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20 min

I couldn’t sleep all night; a foghorn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive, and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress—I felt that I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning would be too late.

I couldn’t sleep all night. A foghorn kept moaning on the Sound, and I tossed and turned, feeling half-sick, between twisted reality and wild, terrifying dreams. Near dawn, I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s driveway. I immediately jumped out of bed and began to dress. I felt I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning would be too late.

Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep.

As I crossed his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open. He was leaning against a table in the hall, weighed down by sadness or sleepiness.

“Nothing happened,” he said wanly. “I waited, and about four o’clock she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned out the light.”

“Nothing happened,” he said weakly. “I waited, and around four o’clock she came to the window. She stood there for a minute and then turned out the light.”

His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches—once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they hadn’t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness.

His house had never seemed so enormous to me as that night, when we searched the huge rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtains like large tents and felt along endless stretches of dark wall for light switches. Once I stumbled onto the keys of a ghostly piano, making a sound like a splash. There was an unexplained amount of dust everywhere. The rooms smelled musty, as though they hadn’t been aired out for days. I found the humidor, a box for keeping tobacco moist, on a table I didn’t recognize. Inside were two stale, dry cigarettes. We threw open the living room’s French windows and sat smoking, looking out into the darkness.

“You ought to go away,” I said. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace your car.”

“You should leave,” I said. “They’ll almost certainly trace your car.”

“Go away now, old sport?”

“Leave now, pal?”

“Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.”

He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn’t bear to shake him free.

He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was holding on to some last hope, and I couldn’t bear to make him let go.

It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody—told it to me because “Jay Gatsby” had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy.

That night, he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody. He told me because “Jay Gatsby” had shattered like glass against Tom’s cruel malice. The long, secret spectacle was over. I think he would now have admitted anything without holding back, but he wanted to talk about Daisy.

She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him—he had never been in such a beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless intensity, was that Daisy lived there—it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s shining motorcars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved Daisy—it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions.

She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. He had met people like her in various roles he never explained. But there had always been invisible barbed wire between him and them. He found her thrillingly desirable. He visited her house, first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone. The house amazed him. He had never been in a house so beautiful. But Daisy’s presence gave the house its breathless intensity. Living there was as ordinary to her as living in his tent at camp was to him. The house was full of rich mystery. It hinted at upstairs bedrooms more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms. It suggested joyful, dazzling activities throughout its hallways. It hinted at romances that were not stale memories, already packed away with lavender. These romances were fresh and alive, carrying the scent of this year’s gleaming motorcars and dances whose flowers had barely wilted. He was also excited that many men had already loved Daisy. Their love made her more valuable in his eyes. He felt their presence throughout the house, filling the air with shadows and echoes of emotions still alive.

But he knew that he was in Daisy’s house by a colossal accident. However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was at present a penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and unscrupulously—eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took her because he had no real right to touch her hand.

But he knew he was in Daisy’s house only because of an extraordinary accident. However glorious his future as Jay Gatsby might be, he was still a penniless young man without a past. And at any moment, the invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he made the most of his time. He took whatever he could get, greedily and without concern for right or wrong. Eventually he took Daisy one quiet October night. He took her because he had no real right even to touch her hand.

He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under false pretences. I don’t mean that he had traded on his phantom millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he let her believe that he was a person from much the same strata as herself—that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of fact, he had no such facilities—he had no comfortable family standing behind him, and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government to be blown anywhere about the world.

He might have despised himself, because he had certainly won her over under false pretenses. I don’t mean he had used his imaginary millions, but he had deliberately made Daisy feel secure. He let her believe he came from much the same social class as she did. He let her believe he could fully provide for her. In fact, he had no such resources. He had no well-off family backing him. And at the whim of an impersonal government, he could be sent anywhere in the world.

But he didn’t despise himself and it didn’t turn out as he had imagined. He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go—but now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn’t realize just how extraordinary a “nice” girl could be. She vanished into her rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby—nothing. He felt married to her, that was all.

But he didn’t hate himself, and things hadn’t turned out as he had imagined. He had probably planned to take what he could and leave. But now he found himself committed to a quest for a grail. He knew Daisy was extraordinary. But he hadn’t realized just how extraordinary a “nice” girl could be. She disappeared into her wealthy home and her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby with nothing. He felt married to her. That was all.

