The Great Gatsby Chapter IV
IV
On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages alongshore, the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby’s house and twinkled hilariously on his lawn. “He’s a bootlegger,” said the young ladies, moving somewhere between his cocktails and his flowers. “One time he killed a man who had found out that he was nephew to Von Hindenburg and second cousin to the devil. Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there crystal glass.” Once I wrote down on the empty spaces of a timetable the names of those who came to Gatsby’s house that summer. It is an old timetable now, disintegrating at its folds, and headed “This schedule in effect July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read the grey names, and they will give you a better impression than my generalities of those who accepted Gatsby’s hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of knowing nothing whatever about him. From East Egg, then, came the Chester Beckers and the Leeches, and a man named Bunsen, whom I knew at Yale, and Doctor Webster Civet, who was drowned last summer up in Maine. And the Hornbeams and the Willie Voltaires, and a whole clan named Blackbuck, who always gathered in a corner and flipped up their noses like goats at whosoever came near. And the Ismays and the Chrysties (or rather Hubert Auerbach and Mr. Chrystie’s wife), and Edgar Beaver, whose hair, they say, turned cotton-white one winter afternoon for no good reason at all. Clarence Endive was from East Egg, as I remember. He came only once, in white knickerbockers, and had a fight with a bum named Etty in the garden. From farther out on the Island came the Cheadles and the O. R. P. Schraeders, and the Stonewall Jackson Abrams of Georgia, and the Fishguards and the Ripley Snells. Snell was there three days before he went to the penitentiary, so drunk out on the gravel drive that Mrs. Ulysses Swett’s automobile ran over his right hand. The Dancies came, too, and S. B. Whitebait, who was well over sixty, and Maurice A. Flink, and the Hammerheads, and Beluga the tobacco importer, and Beluga’s girls. From West Egg came the Poles and the Mulreadys and Cecil Roebuck and Cecil Schoen and Gulick the State senator and Newton Orchid, who controlled Films Par Excellence, and Eckhaust and Clyde Cohen and Don S. Schwartz (the son) and Arthur McCarty, all connected with the movies in one way or another. And the Catlips and the Bembergs and G. Earl Muldoon, brother to that Muldoon who afterward strangled his wife. Da Fontano the promoter came there, and Ed Legros and James B. (“Rot-Gut”) Ferret and the De Jongs and Ernest Lilly—they came to gamble, and when Ferret wandered into the garden it meant he was cleaned out and Associated Traction would have to fluctuate profitably next day. A man named Klipspringer was there so often that he became known as “the boarder”—I doubt if he had any other home. Of theatrical people there were Gus Waize and Horace O’Donavan and Lester Myer and George Duckweed and Francis Bull. Also from New York were the Chromes and the Backhyssons and the Dennickers and Russel Betty and the Corrigans and the Kellehers and the Dewars and the Scullys and S. W. Belcher and the Smirkes and the young Quinns, divorced now, and Henry L. Palmetto, who killed himself by jumping in front of a subway train in Times Square. Benny McClenahan arrived always with four girls. They were never quite the same ones in physical person, but they were so identical one with another that it inevitably seemed they had been there before. I have forgotten their names—Jaqueline, I think, or else Consuela, or Gloria or Judy or June, and their last names were either the melodious names of flowers and months or the sterner ones of the great American capitalists whose cousins, if pressed, they would confess themselves to be. In addition to all these I can remember that Faustina O’Brien came there at least once and the Baedeker girls and young Brewer, who had his nose shot off in the war, and Mr. Albrucksburger and Miss Haag, his fiancée, and Ardita Fitz-Peters and Mr. P. Jewett, once head of the American Legion, and Miss Claudia Hip, with a man reputed to be her chauffeur, and a prince of something, whom we called Duke, and whose name, if I ever knew it, I have forgotten. All these people came to Gatsby’s house in the summer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
At nine o’clock, one morning late in July, Gatsby’s gorgeous car
lurched up the rocky drive to my door and gave out a burst of melody
from its three-noted horn.
It was the first time he had called on me, though I had gone to two of
his parties, mounted in his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation,
made frequent use of his beach.
“Good morning, old sport. You’re having lunch with me today and I
thought we’d ride up together.”
He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that
resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American—that comes,
I suppose, with the absence of lifting work in youth and, even more,
with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality
was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape
of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping
foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand.
He saw me looking with admiration at his car.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it, old sport?” He jumped off to give me a better
view. “Haven’t you ever seen it before?”
