9

After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning.

Two years later, I remember the rest of that day, that night, and the next day only as an endless routine. Police, photographers, and reporters kept coming and going through Gatsby’s front door. A rope across the main gate and a policeman beside it kept curious people out. But little boys soon discovered they could get in through my yard. There were always a few boys gathered around the pool, staring with their mouths open. That afternoon, someone with a confident manner used the word “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body. Perhaps he was a detective. His voice happened to carry authority, and his words set the tone for the newspaper reports the next morning.

Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there.

Most of those reports were a nightmare: grotesque, full of details, eager, and untrue. At the inquest, Michaelis’s testimony revealed Wilson’s suspicions about his wife. I thought the whole story would soon be turned into a scandalous public mockery. But Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed surprising strength of character about the whole affair, too. She looked at the coroner with determined eyes beneath her reshaped eyebrows. She swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby and had been completely happy with her husband. Her sister, she insisted, had done nothing wrong at all. Catherine convinced herself of these claims and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion were unbearable. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” so that the case could remain as simple as possible. And there the matter rested.

But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end.

But all this seemed distant and unimportant. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I called West Egg village with news of the disaster, every guess about Gatsby came to me. Every practical question came to me too. At first I was surprised and confused. Then, as he lay in his house, hour after hour, without moving or breathing or speaking, I gradually understood. I was responsible because no one else cared. I mean cared with the deep personal concern that everyone has some vague right to at the end.

I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them.

I called Daisy half an hour after we found him. I called her instinctively, without hesitation. But she and Tom had left early that afternoon and taken their luggage with them.

“Left no address?”

“Didn’t leave an address?”

“No.”

“No.”

“Say when they’d be back?”

“Did they say when they’d be back?”

“No.”

“No.”

“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”

“Any idea where they are? How I could contact them?”

“I don’t know. Can’t say.”

“I don’t know. Can’t say.”

I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”

I wanted to find someone for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll find someone for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll find someone for you...”

Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.

Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me Wolfshiem’s office address on Broadway, and I called directory assistance. But by the time I got the number, it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.

“Will you ring again?”

“Will you ring again?”

“I’ve rung three times.”

“I’ve rung three times.”

“It’s very important.”

“It’s very important.”

“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”

“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”

I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:

I went back to the living room. For a moment, I thought all these officials who suddenly filled the room were just casual visitors. But although they pulled back the sheet and looked at Gatsby in shock, his protest kept echoing in my mind:

“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”

“Listen, my friend, you’ve got to find somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”

Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall.

Someone started asking me questions, but I broke away and went upstairs. I quickly searched the unlocked parts of his desk. He’d never told me for certain that his parents were dead. But there was nothing, only the picture of Dan Cody staring down from the wall, a reminder of forgotten violence.

Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all.

The next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem. In the letter, I asked for information and urged him to come on the next train. Asking him to come seemed unnecessary when I wrote it. I was sure he’d leave as soon as he saw the newspapers. I was just as sure there’d be a telegram from Daisy before noon. But neither a telegram nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived. No one arrived except more police, photographers, and newspaper reporters. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer, I began to feel defiant. I felt that Gatsby and I stood together, scornful of them all.

and then hasty addenda beneath:

and then hurried additions below:

When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.

When the phone rang that afternoon, the long-distance operator said someone was calling from Chicago. I thought Daisy was finally calling. But when the call connected, I heard a man’s voice, very faint and far away.

“This is Slagle speaking…”

“This is Slagle…”

“Yes?” The name was unfamiliar.

“Yes?” I didn’t recognize the name.

“Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?”

“Hell of a situation, isn’t it? Did you get my telegram?”

“There haven’t been any wires.”

“There haven’t been any telegrams.”

“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—”

“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said quickly. “They arrested him when he handed the bonds over the counter. They’d received a notice from New York listing the bond numbers just five minutes earlier. What do you make of that, huh? You never can tell in these hick towns...”

“Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”

“Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Listen. This isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation… then a quick squawk as the connection was broken.

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, followed by a cry… Then a quick squawk as the connection cut off.

I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came.

I think a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived on the third day from a town in Minnesota. The message said only that the sender was leaving immediately and asked us to delay the funeral until he arrived.

It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.

It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man who looked very helpless and distressed. He was bundled in a long, cheap overcoat despite the warm September day. His eyes watered constantly with emotion. When I took his bag and umbrella, he began tugging endlessly at his thin grey beard. His constant tugging made it hard for me to take off his coat. He was about to collapse, so I took him into the music room. I made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.

