The Great Gatsby Page #10

The Great Gatsby is a 1925 novel by American writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. Set in the Jazz Age on Long Island, near New York City, the novel depicts first-person narrator Nick Carraway's interactions with mysterious millionaire Jay Gatsby and Gatsby's obsession to reunite with his former lover, Daisy Buchanan. The novel was inspired by a youthful romance Fitzgerald had with socialite Ginevra King, and the riotous parties he attended on Long Island's North Shore in 1922

• Fiction
• Novel

								


“Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally
loud across the garden.

“I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up.
“I remembered you lived next door to—”

She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me
in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who
stopped at the foot of the steps.

“Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.”

That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week
before.

“You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we
met you here about a month ago.”

“You’ve dyed your hair since then,” remarked Jordan, and I started,
but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to
the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a
caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we
descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of
cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a
table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced
to us as Mr. Mumble.

“Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl
beside her.

“The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an
alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for
you, Lucille?”

It was for Lucille, too.

“I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always
have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and
he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from
Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.”

“Did you keep it?” asked Jordan.

“Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the
bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two
hundred and sixty-five dollars.”

“There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,”
said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with
anybody.”

“Who doesn’t?” I inquired.

“Gatsby. Somebody told me—”

The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially.

“Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.”

A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and
listened eagerly.

“I don’t think it’s so much that,” argued Lucille sceptically; “It’s
more that he was a German spy during the war.”

One of the men nodded in confirmation.

“I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in
Germany,” he assured us positively.

“Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in
the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to
her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes
when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.”

She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned
and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic
speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those
who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this
world.

The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now
being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were
spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were
three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate
given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that
sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a
greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had
preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function
of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg
condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its
spectroscopic gaiety.

“Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and
inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.”

We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I
had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The
undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way.

The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not
there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t
on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and
walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak,
and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas.

A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was
sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with
unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he
wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot.

“What do you think?” he demanded impetuously.

“About what?”

He waved his hand toward the bookshelves.

“About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I
ascertained. They’re real.”

“The books?”

He nodded.

“Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice
durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real.  Pages
and—Here! Lemme show you.”

Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and
returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures.

“See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed
matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a
triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop,
too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?”

He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf,
muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable
to collapse.

“Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought.
Most people were brought.”

Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering.

“I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud
Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been
drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit
in a library.”

“Has it?”

“A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour.
Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—”

“You told us.”

We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors.

There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing
young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples
holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the
corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or
relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the
traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had
sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and
between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden,
while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A
pair of stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, did a
baby act in costume, and champagne was served in glasses bigger than
finger-bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was
a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny
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