When they met again, two days later, it was Gatsby who was breathless, who was, somehow, betrayed. Her porch was bright with the bought luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth. She had caught a cold, and it made her voice huskier and more charming than ever, and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many clothes, and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the hot struggles of the poor.

When they met again two days later, Gatsby was the one who was breathless and, somehow, betrayed. Her porch shone with the luxury of starlight that money could buy. The wicker sofa creaked fashionably as she turned toward him, and he kissed her curious, lovely mouth. She had caught a cold, making her voice huskier and more charming than ever. Gatsby felt overwhelmingly aware of the youth and mystery that wealth locks away and preserves. He felt the freshness of so many clothes, and saw Daisy gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the desperate struggles of the poor.

“I can’t describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her, old sport. I even hoped for a while that she’d throw me over, but she didn’t, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot because I knew different things from her… Well, there I was, way off my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden I didn’t care. What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do?”

“I can’t tell you how surprised I was to realize I loved her, old sport. For a while, I even hoped she’d break up with me. But she didn’t, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot because I knew things she didn’t… Well, there I was, far from my ambitions, falling more in love every minute. And suddenly I didn’t care. What was the point of achieving great things if telling her about my plans could make me happier?”

On the last afternoon before he went abroad, he sat with Daisy in his arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with fire in the room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his arm a little, and once he kissed her dark shining hair. The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised. They had never been closer in their month of love, nor communicated more profoundly one with another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were asleep.

On his last afternoon before going abroad, he sat holding Daisy in his arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with a fire in the room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved, and he shifted his arm a little. Once he kissed her dark, shining hair. The afternoon had brought them peace for a while. It was as if those hours were giving them a deep memory for the long separation beginning the next day. In their month of love, they had never been closer or shared more deeply than in those quiet moments. She brushed her lips silently against the shoulder of his coat. He touched her fingertips gently, as though she were asleep.

He did extraordinarily well in the war. He was a captain before he went to the front, and following the Argonne battles he got his majority and the command of the divisional machine-guns. After the armistice he tried frantically to get home, but some complication or misunderstanding sent him to Oxford instead. He was worried now—there was a quality of nervous despair in Daisy’s letters. She didn’t see why he couldn’t come. She was feeling the pressure of the world outside, and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all.

He did extraordinarily well in the war. He was a captain before he went to the front. After the Argonne battles, he was promoted to major and given command of the division’s machine guns. After the armistice, he tried frantically to get home. But some complication or misunderstanding sent him to Oxford instead. He was worried now. Daisy’s letters had a tone of nervous despair. She didn’t understand why he couldn’t come. She was feeling pressure from the world around her, and she wanted to see him and feel him beside her. She wanted reassurance that she was doing the right thing after all.

For Daisy was young and her artificial world was redolent of orchids and pleasant, cheerful snobbery and orchestras which set the rhythm of the year, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in new tunes. All night the saxophones wailed the hopeless comment of the “Beale Street Blues” while a hundred pairs of golden and silver slippers shuffled the shining dust. At the grey tea hour there were always rooms that throbbed incessantly with this low, sweet fever, while fresh faces drifted here and there like rose petals blown by the sad horns around the floor.

For Daisy was young, and her artificial world was filled with the scent of orchids and pleasant, cheerful snobbery. Orchestras set the rhythm of the year, capturing life’s sadness and hints of possibility in new tunes. All night the saxophones wailed the hopeless message of the “Beale Street Blues”. Meanwhile, a hundred pairs of gold and silver slippers shuffled through the shining dust. At the gray hour of afternoon tea, there were always rooms pulsing endlessly with this quiet, sweet fever. Fresh faces drifted here and there across the floor like rose petals blown by the mournful horns.

Through this twilight universe Daisy began to move again with the season; suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with half a dozen men, and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and chiffon of an evening-dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor beside her bed. And all the time something within her was crying for a decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately—and the decision must be made by some force—of love, of money, of unquestionable practicality—that was close at hand.

In this twilight world, Daisy began moving again with the social season. Suddenly she was again going on half a dozen dates a day with half a dozen men. At dawn she would drift off to sleep. Her evening dress lay on the floor beside her bed, its beads and chiffon tangled among dying orchids. And all the time, something inside her was crying out for a decision. She wanted her life to take shape now, immediately. And some force close at hand had to make the decision: love, money, or unquestionable practicality.

That force took shape in the middle of spring with the arrival of Tom Buchanan. There was a wholesome bulkiness about his person and his position, and Daisy was flattered. Doubtless there was a certain struggle and a certain relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was still at Oxford.