“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”

“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I set out right away.”

“I didn’t know how to reach you.”

“I didn’t know how to contact you.”

His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.

His eyes saw nothing as they kept moving around the room.

“It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.”

“It was a crazy man,” he said. “He must have been crazy.”

“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.

“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.

“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”

“I don’t want anything. I’m okay now, Mr. ...”

“Carraway.”

“Carraway.”

“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”

“Well, I’m okay now. Where are they keeping Jimmy?”

I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away.

I took him into the living room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up the steps and were looking into the hall. When I told the boys who had arrived, they reluctantly left.

After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.

After a little while, Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out. His mouth was slightly open, his face a little flushed, and tears fell one by one at uneven intervals. He had reached an age when death no longer came as a horrifying surprise. Now he looked around for the first time. He saw the high, splendid hall and the large rooms that opened into still more rooms. As he looked, his grief began to mix with awe and pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs. While he took off his coat and vest, I told him all arrangements had been put off until he arrived.

“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”

“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby...”

“Gatz is my name.”

“My name is Gatz.”

“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”

“Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”

He shook his head.

He shook his head.

“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”

“Jimmy always liked it better out East. He rose to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr. ...?”

“We were close friends.”

“We were close friends.”

“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”

“He had a great future ahead of him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brains up here.”

He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.

He touched his head with an impressive gesture, and I nodded.

“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”

“If he’d lived, he would have been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He would have helped build up the country.”

“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably.

“That’s true,” I said, feeling uncomfortable.

He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep.

He fumbled with the embroidered bedspread, trying to pull it off the bed. Then he lay down stiffly and fell asleep instantly.

That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.

That night, someone who was clearly frightened called. He demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.

“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said.

“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said.

“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”

“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”

I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.

I was relieved too, because that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want the funeral in the papers, drawing a crowd of onlookers. So I’d been calling a few people myself. Those people were hard to find.

“The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”

“The funeral is tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I’d like you to tell anyone who might be interested.”

“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.”

“Oh, I will,” he blurted out. “Of course I’m not likely to see anyone, but if I do.”

His tone made me suspicious.

His tone made me suspicious.

“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”

“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”

“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—”

“Well, I’ll certainly try. The reason I called is...”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Why don’t you say you’ll come?”

“Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.”

“Well, the fact is, the truth is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich. They more or less expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s some sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.”

I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously:

I blurted out an unrestrained “Huh!” He must have heard me, because he went on nervously:

“What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—”

“I called about a pair of shoes I left there. Would it be too much trouble to have the butler send them to me? You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F...”

I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver.

I didn’t hear the rest of the name because I hung up the phone.

After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him.

After that, I felt a little ashamed for Gatsby. One man I called hinted that Gatsby had gotten what he deserved. But calling him was my mistake. He was among those who mocked Gatsby most bitterly, with courage supplied by Gatsby’s own liquor. I should have known better than to call him.

The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.

On the morning of the funeral, I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem. I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. Following an elevator attendant’s advice, I pushed open a door marked “The Swastika Holding Company.” At first, no one seemed to be inside. But after I’d shouted “hello” several times without an answer, an argument broke out behind a partition. Soon, a beautiful Jewish woman appeared at an inner doorway and studied me with dark, hostile eyes.

“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.”

“Nobody’s here,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem has gone to Chicago.”

The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.

The first part of this was clearly untrue, because someone inside had started whistling “The Rosary” out of tune.

“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”

“Please tell him Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”

“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”

“I can’t bring him back from Chicago, can I?”

At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door.

Just then, a voice that was clearly Wolfshiem’s called “Stella!” from the other side of the door.

“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”

“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”

“But I know he’s there.”

“But I know he’s there.”

She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.

She stepped toward me. She began sliding her hands up and down her hips in anger.

“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chi_ca_go.”

“You young men think you can barge in here whenever you want,” she scolded. “We’re sick and tired of you doing that. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chi_ca_go.”

I mentioned Gatsby.

I mentioned Gatsby.

“Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?”

“Oh!” She looked at me again. “Will you just... What was your name?”

She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.

She disappeared. A moment later, Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He led me into his office, saying in a hushed, respectful voice that this was a sad time for all of us. Then he offered me a cigar.

“My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”

“I remember when I first met him,” he said. “He was a young major, just out of the army and covered in medals he’d earned in the war. He was so broke he had to keep wearing his uniform because he couldn’t afford regular clothes. The first time I saw him, he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom on Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eaten anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on, have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”

“Did you start him in business?” I inquired.

“Did you help him get started in business?” I asked.

