I
InmyyoungerandmorevulnerableyearsmyfathergavemesomeadvicethatI’vebeenturningoverinmymindeversince.
“Wheneveryoufeellikecriticizinganyone,”hetoldme,“justrememberthatallthepeopleinthisworldhaven’thadtheadvantagesthatyou’vehad.”
Hedidn’tsayanymore,butwe’vealwaysbeenunusuallycommunicativeinareservedway,andIunderstoodthathemeantagreatdealmorethanthat.
Inconsequence,I’minclinedtoreservealljudgements,ahabitthathasopenedupmanycuriousnaturestomeandalsomademethevictimofnotafewveteranbores.
Theabnormalmindisquicktodetectandattachitselftothisqualitywhenitappearsinanormalperson,andsoitcameaboutthatincollegeIwasunjustlyaccusedofbeingapolitician,becauseIwasprivytothesecretgriefsofwild,unknownmen.
Mostoftheconfidenceswereunsought—frequentlyIhavefeignedsleep,preoccupation,orahostilelevitywhenI
réalisé
realizedbysomeunmistakablesignthatanintimaterevelationwasquiveringonthehorizon;fortheintimaterevelationsofyoungmen,oratleastthetermsinwhichtheyexpressthem,are
généralement
usuallyplagiaristicandmarredbyobvioussuppressions.Reservingjudgementsisamatterofinfinitehope.
IamstillalittleafraidofmissingsomethingifIforgetthat,asmyfathersnobbishlysuggested,andIsnobbishlyrepeat,a
sens
senseofthefundamentaldecenciesisparcelledoutunequallyatbirth.And,afterboastingthiswayofmytolerance,Icometotheadmissionthatithasalimit.
Conductmaybefoundedonthehard
roche
rockorthewetmarshes,butafteracertainpointIdon’tcarewhatit’sfoundedon.WhenIcamebackfromtheEastlastautumnIfeltthatIwantedtheworldtobeinuniformandatasortofmoralattentionforever;
Iwantednomoreriotousexcursionswithprivilegedglimpsesintothehumanheart.
OnlyGatsby,themanwhogiveshisnametothisbook,wasexemptfrommyreaction—Gatsby,whorepresentedeverythingforwhichIhaveanunaffectedscorn.
Ifpersonalityisanunbrokenseriesofsuccessfulgestures,thentherewassomethinggorgeousabouthim,someheightenedsensitivitytothepromisesoflife,asifhewererelatedtooneofthoseintricatemachinesthatregisterearthquakesten
mille
thousandmilesaway.Thisresponsivenesshadnothingtodowiththatflabbyimpressionabilitywhichisdignifiedunderthenameofthe“creativetemperament”—itwasanextraordinary
don
giftforhope,aromanticreadinesssuchasIhaveneverfoundinanyotherpersonandwhichitisnotlikelyIshalleverfindagain.No—Gatsbyturnedoutallrightattheend;
itiswhatpreyedonGatsby,whatfouldustfloatedinthewakeofhisdreamsthattemporarilyclosedoutmy
intérêt
interestintheabortivesorrowsandshort-windedelationsofmen.Myfamilyhavebeenprominent,well-to-dopeopleinthis
Moyen
MiddleWesterncityforthreegenerations.TheCarrawaysaresomethingofaclan,andwehaveatraditionthatwe’redescendedfromtheDukesofBuccleuch,buttheactualfounderofmylinewasmygrandfather’sbrother,whocamehereinfifty-one,sentasubstitutetotheCivilWar,andstartedthewholesalehardwarebusinessthatmyfathercarriesontoday.
Ineversawthisgreat-uncle,butI’msupposedtolooklikehim—withspecialreferencetothe
plutôt
ratherhard-boiledpaintingthathangsinfather’soffice.IgraduatedfromNewHavenin1915,justaquarterofacenturyaftermyfather,andalittlelaterIparticipatedinthatdelayedTeutonicmigrationknownastheGreatWar.
I
apprécié
enjoyedthecounter-raidsothoroughlythatIcamebackrestless.Insteadofbeingthe
chaleureux
warmcentreoftheworld,theMoyen
MiddleWestnowseemedliketheraggededgeoftheuniverse—soIdécidé
decidedtogoEastandlearnthebondbusiness.EverybodyIknewwasinthebondbusiness,soI
supposé
supposeditcouldsupportonemorecélibataire
singleman.Allmyauntsandunclestalkeditoverasiftheywere
choisissaient
choosingaprepschoolforme,andfinalement
finallysaid,“Why—ye-es,”withverygrave,hesitantfaces.Father
accepté
agreedtofinancemeforayear,andaftervariousdelaysIcameEast,permanently,Ithought,inthespringoftwenty-two.Thepracticalthingwastofindroomsinthecity,butitwasawarmseason,andIhadjustleftacountryofwidelawnsandfriendlytrees,sowhenayoungmanattheofficesuggestedthatwetakeahousetogetherinacommutingtown,itsoundedlikeagreatidea.