That force took shape in mid-spring when Tom Buchanan arrived. There was a wholesome solidity to his body and his social standing, and Daisy felt flattered. No doubt there was some struggle and some relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was still at Oxford.

It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of the windows downstairs, filling the house with grey-turning, gold-turning light. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a slow, pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool, lovely day.

Dawn had come to Long Island, and we opened the rest of the downstairs windows. Light filled the house, turning gray, then gold. A tree’s shadow fell suddenly across the dew, and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. The air moved slowly and pleasantly, barely a breeze, promising a cool, lovely day.

“I don’t think she ever loved him.” Gatsby turned around from a window and looked at me challengingly. “You must remember, old sport, she was very excited this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that frightened her—that made it look as if I was some kind of cheap sharper. And the result was she hardly knew what she was saying.”

“I don’t think she ever loved him.” Gatsby turned away from a window and gave me a challenging look. “You have to remember, old sport, she was very worked up this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that scared her and made me look like some kind of cheap con artist. So she hardly knew what she was saying.”

He sat down gloomily.

He sat down sadly.

“Of course she might have loved him just for a minute, when they were first married—and loved me more even then, do you see?”

“Of course, she might have loved him for a moment when they first married. And loved me more even then, do you see?”

Suddenly he came out with a curious remark.

Suddenly he said something strange.

“In any case,” he said, “it was just personal.”

“Anyway,” he said, “it was just personal.”

What could you make of that, except to suspect some intensity in his conception of the affair that couldn’t be measured?

What else could you make of that? You could only suspect his vision of the affair had an intensity beyond measure.

He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their wedding trip, and made a miserable but irresistible journey to Louisville on the last of his army pay. He stayed there a week, walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which they had driven in her white car. Just as Daisy’s house had always seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses, so his idea of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded with a melancholy beauty.

He returned from France while Tom and Daisy were still on their honeymoon. With the last of his army pay, he made a miserable trip to Louisville that he couldn’t resist. He stayed there a week, walking the streets where his and Daisy’s footsteps had clicked together through the November night. He also revisited the out-of-the-way places they had driven to in her white car. Daisy’s house had always seemed more mysterious and cheerful to him than other houses. In the same way, the city itself seemed filled with a sad beauty, even though Daisy was gone.

He left feeling that if he had searched harder, he might have found her—that he was leaving her behind. The day-coach—he was penniless now—was hot. He went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a folding-chair, and the station slid away and the backs of unfamiliar buildings moved by. Then out into the spring fields, where a yellow trolley raced them for a minute with people in it who might once have seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street.

He left feeling that if he had searched harder, he might have found her. He felt he was leaving her behind. He had no money now, and the train’s coach was hot. He went out to the open platform between cars and sat on a folding chair. The station slid away, and the backs of unfamiliar buildings passed by. Then the train headed into the spring fields, where a yellow trolley raced alongside it for a minute. The trolley carried people who might once have seen the pale magic of her face along an ordinary street.

The track curved and now it was going away from the sun, which, as it sank lower, seemed to spread itself in benediction over the vanishing city where she had drawn her breath. He stretched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too fast now for his blurred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part of it, the freshest and the best, forever.

The track curved, turning away from the sun. As the sun sank lower, it seemed to spread like a blessing over the fading city where she had breathed. He desperately reached out his hand as if to catch just a wisp of air. He wanted to save a fragment of the place she had made beautiful for him. But everything was passing too quickly now for his blurred eyes. And he knew he had lost that part of it, the freshest and the best, forever.

It was nine o’clock when we finished breakfast and went out on the porch. The night had made a sharp difference in the weather and there was an autumn flavour in the air. The gardener, the last one of Gatsby’s former servants, came to the foot of the steps.

It was nine o’clock when we finished breakfast and went out onto the porch. The weather had changed sharply overnight, and there was a hint of autumn in the air. The gardener came to the bottom of the steps. He was the last of Gatsby’s former servants.

“I’m going to drain the pool today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves’ll start falling pretty soon, and then there’s always trouble with the pipes.”

“I’m going to drain the pool today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves will start falling pretty soon, and then there’s always trouble with the pipes.”

“Don’t do it today,” Gatsby answered. He turned to me apologetically. “You know, old sport, I’ve never used that pool all summer?”

“Don’t do it today,” Gatsby replied. He turned to me apologetically. “You know, my friend, I haven’t used that pool once all summer?”