“Start him! I made him.”

“Get him started! I made him.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”—he held up two bulbous fingers—“always together.”

“I brought him up from nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a good-looking, gentlemanly young man. And when he told me he’d been at Oggsford, I knew I could put him to good use. I got him to join the American Legion, and he used to be highly respected there. Right away, he did some work for a client of mine up in Albany. We were this close in everything.” He held up two thick, rounded fingers. “Always together.”

I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.

I wondered if this partnership had included the 1919 World’s Series deal.

“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”

“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend. So I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”

“I’d like to come.”

“I’d like to come.”

“Well, come then.”

“Well, come on, then.”

The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.

The hair in his nostrils trembled slightly. As he shook his head, his eyes filled with tears.

“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said.

“I can’t do it. I can’t get involved in it,” he said.

“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”

“There’s nothing to get involved in. It’s all over now.”

“When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.”

“When a man gets killed, I never like to get involved in any way. I stay out of it. When I was young, I was different. If a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stood by them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean what I say. To the bitter end.”

I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up.

I could see he was determined not to come, for some reason of his own. So I stood up.

“Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly.

“Did you go to college?” he asked suddenly.

For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand.

For a moment, I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion.” But he only nodded and shook my hand.

“Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.”

“Let’s learn to show our friendship for a man while he’s alive, not after he’s dead,” he suggested. “After he dies, my own rule is to leave everything alone.”

When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me.

By the time I left his office, the sky had turned dark. I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes, I went next door and found Mr. Gatz pacing excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and his son’s possessions kept growing, and now he had something to show me.

“Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.”

“Jimmy sent me this picture.” He pulled out his wallet with shaking fingers. “Look here.”

It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself.

It was a photograph of the house, cracked at the corners and dirty from being handled by many people. He eagerly pointed out every detail to me. “Look there!” Then he looked into my eyes, hoping to see admiration. He had shown the photograph so often that I think it was now more real to him than the house itself.

“Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.”

“Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up clearly.”

“Very well. Had you seen him lately?”

“All right. Had you seen him recently?”

“He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.”

“He came to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course, we were heartbroken when he ran away from home. But I see now there was a reason he left. He knew he had a big future ahead of him. And ever since he became successful, he’s been very generous with me.”

He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy.

He seemed reluctant to put the picture away. He held it in front of me for another minute, lingering over it. Then he put the wallet back and pulled a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy from his pocket.

“Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.”

“Look, this is a book he had as a boy. It just goes to show you.”

He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath:

He opened it at the back cover and turned it around so I could see. On the last blank page was printed the word schedule and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath:

“I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?”

“I found this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just goes to show, doesn’t it?”

“It just shows you.”

“It just goes to show.”

“Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.”

“Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some goals like this or something. Do you notice what he wrote about improving his mind? He was always big on improving his mind. He told me I ate like a hog once, and I beat him for saying so.”

He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use.

He was reluctant to close the book. He read each item aloud, then looked eagerly at me. I think he half expected me to copy down the list for my own use.

A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came.

A little before three, the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing. I found myself looking out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. As time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, Gatsby’s father began blinking anxiously. He spoke about the rain, sounding worried and uncertain. The minister checked his watch several times, so I took him aside and asked him to wait another half hour. But waiting did no good. Nobody came.

About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I looked around. It was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found marvelling over Gatsby’s books in the library one night three months before.

Around five o’clock, our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped beside the gate in a heavy drizzle. First came a motor hearse, horribly black and wet. Then came the limousine, carrying Mr. Gatz, the minister, and me. A little later, four or five servants and the postman from West Egg arrived in Gatsby’s station wagon. They were all soaked to the skin. As we went through the cemetery gate, I heard a car stop. Then I heard someone splashing after us across the soggy ground. I looked back. It was the man with owl-eyed glasses. One night three months earlier, I had found him in the library, marveling at Gatsby’s books.

I’d never seen him since then. I don’t know how he knew about the funeral, or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses, and he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled from Gatsby’s grave.

I hadn’t seen him since then. I don’t know how he found out about the funeral. I don’t even know his name. Rain poured down his thick glasses. He took them off and wiped them so he could see the protective canvas being unrolled from Gatsby’s grave.

I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment, but he was already too far away, and I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower. Dimly I heard someone murmur “Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” and then the owl-eyed man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice.

I tried for a moment to think about Gatsby, but he was already too far away. All I could remember, without resentment, was that Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower. I faintly heard someone murmur “Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on.” Then the owl-eyed man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice.

We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate.

