after a minute.

“How did he end up doing that?” I asked after a minute.

“He just saw the opportunity.”

“Why isn’t he in jail?”

“They can’t get him, old sport. He’s a smart man.”

“They can’t catch him, my friend. He’s a smart man.”

I insisted on paying the check. As the waiter brought my change I caught sight of Tom Buchanan across the crowded room.

I insisted on paying the bill. As the waiter brought my change, I spotted Tom Buchanan across the crowded room.

“Come along with me for a minute,” I said; “I’ve got to say hello to someone.”

“Come with me for a minute,” I said. “I need to say hello to someone.”

When he saw us Tom jumped up and took half a dozen steps in our direction.

When Tom saw us, he jumped up and took six steps toward us.

“Where’ve you been?” he demanded eagerly. “Daisy’s furious because you haven’t called up.”

“Where have you been?” he demanded eagerly. “Daisy’s furious because you haven’t called.”

“This is Mr. Gatsby, Mr. Buchanan.”

They shook hands briefly, and a strained, unfamiliar look of embarrassment came over Gatsby’s face.

They shook hands briefly. A tense, unfamiliar look of embarrassment appeared on Gatsby’s face.

“How’ve you been, anyhow?” demanded Tom of me. “How’d you happen to come up this far to eat?”

“How have you been, anyway?” Tom demanded of me. “How did you end up coming this far to eat?”

“I’ve been having lunch with Mr. Gatsby.”

I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there.

I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was gone.

One October day in nineteen-seventeen—

One day in October 1917,

(said Jordan Baker that afternoon, sitting up very straight on a straight chair in the tea-garden at the Plaza Hotel)

(said Jordan Baker that afternoon, sitting very upright in a straight-backed chair in the Plaza Hotel’s tea garden)

—I was walking along from one place to another, half on the sidewalks and half on the lawns. I was happier on the lawns because I had on shoes from England with rubber knobs on the soles that bit into the soft ground. I had on a new plaid skirt also that blew a little in the wind, and whenever this happened the red, white, and blue banners in front of all the houses stretched out stiff and said tut-tut-tut-tut, in a disapproving way.

I was walking from one place to another, partly on the sidewalks and partly on the lawns. I was happier on the lawns because I wore shoes from England with rubber knobs on the soles. The knobs gripped the soft ground. I also wore a new plaid skirt that fluttered a little in the wind. Whenever the skirt fluttered, the red, white, and blue banners in front of all the houses stretched out stiffly. The banners said tut-tut-tut-tut, in a disapproving way.

The largest of the banners and the largest of the lawns belonged to Daisy Fay’s house. She was just eighteen, two years older than me, and by far the most popular of all the young girls in Louisville. She dressed in white, and had a little white roadster, and all day long the telephone rang in her house and excited young officers from Camp Taylor demanded the privilege of monopolizing her that night. “Anyways, for an hour!”

Daisy Fay’s house had the largest banners and the largest lawn. She was just eighteen, two years older than me. She was by far the most popular of all the young girls in Louisville. She dressed in white and had a little white roadster. All day long, the telephone rang in her house. Excited young officers from Camp Taylor demanded the privilege of having her all to themselves that night. “At least for an hour!”

When I came opposite her house that morning her white roadster was beside the kerb, and she was sitting in it with a lieutenant I had never seen before. They were so engrossed in each other that she didn’t see me until I was five feet away.

When I reached the spot across from her house that morning, her white roadster was parked by the curb. She was sitting in the car with a lieutenant I had never seen before. They were so absorbed in each other that she didn’t notice me until I was five feet away.

“Hello, Jordan,” she called unexpectedly. “Please come here.”

“Hi, Jordan,” she called unexpectedly. “Please come here.”

I was flattered that she wanted to speak to me, because of all the older girls I admired her most. She asked me if I was going to the Red Cross to make bandages. I was. Well, then, would I tell them that she couldn’t come that day? The officer looked at Daisy while she was speaking, in a way that every young girl wants to be looked at sometime, and because it seemed romantic to me I have remembered the incident ever since. His name was Jay Gatsby, and I didn’t lay eyes on him again for over four years—even after I’d met him on Long Island I didn’t realize it was the same man.

I was flattered that she wanted to speak to me, because I admired her most of all the older girls. She asked if I was going to the Red Cross to make bandages. I was. Then would I tell the people there that she couldn’t come that day? As Daisy spoke, the officer looked at her the way every young girl wants to be looked at sometime. Because the moment seemed romantic to me, I’ve remembered it ever since. His name was Jay Gatsby, and I didn’t see him again for over four years. Even after I’d met him on Long Island, I didn’t realize he was the same man.

That was nineteen-seventeen. By the next year I had a few beaux myself, and I began to play in tournaments, so I didn’t see Daisy very often. She went with a slightly older crowd—when she went with anyone at all. Wild rumours were circulating about her—how her mother had found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say goodbye to a soldier who was going overseas. She was effectually prevented, but she wasn’t on speaking terms with her family for several weeks. After that she didn’t play around with the soldiers any more, but only with a few flat-footed, shortsighted young men in town, who couldn’t get into the army at all.