I looked at my watch and stood up.

I checked my watch and stood up.

“Twelve minutes to my train.”

“My train leaves in twelve minutes.”

I didn’t want to go to the city. I wasn’t worth a decent stroke of work, but it was more than that—I didn’t want to leave Gatsby. I missed that train, and then another, before I could get myself away.

I didn’t want to go to the city. I couldn’t do any decent work, but there was more to it. I didn’t want to leave Gatsby. I missed that train, and then another, before I could make myself leave.

“I’ll call you up,” I said finally.

“I’ll call you,” I said finally.

“Do, old sport.”

“Go ahead, my friend.”

“I’ll call you about noon.”

“I’ll call you around noon.”

We walked slowly down the steps.

“I suppose Daisy’ll call too.” He looked at me anxiously, as if he hoped I’d corroborate this.

“I suppose Daisy will call too.” He looked at me anxiously, as if he hoped I’d agree that Daisy would call.

“I suppose so.”

“I guess so.”

“Well, goodbye.”

We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I remembered something and turned around.

We shook hands, and I started to walk away. Just before I reached the hedge, I remembered something and turned around.

“They’re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”

“They’re a terrible bunch,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth more than the whole damn bunch put together.”

I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of colour against the white steps, and I thought of the night when I first came to his ancestral home, three months before. The lawn and drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his corruption—and he had stood on those steps, concealing his incorruptible dream, as he waved them goodbye.

I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely. Then his face lit up with that radiant, understanding smile. It was as if we’d secretly shared a joyful agreement about that fact all along. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit stood out brightly against the white steps. I thought of the night I first came to his ancestral home, three months earlier. The lawn and driveway had been crowded with people who suspected his corruption. And he had stood on those steps, hiding his dream that nothing could corrupt, as he waved them goodbye.

I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for that—I and the others.

I thanked him for being such a good host. The others and I were always thanking him for that.

“Goodbye,” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.”

Up in the city, I tried for a while to list the quotations on an interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel-chair. Just before noon the phone woke me, and I started up with sweat breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker; she often called me up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other way. Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool, as if a divot from a green golf-links had come sailing in at the office window, but this morning it seemed harsh and dry.

Up in the city, I spent a while trying to list prices for an endless number of stocks. Then I fell asleep in my swivel chair. Just before noon, the phone woke me, and I jolted upright, sweat breaking out on my forehead. Jordan Baker was calling. She often called me around this time because her unpredictable movements between hotels, clubs, and private homes made her hard to reach otherwise. Usually her voice sounded fresh and cool over the phone. It was as if a clump of turf from a green golf course had sailed through the office window. But this morning her voice seemed harsh and dry.

“I’ve left Daisy’s house,” she said. “I’m at Hempstead, and I’m going down to Southampton this afternoon.”

“I’ve left Daisy’s house,” she said. “I’m in Hempstead, and I’m heading down to Southampton this afternoon.”

Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy’s house, but the act annoyed me, and her next remark made me rigid.

Leaving Daisy’s house had probably been the tactful thing to do, but leaving annoyed me. And her next remark made me tense up.

“You weren’t so nice to me last night.”

“You weren’t very nice to me last night.”

“How could it have mattered then?”

“How could it have mattered back then?”

Silence for a moment. Then:

A moment of silence. Then:

“However—I want to see you.”

“But I want to see you.”

“I want to see you, too.”

“Suppose I don’t go to Southampton, and come into town this afternoon?”

“What if I don’t go to Southampton and come into town this afternoon instead?”

“No—I don’t think this afternoon.”

“No, I don’t think so this afternoon.”

“Very well.”

“All right.”

“It’s impossible this afternoon. Various—”

“It’s impossible this afternoon. Various...”

We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren’t talking any longer. I don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never talked to her again in this world.

We talked like that for a while, then suddenly we stopped talking. I don’t know who hung up with a sharp click, but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have sat across a table from her over tea and talked to her that day. Not even if I never spoke to her again in my life.

I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my timetable, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.

I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I tried four times. Finally, an irritated telephone operator told me the line was being held open for a long-distance call from Detroit. I took out my train schedule and drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.

When I passed the ash-heaps on the train that morning I had crossed deliberately to the other side of the car. I supposed there’d be a curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark spots in the dust, and some garrulous man telling over and over what had happened, until it became less and less real even to him and he could tell it no longer, and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement was forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at the garage after we left there the night before.

