Chapter seven of the Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. It was when
curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that lights in his house failed to go
on one Saturday night, and as obscurely as it had begun, his career
as trimulchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which
turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away.
Wondering if he were sick, I went over to find out. An
unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door. Is
mister Gatsby sick? Nope? After a pause, he added, sir,
in a dilatory, grudging way. I hadn't seen him around, and I
was rather worried. Tell him. Mister Carroway came over, who he demanded
rudely, carraway, caraway, all right, I'll tell him. Abruptly he
slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in
his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others who never
went into West Egg Village to be bribed by the tradesman, but ordered moderate
supplies. Over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like
a pig sty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new
people weren't servants at all. Next day, Gatsby called me on the phone
going away. I inquired no old sport. I hear you fired all your
servants. I wanted somebody who wouldn't gossip. Daisy comes over quite often in
the afternoons, so the whole caravanswery had fallen in like a card house at
the disapproval in her eyes. There are some people wolf Shine wanted to do
something for. They're all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small
hotel. I see he was calling up at Daisy's request. Would I come
to her lunch at house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an
hour later, Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming.
Something was up, and yet I couldn't believe that they would choose this
occasion for a scene, especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined
in the garden. The next day was broiling almost the last, certainly the
warmest of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into the sunlight,
only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush.
At noon, the straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion.
The woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirt
waist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly
into deep heat. With a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor.
Oh my, she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend
and handed it back to her, holding it at arm's length and by the
extreme tip of the corners, to indicate that I had no desire upon it.
But everyone nearby, including the woman, suspected me just the same.
Hot, said the conductor to familiar faces. Some weather, hot, hot,
hot. Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is
it? My commutation ticket? Came back to me with a dark stain from
his hand, that anyone should care in this heat, whose flushed lips he
kissed, whose head made damp the pajama pocket over his heart through the hall
of the Buchanan's house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone
bell out to Gatsby and me. As we waited at the door, the
master's body roared the butler into the mouthpiece. I'm sorry, Madame, but
we can't furnish it. It's far too hot to touch this noon. What
he really said was yes, yes, I'll see. He set down the
receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly. To take our if straw hats.
Madame expects you in the salon, he cried, needlessly, indicating the
direction. In this heat, every extra gesture was an affront to the common
store of life. The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and
cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols,
weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. We
can't move, they said together. Jordan's fingers powdered white over their tan.
Rested for a moment on mine and mister r Tom Buchanan, the athlete,
I inquired simultaneously. I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky at
the hall. Telephone Gatsby stood in the center of the crimson carpet and gazed
around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed her sweet, exciting laugh.
A tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air. The
rumor is whispered Jordan, that that's Tom's girl on the telephone. We were
silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance. Very well,
then, I won't sell you the car at all. I'm under no obligations
to you at all. And as for your bothering me about it at lunchtime,
I won't stand at at all holding down the receiver, said Daisy cynically.
No, he's not, I assured her. It's a bonafide deal.
I happen to know about it. Tom flung open the door, blocked out
its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room.
Mister Gadsby. He put out his broad, flat hand with well concealed
dislike. I'm glad to see you, sir. Make us a cold drink,
cried Daisy. As he left the room again. She got up and
went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth.
You know I love you. She murmured. You forget there's a lady
present, said Jordan. Daisy looked around. Doubtfully, you kiss Nick too?
What a low vulgar girl. I don't care, cried Daisy, and
began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat
down guiltily on the couch. Just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little
girl came into the room. Blessed precious, she crooned, holding out her
arms, Come to your own mother that loves you. The child, relinquished
by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother's dress.
The blessed precious, did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair?
Stand up now and say how do you do? Gatsby and I, in
turn leaned down and took the small, reluctant hand. Afterward, he kept
looking at the child with surprise. I don't think he had ever really believed
in its existence before I got dressed before luncheon, said the child, turning
eagerly to Daisy. That's because your mother wanted to show you off. Her
face spent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. You dream,
you, you absolute little dream, yes, admitted the child, calmly.
Aunt Jordan's got on a white dress too. How do you like mother's friends?
Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. Do you think they're
pretty? Where's daddy? She doesn't look like her father, explained Daisy.
She looks like me. She's got my hair and shape of the face.
Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held
out her hand. Come Pammy, goodbye, sweetheart. With a reluctant backward
glance, the well disciplined child held to her nurse's hand and was pulled out
the door just as Tom came back, proceeding four gin rickies that clicked full
of ice. Gatsby took up his drink. They certainly look cool, he
said, with visible tension. We drank in long, greedy swallows. I
read somewhere that the sun's getting hotter every year, said Tom genially. It
seems that pretty soon the Earth's going to fall into the sun. Or wait
a minute, it's just the opposite. The Sun's getting colder every year.
Come outside, he suggested to Gatsby. I like you to have a look
at the place. I went with them out to the verandah on the green
Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher
sea. Gatsby's eyes followed it. Momentarily, he raised his hand and pointed
across the bay. I'm right across from you, so you are. Our
eyes lifted over the rose beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of
the dog days along shore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against
the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the
abounding blessed aisles. They're for you, said Tom, nodding. I like
to be out there with him. For about an hour, we had luncheon
in the dining room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous
gaiety with the cold nail. What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon, cried
Daisy, And the day after that and the next thirty years. Don't be
morbid, Jordan said. Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in
the fall. But it's too hot, insisted Daisy, on the verge of
tears, and everything's so confused let's all go to town. Her voice struggled
on through the heat, beating against it, molding its senselessness into forms.
I've heard of making a garage out of a stable, Tom was saying to
Gatsby. But I'm the first man who ever made a stable out of a
garage. Who wants to go to town, demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby's eyes
floated toward her. Ah, she cried, looks so cool. Their eyes
met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With
an effort, she glanced down at the table. You always look so cool,
she repeated. She had told him that she loved him, and Tom
Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he
looked at Gatsby and then back at Daisy, as if he had just recognized
her as someone he knew a long time ago. You resemble the advertisement of
the man, she went on, innocently, You know the advertisement of the
man. All right, Tom broke in quickly, I'm perfectly willing to go
to town. Come on, we're all going to town. He got up,
his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved,
Come on, his temper cracked a little. What's the matter anyhow, If
we're going to town, let's start. His hand trembling with his effort at
self control, bore to his lips the past of his glass of ail.
Daisy's voice got us to our feet and out to the blazing gravel drive.
Are we just going to go? She objected? Like this. Aren't we
going to let anyone smoke a cigarette first? Everybody smoked all through lunch.
Oh let's have fun, she begged him. It's too hot to fuss.
He didn't answer. Having your own way, she said, come on,
Jordan. They went upstairs to get ready. While we three men stood there
shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet, A silver curve of the moon hovered
already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind,
but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. Have you got your stables
here? Asked Gatsby, with an effort, about a quarter of a mile
down the road. Oh a pause, I don't see the idea of going
to town, broke out Tom savagely. Women get these notions in their heads.
Shall we take anything to drink? Called Daisy from an upper window,
I'll get some whiskey, answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to
me rigidly. I can't say anything in his house, old sport. She's
got an indiscreet voice. I remarked, it's full of I hesitated. Her
voice is full of money, he said suddenly. That was it. I
never understood it before. It was full of money. That was the inexhaustible
charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the symbols
song of it, high in a white palace, the King's daughter, the
Golden Girl. Tom came out of the house, wrapping a quart bottle in
a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan, wearing small, tight hats of
metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms. Shall we go in my
car, suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot green leather of the seat.
I ought to have left it in the shade. Is it a standard shift?
Demanded Tom? Yes, well, you take my coup and let me
drive your car to town. The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby. I don't
think there's much gas, he objected. Plenty of gas, said Tom boisterously.
He looked at the gage, and if it runs out, I can
stop at a drug store. You can buy anything at a drug store nowadays.
A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom, frowning
and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if
I had only heard it described in words passed over Gatsby's face. Come on,
Daisy, said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby's car.
I'll take you in this circus wagon. He opened the door, but she
moved out from the circles of his arm. You take Nick and Jordan,
we'll follow you in the coup. She walked close to Atsby, touching his
coat with her hand. Jordan and Tom and I got into the front seat
of Gatsby's car. Tom pushed the unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off
into the oppressive heat, leaving them out of sight behind. Did you see
that, demanded Tom? See what? He looked at me, keenly realizing
that Jordan I must have known all along. You think I'm pretty dumb,
don't you, he suggested? Perhaps I am, but I have a almost
second sight sometimes that tells me what to do. Maybe you don't believe that,
but science, he paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him
back from the edge of theoretical abyss. I've made a small investigation of this
fellow, he continued, I could have gone deeper if i'd known. Do
you mean you've been to a medium, inquired Jordan humorously. What confused?