That was 1917. By the next year I had a few boyfriends myself, and I began to play in tournaments. So I didn’t see Daisy very often. She spent time with a slightly older crowd, when she spent time with anyone at all. Wild rumors were going around about her. Supposedly, her mother had found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York. Daisy wanted to say goodbye to a soldier who was going overseas. She was stopped from going, but she didn’t speak to her family for several weeks. After that she didn’t fool around with the soldiers anymore. Instead, she only saw a few flat-footed, nearsighted young men in town who couldn’t get into the army at all.

By the next autumn she was gay again, gay as ever. She had a début after the armistice, and in February she was presumably engaged to a man from New Orleans. In June she married Tom Buchanan of Chicago, with more pomp and circumstance than Louisville ever knew before. He came down with a hundred people in four private cars, and hired a whole floor of the Muhlbach Hotel, and the day before the wedding he gave her a string of pearls valued at three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

By the next autumn she was happy again, as happy as ever. She made her debut in society after the armistice. In February she was presumably engaged to a man from New Orleans. In June she married Tom Buchanan of Chicago. The wedding was grander and more elaborate than any Louisville had ever seen. He came down with a hundred people in four private railroad cars and rented an entire floor of the Muhlbach Hotel. The day before the wedding, he gave her a string of pearls valued at three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

I was a bridesmaid. I came into her room half an hour before the bridal dinner, and found her lying on her bed as lovely as the June night in her flowered dress—and as drunk as a monkey. She had a bottle of Sauterne in one hand and a letter in the other.

I was a bridesmaid. I came into her room half an hour before the bridal dinner and found her lying on her bed. In her flowered dress, she looked as lovely as the June night. And she was as drunk as a monkey. She had a bottle of Sauterne in one hand and a letter in the other.

“ ’Gratulate me,” she muttered. “Never had a drink before, but oh how I do enjoy it.”

“Congratulate me,” she muttered. “I’ve never had a drink before, but oh, how I enjoy it.”

“What’s the matter, Daisy?”

“What’s wrong, Daisy?”

I was scared, I can tell you; I’d never seen a girl like that before.

I was scared, I can tell you. I’d never seen a girl like that before.

“Here, dearies.” She groped around in a wastebasket she had with her on the bed and pulled out the string of pearls. “Take ’em downstairs and give ’em back to whoever they belong to. Tell ’em all Daisy’s change’ her mine. Say: ‘Daisy’s change’ her mine!’ ”

“Here, dears.” She felt around in a wastebasket she had on the bed and pulled out the string of pearls. “Take the pearls downstairs and give them back to whoever owns them. Tell them all Daisy’s changed her mind. Say: ‘Daisy’s changed her mind!’ ”

She began to cry—she cried and cried. I rushed out and found her mother’s maid, and we locked the door and got her into a cold bath. She wouldn’t let go of the letter. She took it into the tub with her and squeezed it up in a wet ball, and only let me leave it in the soap-dish when she saw that it was coming to pieces like snow.

She started crying. She cried and cried. I rushed out and found her mother’s maid. We locked the door and got her into a cold bath. She wouldn’t let go of the letter. She took the letter into the tub with her and squeezed it into a wet ball. Only when she saw the letter falling apart like snow did she let me leave it in the soap dish.

But she didn’t say another word. We gave her spirits of ammonia and put ice on her forehead and hooked her back into her dress, and half an hour later, when we walked out of the room, the pearls were around her neck and the incident was over. Next day at five o’clock she married Tom Buchanan without so much as a shiver, and started off on a three months’ trip to the South Seas.

But she didn’t say another word. We gave her spirits of ammonia, put ice on her forehead, and fastened her dress again. Half an hour later, when we left the room, the pearls were around her neck and the incident was over. The next day at five o’clock, she married Tom Buchanan without even a shiver. Then she left for a three-month trip to the South Seas.

I saw them in Santa Barbara when they came back, and I thought I’d never seen a girl so mad about her husband. If he left the room for a minute she’d look around uneasily, and say: “Where’s Tom gone?” and wear the most abstracted expression until she saw him coming in the door. She used to sit on the sand with his head in her lap by the hour, rubbing her fingers over his eyes and looking at him with unfathomable delight. It was touching to see them together—it made you laugh in a hushed, fascinated way. That was in August. A week after I left Santa Barbara Tom ran into a wagon on the Ventura road one night, and ripped a front wheel off his car. The girl who was with him got into the papers, too, because her arm was broken—she was one of the chambermaids in the Santa Barbara Hotel.

I saw them in Santa Barbara when they came back. I thought I’d never seen a girl so in love with her husband. If he left the room for a minute, she’d look around uneasily and say: “Where’s Tom gone?” She’d look distracted until she saw him coming through the door. She used to sit on the sand for hours with his head in her lap. She’d rub her fingers over his eyes and look at him with a delight I couldn’t begin to understand. Seeing them together was touching. The sight made you laugh quietly, fascinated. That was in August. A week after I left Santa Barbara, Tom crashed into a wagon one night on the Ventura road. The crash tore a front wheel off his car. The girl with him made the papers too, because her arm was broken. She was one of the maids at the Santa Barbara Hotel.