As the train passed the ash heaps that morning, I deliberately moved to the other side of the car. I supposed a curious crowd would gather there all day, with little boys searching for dark spots in the dust. Some talkative man would tell what had happened over and over, until the story seemed less and less real even to him. Eventually, he would no longer be able to tell the story, and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement would be forgotten. Now I want to go back a little. I want to tell what happened at the garage after we left the night before.

They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have broken her rule against drinking that night, for when she arrived she was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of this, she immediately fainted, as if that was the intolerable part of the affair. Someone, kind or curious, took her in his car and drove her in the wake of her sister’s body.

They had trouble finding the sister, Catherine. She must have broken her rule against drinking that night, because she arrived too drunk to understand anything. She could not grasp that the ambulance had already left for Flushing. When they convinced her the ambulance had gone, she fainted immediately, as if that were the unbearable part of it all. Someone, out of kindness or curiosity, took her in his car and drove her behind her sister’s body.

Until long after midnight a changing crowd lapped up against the front of the garage, while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on the couch inside. For a while the door of the office was open, and everyone who came into the garage glanced irresistibly through it. Finally someone said it was a shame, and closed the door. Michaelis and several other men were with him; first, four or five men, later two or three men. Still later Michaelis had to ask the last stranger to wait there fifteen minutes longer, while he went back to his own place and made a pot of coffee. After that, he stayed there alone with Wilson until dawn.

Until long after midnight, a shifting crowd gathered outside the garage while George Wilson rocked back and forth on the couch inside. For a while, the office door stood open. Everyone who came into the garage couldn’t help looking through the doorway. Finally, someone said it was a shame and closed the door. Michaelis and several other men stayed with Wilson. At first there were four or five men, then two or three. Still later, Michaelis had to ask the last stranger to stay fifteen minutes longer. Meanwhile, Michaelis went back to his own place and made a pot of coffee. After that, Michaelis stayed alone with Wilson until dawn.

About three o’clock the quality of Wilson’s incoherent muttering changed—he grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car. He announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car belonged to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago his wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose swollen.

Around three o’clock, Wilson’s confused muttering changed. He grew quieter and began talking about the yellow car. He announced that he had a way to find out who owned the yellow car. Then he blurted out that a couple of months earlier, his wife had returned from the city. Her face had been bruised and her nose swollen.

But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry “Oh, my God!” again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt to distract him.

But when he heard himself say this, he flinched. He began crying “Oh, my God!” again in a groaning voice. Michaelis clumsily tried to distract him.

“How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit still a minute, and answer my question. How long have you been married?”

“How long have you been married, George? Come on, try to sit still for a minute and answer my question. How long have you been married?”

“Twelve years.”

“Ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still—I asked you a question. Did you ever have any children?”

“Have you ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still. I asked you a question. Have you ever had any children?”

The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light, and whenever Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it sounded to him like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before. He didn’t like to go into the garage, because the work bench was stained where the body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably around the office—he knew every object in it before morning—and from time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet.

The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dim light. Whenever Michaelis heard a car speeding along the road outside, it sounded like the car that hadn’t stopped hours earlier. He didn’t like going into the garage because the workbench was stained where the body had lain. So he moved uneasily around the office. By morning, he knew every object in the room. From time to time, he sat down beside Wilson, trying to keep him quieter.

“Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you haven’t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?”

“Do you have a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even one you haven’t been to in a long time? Maybe I could call the church and ask a priest to come over and talk to you, see?”

“Don’t belong to any.”

“I don’t belong to any.”

“You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen, George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?”

“You should have a church to turn to, George, at times like this. You must have gone to church at some point. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen, George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?”

“That was a long time ago.”

The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking—for a moment he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came back into his faded eyes.

The effort of answering disrupted the rhythm of his rocking. For a moment, he was silent. Then the same look, half understanding and half confusion, returned to his faded eyes.

“Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk.

“Look in that drawer,” he said, pointing at the desk.

“Which drawer?”

“That drawer—that one.”

“That drawer, that one.”

Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided silver. It was apparently new.

Michaelis opened the drawer closest to his hand. The drawer held only a small, expensive dog leash made of leather and braided silver. The leash looked new.

“This?” he inquired, holding it up.

“This?” he asked, holding it up.

Wilson stared and nodded.

“I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I knew it was something funny.”

“I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I knew something wasn’t right.”