Hefoundthehouse,aweather-beatencardboardbungalowateightya
mois
month,butatthelastminutethefirmorderedhimtoWashington,andIwentouttothecountryalone.Ihadadog—atleastIhadhimforafewdaysuntilheranaway—andanoldDodgeandaFinnishwoman,whomademybedandcooked
petit déjeuner
breakfastandmutteredFinnishwisdomtoherselfovertheelectricstove.Itwaslonelyforadayorsountilonemorningsomeman,morerecentlyarrivedthanI,stoppedmeonthe
route
road.“HowdoyougettoWestEggvillage?”
heaskedhelplessly.
Itoldhim.
AndasIwalkedonIwaslonelynolonger.
Iwasaguide,apathfinder,anoriginalsettler.
Hehadcasuallyconferredonmethefreedomoftheneighbourhood.
Andsowiththesunshineandthegreatburstsofleaves
poussent
growingonthetrees,justasthingspoussent
growinfastmovies,Ihadthatfamiliarconvictionthatlifewasbeginningoveragainwiththesummer.Therewassomuchtoread,foronething,andsomuchfinehealthtobe
tirer
pulleddownoutoftheyoungbreath-givingair.Iboughtadozenvolumesonbankingandcreditandinvestmentsecurities,andtheystoodonmyshelfinredand
or
goldlikenewmoneyfromthemint,promisingtounfoldtheshiningsecretsthatonlyMidasandMorganandMaecenasknew.AndIhadthehighintentionofreadingmanyotherbooksbesides.
Iwas
plutôt
ratherliteraryincollege—oneyearIwroteaseriesofverysolemnandobviouseditorialsfortheYaleNews—andnowIwasgoingtobringbackallsuchthingsintomylifeandbecomeagainthatmostlimitedofallspecialists,the“well-roundedman.”Thisisn’tjustanepigram—lifeismuchmoresuccessfullylookedatfromasingle
fenêtre
window,afterall.ItwasamatterofchancethatIshouldhaverentedahouseinoneofthestrangestcommunitiesin
Nord
NorthAmerica.Itwasonthatslenderriotous
île
islandwhichextendsitselfdueeastofNewYork—andwherethereare,amongothernaturalcuriosities,twounusualformationsofterre
land.Twentymilesfromthecityapairofenormouseggs,identicalincontourandseparatedonlybyacourtesybay,jutoutintothemostdomesticatedbodyofsaltwaterintheWesternhemisphere,thegreatwetbarnyardofLongIslandSound.
Theyarenotperfectovals—liketheeggintheColumbusstory,theyarebothcrushedflatatthe
contact
contactend—buttheirphysicalresemblancemustbeasourceofperpetualwondertothegullsthatvolent
flyoverhead.Tothewinglessamore
intéressant
interestingphenomenonistheirdissimilarityineveryparticularsauf
exceptshapeandsize.IlivedatWestEgg,the—well,the
moins
lessfashionableofthetwo,thoughthisisamostsuperficialtagtoexpressthebizarreandnotalittlesinistercontrastbetweenthem.Myhousewasattheverytipoftheegg,onlyfiftyyardsfromtheSound,andsqueezedbetweentwohugeplacesthatrentedfortwelveorfifteen
mille
thousandaseason.Theoneonmyrightwasacolossalaffairbyanystandard—itwasafactualimitationofsomeHôteldeVilleinNormandy,withatowerononeside,spankingnewunderathinbeardofrawivy,andamarbleswimmingpool,andmorethanfortyacresoflawnandgarden.
ItwasGatsby’smansion.
Or,
plutôt
rather,asIdidn’tknowMr.Gatsby,itwasamansioninhabitedbyagentlemanofthatname.Myownhousewasaneyesore,butitwasasmalleyesore,andithadbeenoverlooked,soIhadaviewofthewater,apartialviewofmyneighbour’slawn,andtheconsolingproximityofmillionaires—allforeightydollarsa
mois
month.AcrossthecourtesybaythewhitepalacesoffashionableEastEggglitteredalongthewater,andthehistoryofthesummerreally
commence
beginsontheeveningIdroveovertheretohavedinnerwiththeTomBuchanans.Daisywasmysecondcousinonceremoved,andI’dknownTomincollege.