I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream colour, bright
with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with
triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and toolboxes, and terraced with
a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down
behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory,
we started to town.
I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past month and
found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So my first
impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had
gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an
elaborate roadhouse next door.
And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg
village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished
and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-coloured
suit.
“Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your
opinion of me, anyhow?”
A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that
question deserves.
“Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted.
“I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you
hear.”
So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavoured conversation
in his halls.
“I’ll tell you God’s truth.” His right hand suddenly ordered divine
retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the
Middle West—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at
Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many
years. It is a family tradition.”
He looked at me sideways—and I knew why Jordan Baker had believed he
was lying. He hurried the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed
it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered him before. And with
this doubt, his whole statement fell to pieces, and I wondered if
there wasn’t something a little sinister about him, after all.
“What part of the Middle West?” I inquired casually.
“San Francisco.”
“I see.”
“My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.”
His voice was solemn, as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a
clan still haunted him. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling
my leg, but a glance at him convinced me otherwise.
“After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of
Europe—Paris, Venice, Rome—collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting
big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to
forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago.”
With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very
phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that
of a turbaned “character” leaking sawdust at every pore as he pursued
a tiger through the Bois de Boulogne.
“Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief, and I tried very
hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a
commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest I
took the remains of my machine-gun battalion so far forward that there
was a half mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn’t
advance. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty
men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last
they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of
dead. I was promoted to be a major, and every Allied government gave
me a decoration—even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the
Adriatic Sea!”
Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his
smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro’s troubled history and
sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. It
appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had
elicited this tribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. My
incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming
hastily through a dozen magazines.
He reached in his pocket, and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon,
fell into my palm.
“That’s the one from Montenegro.”
To my astonishment, the thing had an authentic look. “Orderi di
Danilo,” ran the circular legend, “Montenegro, Nicolas Rex.”
“Turn it.”
“Major Jay Gatsby,” I read, “For Valour Extraordinary.”
“Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. It
was taken in Trinity Quad—the man on my left is now the Earl of
Doncaster.”
It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an
archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby,
looking a little, not much, younger—with a cricket bat in his hand.
Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace
on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with
their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart.
“I’m going to make a big request of you today,” he said, pocketing his
souvenirs with satisfaction, “so I thought you ought to know something
about me. I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see,
I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there
trying to forget the sad things that happened to me.” He hesitated.
“You’ll hear about it this afternoon.”
“At lunch?”
“No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss
Baker to tea.”
“Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?”
“No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak
to you about this matter.”
I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more
annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to
discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something
utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon
his overpopulated lawn.
He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared
the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of
red-belted oceangoing ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with
the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds.
Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a
glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting
vitality as we went by.
With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half
Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated
I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic
policeman rode alongside.
“All right, old sport,” called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white
card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes.
“Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next
time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!”
“What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?”
“I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a
Christmas card every year.”
Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a
constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across
the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of
nonolfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always
the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the
mystery and the beauty in the world.
A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two
carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for
friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short
upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of
Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their sombre holiday. As we
crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white
chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I
laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in
haughty rivalry.
“Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought;
“anything at all …”
Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza
for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park.
The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in
the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered
like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight:
“I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when
you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—”
“It was a strange coincidence,” I said.
“But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.”
“Why not?”
“Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.”
Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that
June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of
his purposeless splendour.
“He wants to know,” continued Jordan, “if you’ll invite Daisy to your
house some afternoon and then let him come over.”
The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and
bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that
he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden.
“Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?”
“He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be
offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.”
Something worried me.
“Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?”
“He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is
right next door.”
“Oh!”
“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some
night,” went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking
people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It
was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard
the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately
suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad:
“I don’t want to do anything out of the way!" he kept saying. "I
want to see her right next door."
“When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to
abandon the whole idea. He doesn’t know very much about Tom, though he
says he’s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of
catching a glimpse of Daisy’s name.”
It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm
around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her
to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more,
but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal
scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my
arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady
excitement: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and
the tired.”
“And Daisy ought to have something in her life,” murmured Jordan to
me.
“Does she want to see Gatsby?”
“She’s not to know about it. Gatsby doesn’t want her to know. You’re
just supposed to invite her to tea.”
We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the façade of Fifty-Ninth
Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park.
Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face
floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up
the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth
smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face.
Gatsby's Epic Quiz
1. Who is Meyer Wolfsheim?
Comments
Post a Comment