“You mean your wife bought it?”

“She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.”

“She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her dresser.”

Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle, because he began saying “Oh, my God!” again in a whisper—his comforter left several explanations in the air.

Michaelis saw nothing odd about that. He gave Wilson a dozen reasons why his wife might have bought the dog leash. But perhaps Wilson had heard some of those same explanations before, from Myrtle, because he began whispering “Oh, my God!” again. Michaelis, who was trying to comfort him, left several explanations unfinished.

“Then he killed her,” said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly.

“Then he killed her,” Wilson said. His mouth suddenly fell open.

“Who did?”

“I have a way of finding out.”

“You’re morbid, George,” said his friend. “This has been a strain to you and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’d better try and sit quiet till morning.”

“You’re dwelling on dark thoughts, George,” said his friend. “This has put you under a lot of stress, and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’d better try to sit quietly until morning.”

“He murdered her.”

“It was an accident, George.”

Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened slightly with the ghost of a superior “Hm!”

Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth widened slightly with the faintest hint of a smug “Hm!”

“I know,” he said definitely. “I’m one of these trusting fellas and I don’t think any harm to _no_body, but when I get to know a thing I know it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him and he wouldn’t stop.”

“I know,” he said firmly. “I’m a trusting guy, and I don’t think badly of _any_body. But when I know something, I know it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him, and he wouldn’t stop.”

Michaelis had seen this too, but it hadn’t occurred to him that there was any special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson had been running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any particular car.

Michaelis had seen this too, but he hadn’t thought it meant anything special. He believed Mrs. Wilson had been running away from her husband, not trying to stop any particular car.

“How could she of been like that?”

“How could she have been like that?”

“She’s a deep one,” said Wilson, as if that answered the question. “Ah-h-h—”

“She’s hard to figure out,” said Wilson, as if that answered the question. “Ahhh...”

He began to rock again, and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his hand.

He started rocking again, and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his hand.

“Maybe you got some friend that I could telephone for, George?”

“Maybe you have a friend I could call for you, George?”

This was a forlorn hope—he was almost sure that Wilson had no friend: there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window, and realized that dawn wasn’t far off. About five o’clock it was blue enough outside to snap off the light.

It was a faint hope. He was almost sure Wilson had no friends. There wasn’t enough of Wilson even for his wife. A little later, he was glad to notice a change in the room, a growing blue light by the window. He realized dawn wasn’t far off. By about five o’clock, the blue light outside was bright enough for him to switch off the light.

Wilson’s glazed eyes turned out to the ash-heaps, where small grey clouds took on fantastic shapes and scurried here and there in the faint dawn wind.

Wilson’s glazed eyes turned toward the ash heaps. Small gray clouds above the heaps formed strange shapes and darted around in the light dawn breeze.

“I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a long silence. “I told her she might fool me but she couldn’t fool God. I took her to the window”—with an effort he got up and walked to the rear window and leaned with his face pressed against it—“and I said ‘God knows what you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing. You may fool me, but you can’t fool God!’ ”

“I spoke to her,” he muttered after a long silence. “I told her she might fool me, but she couldn’t fool God. I took her to the window.” With an effort, he stood up and walked to the back window. He leaned against it, pressing his face to the glass. “And I said, ‘God knows what you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing. You may fool me, but you can’t fool God!’”

Standing behind him, Michaelis saw with a shock that he was looking at the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale and enormous, from the dissolving night.

Standing behind him, Michaelis was shocked to see that he was looking at the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes had just emerged, pale and enormous, from the fading night.

“God sees everything,” repeated Wilson.

“God sees everything,” Wilson repeated.

“That’s an advertisement,” Michaelis assured him. Something made him turn away from the window and look back into the room. But Wilson stood there a long time, his face close to the window pane, nodding into the twilight.

“That’s an ad,” Michaelis assured him. Something made Michaelis turn away from the window and look back into the room. But Wilson stood there a long time, his face close to the window glass, nodding into the twilight.

By six o’clock Michaelis was worn out, and grateful for the sound of a car stopping outside. It was one of the watchers of the night before who had promised to come back, so he cooked breakfast for three, which he and the other man ate together. Wilson was quieter now, and Michaelis went home to sleep; when he awoke four hours later and hurried back to the garage, Wilson was gone.