He stared at us as we laughed, A medium about Gatsby, About Gatsby,
No I haven't, I said, I've been making a small investigation of
his past, and you found he was an Oxford man, said Jordan helpfully.
An Oxford man. He was incredulous, Like hell he is. He
wears a pink suit. Nevertheless, he's an Oxford man, Oxford, New
Mexico, snorted Tom contemptuously, or something like that. Listen, Tom,
if you're such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch, demanded
Jordan. Crossly. Daisy invited him. She knew him before we were married.
God knows where. We were all irritable now with the fading ale and
aware of it, we drove for a while in silence. Then as doctor
t. J Eckelberg's faded eyes came into sight, down the road. I
remembered Gatsby's caution about Gasolene. We've got enough to get us a town,
said Tom. But there's a garage right here, objected Jordan. I don't
want to get stalled in this baking heat. Tom threw on both brakes impatiently,
and we slid to an abrupt, dusty stop under Wilson's sign. After
a moment, the proprietor emerged from the interior of his establishment and gazed hollow
eyed at the car. Let's have some gas, cried Tom roughly. What
do you think we stopped for to admire the view? I'm sick, said
Wilson, without moving, been sick all day. What's a matter? I'm
all run down? Well? Shall I help myself? Tom demanded, you
sounded well enough on the phone. With an effort, Wilson left the shade
and supported the doorway, and, breathing hard, unscrewed the cap of the
tank. In the sunlight. His face was green. I didn't mean to
interrupt your lunch, he said, but I needed money pretty bad, and
I was wondering what you were going to do with your old car this one,
inquired Tom. I bought it last week It's a nice yellow one,
said Wilson as he strained at the handle. Like to buy it, big
chance? Wilson smiled faintly. No, but I could make some money on
the other What do you want money for? All of a sudden, I've
been here too long. I want to get away my wife and I want
to go west. Your wife does, exclaimed Tom, startled. She's been
talking about it for ten years. He rested for a moment against the pump,
shading his eyes, and now she's going, whether she wants to or
not. I'm going to get her away. The coop flashed by us with
a flurry of dust and the flash of a waving hand. What do I
owe you? Demanded Tom harshly. I just got too wise duck to something
funny the last two days, remarked Wilson. That's why I want to get
away. That's why I've been bothering you about the car. What do I
owe you? Thala twenty. The relentless beating heat was beginning to confuse me,
and I had a bad moment there before I realized that so far his
suspicions hadn't alighted on Tom. He had discovered that Myrtle had some sort of
life apart from him, in another world, and the shock had made him
physically sick. I stared at him, and then at Tom, who had
made a parallel discovery less than an hour before, and it occurred to me
that there was no difference between men in intelligence or race so profound as the
difference between the sick and the well. Wilson was so sick that he looked
guilty, unforgivably guilty, as if he had just got some poor girl with
child. I'll let you have that car, said Tom. I'll send it
over tomorrow afternoon. That locality was always vaguely disquieting, even in the broad
glare of afternoon. And now I turned my head as though I had been
warned of something behind over the ash sheeps. The giant eyes of doctor t.
J Eckelberg kept their vigil, but I perceived after a moment that other
eyes were regarding us with peculiar intensity from less than twenty feet away. In
one of the windows over the garage, the curtains had been moved aside a
little, and Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car. So engrossed was
she that she had no consciousness of being observed, and one emotion after another
crept into her face, like objects into a slowly developing picture. Her expression
was curiously familiar. It was an expression I had often seen on women's faces,
But on Myrtle Wilson's face it seemed purposeless and inexplicable, until I realized
that her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom,
but on Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife. There is
no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind. And as we drove away,
Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress
until an hour ago, Secure and Inviolet were slipping precipitately from his control.
Instinct made him step on the accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and
leaving Wilson behind. And we sped along toward a story at fifty miles an
hour, until among the spidery girders of the elevated we came in sight of
the easy going Blue Coop. Those big movies around fiftieth Street are cool,
suggested Jordan. I love New York on summer afternoons, when everyone's away.