We hurried down through the rain to the cars in a scattered group. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate.

“I couldn’t get to the house,” he remarked.

“I couldn’t get to the house,” he said.

“Neither could anybody else.”

“Nobody else could either.”

“Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds.”

“Come on!” He was startled. “My God! They used to go there by the hundreds.”

He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in.

He took off his glasses and wiped them again, inside and out.

“The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said.

“The poor son of a bitch,” he said.

One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gaieties, to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate.

One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West at Christmas from prep school and later from college. Those traveling beyond Chicago would gather in the old, dim Union Station at six on a December evening. A few Chicago friends would come to say a quick goodbye, already swept up in their own holiday celebrations. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s school. I remember the chatter amid clouds of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we spotted old acquaintances. We compared invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” We held our long green tickets tightly in our gloved hands. And finally, there were the dingy yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad. On the tracks beside the gate, the cars looked as cheerful as Christmas itself.

When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again.

As we pulled out into the winter night, the real snow, our snow, began stretching out beside us. The snow sparkled against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations passed by. A sharp, wild freshness suddenly filled the air. We breathed deeply as we walked back from dinner through the cold passageways between train cars. For one strange hour, we felt beyond words that we were part of this country. Then we blended back into the country, indistinguishable from it again.

That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.

That’s my Middle West. Not the wheat or the prairies or the forgotten Swede towns, but the exciting train rides home in my youth. And the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkness. And the shadows of holly wreaths cast on the snow by lighted windows. I am part of that world, a little solemn from the feeling of those long winters. I’m also a little self-satisfied from growing up in the Carraway house. In that city, houses are still known for decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all. Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I were all Westerners. And perhaps we shared some shortcoming that made us, in subtle ways, unable to adjust to Eastern life.

Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares.

Even when the East excited me most, I always felt something distorted about it. That feeling remained even when I felt most strongly how superior the East was to the towns beyond the Ohio. Those bored, sprawling, bloated towns subjected everyone to endless questioning, sparing only children and the very old. West Egg, especially, still appears in my stranger dreams. I see it as a night scene painted by El Greco. A hundred houses, both ordinary and grotesque, crouch beneath a gloomy, looming sky and a dull moon. In the foreground, four solemn men in formal evening suits walk along the sidewalk, carrying a stretcher. On the stretcher lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand hangs over the side, glittering coldly with jewels. Solemnly, the men turn toward a house. It is the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares.

After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home.

After Gatsby’s death, the East felt haunted to me like that, distorted beyond what my eyes could set right. So I decided to come back home when blue smoke from brittle leaves filled the air. The wind was blowing the wet laundry stiff on the line.

There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair.

There was one thing I had to do before I left. It was awkward and unpleasant, and perhaps I should have left it alone. But I wanted to leave things in order, not just trust the helpful, indifferent sea to sweep my mess away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked both directly and indirectly about what had happened between us. I also talked about what had happened to me afterward. She lay perfectly still in a big chair, listening.

She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye.

She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a fine illustration. Her chin was raised with a little confidence, and her hair was the color of an autumn leaf. Her face was the same shade of brown as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished, she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted she was engaged, though several men would have married her if she had simply nodded. But I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute, I wondered if I was making a mistake. Then I quickly thought it all over again and got up to say goodbye.

“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.”

“Still, you did dump me,” Jordan said suddenly. “You dumped me over the phone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but being dumped was a new experience for me. And I felt a little dizzy for a while.”

We shook hands.

We shook hands.

“Oh, and do you remember”—she added—“a conversation we had once about driving a car?”

She added, “Oh, and do you remember a conversation we once had about driving a car?”

“Why—not exactly.”

“Well, not exactly.”

“You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.”

“You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean, I was careless to get you so wrong. I thought you were a fairly honest, straightforward person. I thought you secretly took pride in being that way.”

“I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.”

“I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call that lying honorable.”

She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.

She didn’t answer. I was angry, half in love with her, and deeply sorry. I turned away.

One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand.

One afternoon in late October, I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way. He held his hands slightly away from his body, as if to fend off interference. His head turned sharply from side to side, following his restless eyes. Just as I slowed down to avoid catching up with him, he stopped and frowned into a jewelry store’s windows. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand.

“What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?”

“What’s wrong, Nick? Do you have a problem with shaking hands with me?”

“Yes. You know what I think of you.”

“Yes. You know what I think of you.”

“You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.”

“You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s wrong with you.”

“Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?”

“Tom,” I asked, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?”

He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after me and grabbed my arm.