AndjustafterthewarI
passé
spenttwodayswiththeminChicago.Herhusband,amongvariousphysicalaccomplishments,hadbeenoneofthemostpowerfulendsthateverplayedfootballatNewHaven—anational
figure
figureinaway,oneofthosemenwhoatteignent
reachsuchanacutelimitedexcellenceattwenty-onethateverythingafterwardsavoursofanticlimax.Hisfamilywereenormouslywealthy—evenincollegehisfreedomwithmoneywasamatterforreproach—butnowhe’dleftChicagoandcomeEastinafashionthatrathertookyourbreathaway:
forinstance,he’dbroughtdownastringofpoloponiesfromLakeForest.
Itwashardto
réaliser
realizethatamaninmyowngenerationwaswealthyenoughtodothat.WhytheycameEastIdon’tknow.
Theyhad
passé
spentayearinFrancefornoparticularreason,andthendriftedhereandthereunrestfullywhereverpeopleplayedpoloandwereriches
richtogether.Thiswasapermanentmove,saidDaisyoverthetelephone,butIdidn’tbelieveit—IhadnosightintoDaisy’sheart,butIfeltthatTomwoulddriftonforeverseeking,alittlewistfully,forthedramaticturbulenceofsomeirrecoverablefootballgame.
Andsoithappenedthatona
chaud
warmwindyeveningIdroveovertoEastEggtoseetwooldfriendswhomIscarcelyknewatall.TheirhousewasevenmoreelaboratethanI
attendais
expected,acheerfulred-and-whiteGeorgianColonialmansion,overlookingthebay.Thelawnstartedatthe
plage
beachandrantowardsthefrontdoorforaquarterofamile,sautant
jumpingoversundialsandbrickwalksandburninggardens—finallywhenitatteint
reachedthehousedriftingupthesideinbrightvinesasthoughfromthemomentumofitsrun.ThefrontwasbrokenbyalineofFrenchwindows,glowingnowwithreflectedgoldandwideopentothe
chaud
warmwindyafternoon,andTomBuchananinridingvêtements
clotheswasstandingwithhislegsapartonthefrontporch.HehadchangedsincehisNewHavenyears.
Nowhewasasturdystraw-hairedmanofthirty,witha
plutôt
ratherhardmouthandasuperciliousmanner.Twoshiningarroganteyeshadestablisheddominanceoverhisfaceandgavehimtheappearanceofalwaysleaningaggressivelyforward.
Noteventheeffeminateswankofhisriding
vêtements
clothescouldhidetheenormouspowerofthatbody—hesemblait
seemedtofillthoseglisteningbootsuntilhestrainedthetoplacing,andyoucouldseeagreatpackofmuscleshiftingwhenhisshouldermovedunderhisthincoat.Itwasabodycapableofenormousleverage—acruelbody.
Hisspeaking
voix
voice,agruffhuskytenor,addedtotheimpressionoffractiousnessheconveyed.Therewasatouchofpaternalcontemptinit,eventowardpeopleheliked—andthereweremenatNewHavenwhohadhatedhisguts.
“Now,don’tthinkmyopiniononthesemattersisfinal,”heseemedtosay,“justbecauseI’mstrongerandmoreofamanthanyouare.”
Wewereinthesameseniorsociety,andwhilewewereneverintimateIalwayshadtheimpressionthatheapprovedofmeandwantedmetolikehimwithsomeharsh,defiantwistfulnessofhisown.
Wetalkedforafewminutesonthesunnyporch.
“I’vegotaniceplacehere,”hesaid,hiseyesflashingaboutrestlessly.
Turningmearoundbyone
bras
arm,hemovedabroadflathandalongthefrontvista,includinginitssweepasunkenItaliangarden,ahalfacreofdeep,pungentroses,andasnub-nosedmotorboatthatbumpedthetideoffshore.“ItbelongedtoDemaine,theoilman.”
Heturnedmearoundagain,politelyandabruptly.
“We’llgoinside.”
Wewalkedthroughahighhallwayintoabrightrosy-coloured
espace
space,fragilelyboundintothehousebyFrenchwindowsateitherend.Thewindowswereajarandgleamingwhiteagainstthefreshgrassoutsidethat
semblait
seemedtogrowalittlewayintothehouse.Abreezeblewthroughtheroom,blewcurtainsinatoneendandouttheotherlikepaleflags,twistingthemuptowardthefrostedwedding-cakeoftheceiling,andthenrippledoverthewine-colouredrug,makingashadowonitaswinddoesonthe
mer
sea.Theonlycompletelystationaryobjectintheroomwasanenormouscouchonwhichtwoyoungwomenwerebuoyedupasthoughuponananchoredballoon.