The next April Daisy had her little girl, and they went to France for a year. I saw them one spring in Cannes, and later in Deauville, and then they came back to Chicago to settle down. Daisy was popular in Chicago, as you know. They moved with a fast crowd, all of them young and rich and wild, but she came out with an absolutely perfect reputation. Perhaps because she doesn’t drink. It’s a great advantage not to drink among hard-drinking people. You can hold your tongue and, moreover, you can time any little irregularity of your own so that everybody else is so blind that they don’t see or care. Perhaps Daisy never went in for amour at all—and yet there’s something in that voice of hers…

The following April, Daisy had her little girl, and they went to France for a year. I saw them one spring in Cannes, and later in Deauville. Then they came back to Chicago to settle down. Daisy was popular in Chicago, as you know. They ran with a wild crowd, all of them young and rich and reckless. But she kept an absolutely spotless reputation. Perhaps because she doesn’t drink. Not drinking is a great advantage when you’re around people who drink heavily. You can keep your mouth shut. You can also time any little misbehavior of your own so that everyone else is too drunk to notice or care. Perhaps Daisy never had any love affairs at all. And yet there’s something in that voice of hers…

Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first time in years. It was when I asked you—do you remember?—if you knew Gatsby in West Egg. After you had gone home she came into my room and woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” and when I described him—I was half asleep—she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man she used to know. It wasn’t until then that I connected this Gatsby with the officer in her white car.

Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first time in years. That was when I asked you if you knew Gatsby in West Egg. Do you remember? After you went home, she came into my room, woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” I was half asleep when I described him. Then she said in the strangest voice that he must be the man she used to know. Only then did I connect this Gatsby with the officer in her white car.

When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park. The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight:

By the time Jordan Baker finished telling all this, we had been away from the Plaza for half an hour. We were riding in a victoria carriage through Central Park. The sun had set behind the tall apartment buildings of movie stars in the West Fifties. Children had already gathered like crickets on the grass, and their clear voices rose through the hot twilight:

“I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—”

“I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when you’re asleep I’ll sneak into your tent.”

“It was a strange coincidence,” I said.

“But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.”

“Why not?”

“Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.”

Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendour.

So it wasn't just the stars he had been reaching for that June night. He came alive to me, suddenly born from the womb of his aimless splendor.

“He wants to know,” continued Jordan, “if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and then let him come over.”

“He wants to know if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon,” Jordan continued, “and then let him come over.”

The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden.

How little he asked for shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion, where he handed out starlight to passing moths. All so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden.

“Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?”

“Did I need to know all this before he could ask for something so small?”

“He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.”

“He’s afraid. He’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s a real tough guy underneath it all.”

Something worried me.

“Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?”

“Why didn’t he ask you to set up a meeting?”

“He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is right next door.”

“Oh!”

“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,” went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad:

“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties some night,” Jordan continued, “but she never did. Then he began casually asking people if they knew her. I was the first person he found who did. That was the night he sent for me at his dance. You should have heard how he slowly worked his way around to asking about her. Of course, I immediately suggested lunch in New York. And I thought he’d go crazy:

“ ‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way!’ he kept saying. ‘I want to see her right next door.’

“ ‘I don’t want to do anything unusual!’ he kept saying. ‘I want to see her right next door.’

“When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to abandon the whole idea. He doesn’t know very much about Tom, though he says he’s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of catching a glimpse of Daisy’s name.”

“When I said you were a close friend of Tom’s, he started to give up on the whole idea. He doesn’t know much about Tom, though he says he’s read a Chicago newspaper for years. He’s read it just for the chance of spotting Daisy’s name.”

It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more, but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired.”

It was dark now. As we passed under a little bridge, I put my arm around Jordan’s golden shoulder. I drew her toward me and asked her to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking about Daisy and Gatsby anymore. Instead, I was thinking about this clean, hard, limited person who was skeptical of everything. She leaned back confidently, just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began pounding in my ears with a kind of dizzy excitement: “There are only those being pursued, those pursuing, the busy, and the tired.”

“And Daisy ought to have something in her life,” murmured Jordan to me.

“And Daisy should have something in her life,” Jordan said quietly to me.

“Does she want to see Gatsby?”

“She’s not to know about it. Gatsby doesn’t want her to know. You’re just supposed to invite her to tea.”

“She must not know about it. Gatsby doesn’t want her to know. You’re just supposed to invite her to tea.”

We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the façade of Fifty-Ninth Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park. Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face.

We passed a wall of dark trees. Then the buildings along Fifty-Ninth Street shone down into the park, a block of soft, pale light. Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose face floated in my mind above the street. No face hovered along the dark roof edges and dazzling signs. So I pulled the girl beside me closer, tightening my arms around her. Her pale, scornful mouth smiled, so I pulled her closer again, bringing her face up to mine.