By six o’clock Michaelis was exhausted and grateful to hear a car stopping outside. One of the men who had kept watch the night before had promised to return, and now he was back. So Michaelis cooked breakfast for three, and he and the other man ate together. Wilson was quieter now, and Michaelis went home to sleep. When Michaelis woke four hours later and hurried back to the garage, Wilson was gone.

His movements—he was on foot all the time—were afterward traced to Port Roosevelt and then to Gad’s Hill, where he bought a sandwich that he didn’t eat, and a cup of coffee. He must have been tired and walking slowly, for he didn’t reach Gad’s Hill until noon. Thus far there was no difficulty in accounting for his time—there were boys who had seen a man “acting sort of crazy,” and motorists at whom he stared oddly from the side of the road. Then for three hours he disappeared from view. The police, on the strength of what he said to Michaelis, that he “had a way of finding out,” supposed that he spent that time going from garage to garage thereabout, inquiring for a yellow car. On the other hand, no garage man who had seen him ever came forward, and perhaps he had an easier, surer way of finding out what he wanted to know. By half-past two he was in West Egg, where he asked someone the way to Gatsby’s house. So by that time he knew Gatsby’s name.

His movements were later traced to Port Roosevelt and then to Gad’s Hill. He was on foot the whole time. At Gad’s Hill, he bought a sandwich he didn’t eat and a cup of coffee. He must have been tired and walking slowly, because he didn’t reach Gad’s Hill until noon. Up to that point, his time was easy to account for. Some boys had seen a man “acting sort of crazy,” and drivers had seen him staring oddly at them from the roadside. Then, for three hours, he disappeared from view. The police based their theory on his statement to Michaelis that he “had a way of finding out.” They supposed he spent those hours going from garage to garage nearby, asking about a yellow car. But no garage worker who had seen him ever came forward. Perhaps he had an easier, more certain way to find out what he wanted to know. By two thirty, he was in West Egg, where he asked someone for directions to Gatsby’s house. So by then, he knew Gatsby’s name.

At two o’clock Gatsby put on his bathing-suit and left word with the butler that if anyone phoned word was to be brought to him at the pool. He stopped at the garage for a pneumatic mattress that had amused his guests during the summer, and the chauffeur helped him to pump it up. Then he gave instructions that the open car wasn’t to be taken out under any circumstances—and this was strange, because the front right fender needed repair.

At two o’clock Gatsby put on his swimsuit. He told the butler to bring any phone messages to him at the pool. He stopped at the garage for an air mattress that had entertained his guests during the summer. The chauffeur helped him pump it up. Then Gatsby gave orders that the open-top car was not to be taken out under any circumstances. This order was strange because the car’s front right fender needed repairs.

Gatsby shouldered the mattress and started for the pool. Once he stopped and shifted it a little, and the chauffeur asked him if he needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among the yellowing trees.

Gatsby lifted the mattress onto his shoulder and headed for the pool. He stopped once to adjust it a little, and the chauffeur asked if he needed help. But Gatsby shook his head and a moment later disappeared among the yellowing trees.

No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep and waited for it until four o’clock—until long after there was anyone to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about… like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees.

No telephone message came, but the butler stayed awake waiting for one until four o’clock. By then, anyone the message could have been given to was long gone. I suspect Gatsby himself didn’t believe the message would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If so, he must have felt he had lost the old, warm world. He must have felt he had paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up through frightening leaves at an unfamiliar sky and shivered. He must have seen how grotesque a rose was and how harsh the sunlight was on the barely formed grass. A new world, made of solid things but not real, where poor ghosts breathed dreams like air and drifted aimlessly… like that gray, strange figure gliding toward him through the shapeless trees.

The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried down to the pool.

The chauffeur heard the shots. He was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés. Afterwards, he could only say he hadn’t thought much about the shots. I drove straight from the station to Gatsby’s house. No one was alarmed until I rushed anxiously up the front steps. But I firmly believe they knew then. With hardly a word, the four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I, hurried down to the pool.

There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water.

The water moved faintly, almost too little to notice. Fresh water flowed in at one end, pushing toward the drain at the other. The mattress, carrying its weight, drifted unevenly down the pool on tiny ripples, hardly even shadows of waves. A light gust barely rippled the surface, but was enough to shift the mattress from its chance course. Its burden, too, was there by chance. A cluster of leaves brushed the mattress and slowly turned it. Like the leg of a surveying instrument, the mattress traced a thin red circle in the water.

It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete.

We had started toward the house with Gatsby when the gardener spotted Wilson’s body nearby in the grass. And the carnage was complete.