Theywerebothinwhite,andtheirdresseswereripplingandflutteringasiftheyhadjustbeenblownbackinaftera
court
shortflightaroundthehouse.Imusthavestoodforafewmomentslisteningtothewhipandsnapofthecurtainsandthegroanofa
tableau
pictureonthewall.ThentherewasaboomasTomBuchananshuttherearwindowsandthecaught
vent
winddiedoutabouttheroom,andthecurtainsandtherugsandthetwoyoungwomenballoonedslowlytothesol
floor.Theyoungerofthetwowasastrangertome.
Shewasextendedfulllengthatherendofthedivan,
complètement
completelymotionless,andwithherchinsoulevé
raisedalittle,asifshewerebalancingsomethingonitwhichwasquitelikelytofall.Ifshesawmeoutofthecornerofhereyesshegavenohintofit—indeed,Iwasalmost
surpris
surprisedintomurmuringanapologyforhavingdisturbedherbycomingin.Theothergirl,Daisy,madeanattempttorise—sheleanedslightly
avant
forwardwithaconscientiousexpression—thenshelaughed,anabsurd,charminglittlerire
laugh,andIlaughedtooandcameavant
forwardintotheroom.“I’mp-paralysedwithhappiness.”
Shelaughedagain,asifshesaidsomethingverywitty,andheldmyhandforamoment,lookingupintomyface,promisingthattherewasnooneintheworldshesomuchwantedtosee.
Thatwasawayshehad.
ShehintedinamurmurthatthesurnameofthebalancinggirlwasBaker.
(I’vehearditsaidthatDaisy’smurmurwasonlytomakepeopleleantowardher;
anirrelevantcriticismthatmadeitno
moins
lesscharming.)Atanyrate,MissBaker’slipsfluttered,shenoddedatmealmostimperceptibly,andthen
rapidement
quicklytippedherheadbackagain—theobjectshewasbalancinghadévidemment
obviouslytotteredalittleandgivenhersomethingofafright.Againasortofapologyarosetomylips.
Almostanyexhibitionof
complète
completeself-sufficiencydrawsastunnedtributefromme.Ilookedbackatmycousin,whobegantoaskmequestionsinherlow,thrilling
voix
voice.Itwasthekindof
voix
voicethattheearfollowsupanddown,asifeachspeechisanarrangementofnotesthatwillneverbeplayedagain.Herfacewas
triste
sadandlovelywithbrightthingsinit,brighteyesandabrightpassionatebouche
mouth,buttherewasanexcitementinhervoix
voicethatmenwhohadcaredforherfounddifficile
difficulttoforget:asingingcompulsion,awhispered“Listen,”apromisethatshehaddonegay,excitingthingsjustawhilesinceandthatthereweregay,excitingthingshoveringinthenexthour.
ItoldherhowIhadstoppedoffinChicagoforadayonmywayEast,andhowadozenpeoplehadsenttheirlovethroughme.
“Dotheymissme?”
she
pleuré
criedecstatically.“Thewholetownisdesolate.
Allthecarshavetheleftrearwheelpaintedblackasamourningwreath,andthere’sapersistentwailallnightalongthe
nord
northshore.”“Howgorgeous!
Let’sgoback,Tom.
Tomorrow!”
Thensheaddedirrelevantly:
“Yououghttoseethebaby.”
“I’dliketo.”
“She’sasleep.
She’sthreeyearsold.
Haven’tyoueverseenher?”
“Never.”
“Well,yououghttoseeher.
She’s—”.
TomBuchanan,whohadbeenhoveringrestlesslyabouttheroom,stoppedandrestedhishandonmyshoulder.
“Whatyoudoing,Nick?”
“I’mabondman.”
“Whowith?”
Itoldhim.
“Neverheardofthem,”heremarkeddecisively.
Thisannoyedme.
“Youwill,”Iansweredshortly.
“YouwillifyoustayintheEast.”
“Oh,I’llstayintheEast,don’tyouworry,”hesaid,glancingatDaisyandthenbackatme,asifhewerealertforsomethingmore.
“I’dbeaGoddamnedfooltoliveanywhereelse.”
AtthispointMissBakersaid:
“Absolutely!”
withsuchsuddennessthatIstarted—itwasthefirstwordshehadutteredsinceIcameintotheroom.