He stared at me without saying a word, and I knew I had guessed right about those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he stepped after me and grabbed my arm.

“I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly. “What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even stopped his car.”

“I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were getting ready to leave. When I sent word downstairs that we weren’t home, he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I hadn’t told him who owned the car. He kept his hand on a revolver in his pocket the whole time he was in the house.” He stopped speaking, defiant. “So what if I told him? That guy deserved what happened to him. He fooled you just like he fooled Daisy, but he was a rough character. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even stopped his car.”

There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn’t true.

There was nothing I could say except the one fact I couldn’t say out loud: it wasn’t true.

“And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering—look here, when I went to give up that flat and saw that damn box of dog biscuits sitting there on the sideboard, I sat down and cried like a baby. By God it was awful—”

“And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering, listen. When I went to give up that apartment, I saw that damn box of dog biscuits on the sideboard. I sat down and cried like a baby. By God, it was awful...”

I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made…

I couldn’t forgive him or like him. But I saw that, in his mind, what he had done was completely justified. It was all so careless and confused. Tom and Daisy were careless people. They wrecked things and living beings, then retreated into their money or their endless carelessness. Or they retreated into whatever else kept them together. And they left other people to clean up the mess they had made…

I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt suddenly as though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewellery store to buy a pearl necklace—or perhaps only a pair of cuff buttons—rid of my provincial squeamishness forever.

I shook hands with him. Refusing seemed silly, because I suddenly felt as though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewelry store to buy a pearl necklace, or perhaps just a pair of cufflinks. He was free of my small-town squeamishness forever.

Gatsby’s house was still empty when I left—the grass on his lawn had grown as long as mine. One of the taxi drivers in the village never took a fare past the entrance gate without stopping for a minute and pointing inside; perhaps it was he who drove Daisy and Gatsby over to East Egg the night of the accident, and perhaps he had made a story about it all his own. I didn’t want to hear it and I avoided him when I got off the train.

Gatsby’s house was still empty when I left. The grass on his lawn had grown as long as mine. One taxi driver in the village always stopped for a minute when taking a passenger past the entrance gate. He would point inside. Perhaps he had driven Daisy and Gatsby over to East Egg the night of the accident. And perhaps he had made up his own version of the whole story. I didn’t want to hear his story, and I avoided him when I got off the train.

I spent my Saturday nights in New York because those gleaming, dazzling parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still hear the music and the laughter, faint and incessant, from his garden, and the cars going up and down his drive. One night I did hear a material car there, and saw its lights stop at his front steps. But I didn’t investigate. Probably it was some final guest who had been away at the ends of the earth and didn’t know that the party was over.

I spent my Saturday nights in New York because his glittering, dazzling parties were still so vivid in my memory. I could still hear the faint, constant music and laughter from his garden, and cars coming and going along his driveway. One night I did hear a real car there and saw its lights stop at his front steps. But I didn’t go to see who it was. Probably it was one last guest who had been away in some far corner of the world. The guest didn’t know the party was over.

On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer, I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once more. On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and I erased it, drawing my shoe raspingly along the stone. Then I wandered down to the beach and sprawled out on the sand.

On the last night, my trunk was packed, and I had sold my car to the grocer. I went over for one last look at that huge, disjointed failure of a house. On the white steps, an obscene word stood out clearly in the moonlight. Some boy had scrawled it with a piece of brick. I rubbed the word away, scraping my shoe across the stone. Then I wandered down to the beach and sprawled out on the sand.

Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.

Most of the large homes along the shore were closed now. There were hardly any lights except the dim, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher, the houses seemed to fade away, no longer important. Gradually I became aware of the island as it once was, when it first bloomed before Dutch sailors’ eyes. It was a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees had been cleared to make room for Gatsby’s house. Those trees had once whispered temptations to the last and greatest of all human dreams. For a brief, enchanted moment, people must have held their breath before this continent. Its beauty forced them to pause and reflect in a way they neither understood nor wanted. For the last time in history, they faced something as great as their capacity for wonder.

And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

And as I sat there thinking deeply about the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder. He must have felt it when he first spotted the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn. And his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to reach it. He did not know his dream was already behind him, somewhere in the vast darkness beyond the city. There, the dark fields of the republic stretched on through the night.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further… And one fine morning—

Gatsby believed in the green light, the wildly joyful future that slips further away from us year after year. That future escaped us then, but no matter. Tomorrow we will run faster, reach our arms out further… And one fine morning…

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

So we keep pushing forward, like boats against the current, endlessly carried back into the past.