Evidentlyit
surpris
surprisedherasmuchasitdidme,forsheyawnedandwithaseriesofrapid,deftmovementsstoodupintotheroom.“I’mstiff,”shecomplained,“I’vebeenlyingonthatsofaforaslongasIcanremember.”
“Don’tlookatme,”Daisyretorted,“I’vebeentryingtogetyoutoNewYorkallafternoon.”
“No,thanks,”saidMissBakertothefourcocktailsjustinfromthepantry.
“I’mabsolutelyintraining.”
Herhostlookedatherincredulously.
“Youare!”
Hetookdownhisdrinkasifitwerea
goutte
dropinthebottomofaglass.“Howyouevergetanythingdoneisbeyondme.”
IlookedatMissBaker,
demandant
wonderingwhatitwasshe“gotdone.”Ienjoyedlookingather.
Shewasaslender,small-breastedgirl,withanerectcarriage,whichsheaccentuatedby
jetant
throwingherbodybackwardattheshoulderslikeayoungcadet.Hergreysun-strainedeyeslookedbackatmewithpolitereciprocalcuriosityoutofawan,charming,discontentedface.
ItoccurredtomenowthatIhadseenher,ora
photo
pictureofher,somewherebefore.“YouliveinWestEgg,”sheremarkedcontemptuously.
“Iknowsomebodythere.”
“Idon’tknowasingle—”.
“YoumustknowGatsby.”
“Gatsby?”
demandedDaisy.
“WhatGatsby?”
BeforeIcouldreplythathewasmyneighbourdinnerwasannounced;
wedginghistense
bras
armimperativelyundermine,TomBuchanancompelledmefromtheroomasthoughheweremovingacheckertoanothersquare.Slenderly,languidly,theirhandssetlightlyontheirhips,thetwoyoungwomenprecededusoutontoarosy-colouredporch,opentowardthesunset,wherefourcandlesflickeredonthe
table
tableinthediminishedwind.“Whycandles?”
objectedDaisy,frowning.
Shesnappedthemoutwithherfingers.
“Intwoweeksit’llbethelongestdayintheyear.”
Shelookedatusallradiantly.
“Doyoualwayswatchforthelongestdayoftheyearandthenmissit?
Ialwayswatchforthelongestdayintheyearandthenmissit.”
“Weoughttoplansomething,”yawnedMissBaker,sittingdownatthe
table
tableasifsheweregettingintobed.“Allright,”saidDaisy.
“What’llweplan?”
Sheturnedtomehelplessly:
“Whatdopeopleplan?”
BeforeIcouldanswerhereyesfastenedwithanawedexpressiononherlittlefinger.
“Look!”
shecomplained;
“Ihurtit.”
Wealllooked—theknucklewasblackandblue.
“Youdidit,Tom,”shesaidaccusingly.
“Iknowyoudidn’tmeanto,butyoudiddoit.
That’swhatIgetformarryingabruteofaman,agreat,big,hulkingphysicalspecimenofa—”.
“Ihatethatword‘hulking,’ ”objectedTomcrossly,“eveninkidding.”
“Hulking,”insistedDaisy.
SometimessheandMissBakertalkedatonce,unobtrusivelyandwithabanteringinconsequencethatwasneverquitechatter,thatwasascoolastheirwhitedressesandtheirimpersonaleyesintheabsenceofalldesire.
Theywerehere,andthey
accepté
acceptedTomandme,makingonlyapolitepleasantefforttoentertainortobeentertained.Theyknewthatpresentlydinnerwouldbeoverandalittlelatertheeveningtoowouldbeoverandcasuallyputaway.
ItwassharplydifferentfromtheWest,whereaneveningwashurriedfromphasetophasetowardsitsclose,inacontinuallydisappointedanticipationorelseinsheernervousdreadofthemomentitself.
“Youmakemefeeluncivilized,Daisy,”Iconfessedonmysecond
verre
glassofcorkybutratherimpressiveclaret.“Can’tyoutalkaboutcropsorsomething?”
Imeantnothinginparticularbythisremark,butitwastakenupinanunexpectedway.
“Civilization’sgoingtopieces,”brokeoutTomviolently.
“I’vegottentobea
terrible
terriblepessimistaboutthings.HaveyoureadTheRiseoftheColouredEmpiresbythismanGoddard?”
“Why,no,”Ianswered,
plutôt
rathersurprisedbyhistone.“Well,it’safinebook,andeverybodyoughttoreadit.
Theideaisifwedon’tlookoutthewhite
race
racewillbe—willbeutterlysubmerged.It’sallscientificstuff;
it’sbeenproved.”