There's something very sensuous about it overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits
were going to fall into your hands. The word sensuous had the effect of
further disquieting Tom, But before he could invent a protest, the coop came
to a stop and Daisy signaled us to draw up alongside. Where are we
going, she cried, How about the movies? It's so hot, She
complained, You go, we'll ride around and meet you after. With an
effort, her wit rose faintly, We'll meet you on some corner. I'll
be the man smoking two cigarettes. We can't argue about it here, Tom
said impatiently, as a truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. You
follow me to the south side of Central Park in front of the Plaza.
Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if
the traffic delayed them, he slowed up until they came into sight. I
think he was afraid they would dart down a side street and out of his
life forever. But they didn't, and we all took the less explicable step
of engaging the parlor of a suite in the Plaza hotel. The prolonged and
tumultuous argument that ended by hurting us into that room eludes me, though I
have a sharp physical memory that in the course of it, my underwear kept
climbing like a damp snake around my leg, and intermittent beads of sweat raced
cool across my back. The notion originated with daisy suggestion that we hire five
bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as a place
to have a mint julip. Each of us said over and over that it
was a crazy idea. We all talked at once to a baffled clerk in
thought, or pretended to think that we were being very funny. The room
was large and stifling, and though it was already four o'clock, opening the
windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the park. Daisy went to
the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. It's
a swell sweet, whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. Open another window,
commanded Daisy, without turning around. There aren't any more. Well,
we'd better telephone for an axe. The thing to do is forget about the
heat, said Tom, impatiently. You may get ten times worse by craving
about it. He unrolled the bottle of whiskey from the towel, put it
on the table. Why not let her alone, Old Sport, remarked Gatsby.
You're the one that wanted to come to town. There was a moment
of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor,
whereupon Jordan whispered, excuse me, But this time no one laughed.
I'll pick it up, I offered, I've got it. Gatsby examined the
parted string, muttered hum in an interested way, and tossed the book on
a chair. That's a great expression of yours, isn't it, said Tom,
sharply. What is all this old Sport business? Where'd you pick that
up? Now? See here, Tom, said Daisy, turning around from
the mirror. If you're going to make personal remarks, I won't stay here
a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint Julip. As
Tom took up the receiver, the compressed heat exploded into sound, and we
were listening to the portentous core of Mendelssohn's Wedding March from the ballroom below.
Imagine marrying anybody in this heat, cried Jordan, dismally. Still, I
was married in the middle of June, Daisy remembered, Louisville and June somebody
fainted. Who was it? Fainted? Tom Bloxey, he answered shortly.
A man named Biloxey blocks Biloxey and he made boxes, that's a fact.
And he was from Biloxey, Tennessee. They carried him into my house,
appended Jordan, because we lived just two doors from the church. And he
stayed three weeks until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day
after he left, Daddy died. After a moment, she added, there
wasn't any connection. I used to know a Bill Biloxey from Memphis, I
remarked. That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history. Before
he left, he gave me an aluminum putter that I used today. The
music had died down as the ceremony began, and now a long cheer floated
in at the window, followed by interminutent cries of yeah, and finally by
a burst of jazz as the dancing began. We are getting old, said
Daisy. If we were young, we'd rise and dance. Remember Biloxey,
Jordan warned her, where'd you know him? Tom Bloxy? He concentrated with
an effort. I didn't know him. He was a friend of Daisy's.
He was not, She denied. I never seen him before. He came
down in a private car. Well, he said he knew you. He
said he was raised in Louisville. He's a bird. Brought him around at
the last minute and asked if we had room for him. Jordan smiled.
He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of
your class at Yale. Tom and I looked at each other blankly. Bloxy,
first place, we didn't have any president. Gatsby's foot beat a short
rests tattoo, and Tom eyed him. Suddenly, by the way, mister
Gatsby, I understand you're an Oxford man. Not exactly. Oh, yes,
I understand you went to Oxford. Yes, I went there. A
pause, then Tom's voice incredulous and insulting. You must have gone there about
the time Bilocksy went to new Haven. Another pause. A waiter knocked and
came in with crushed mint and ice, but the silence was unbroken by his
thank you, and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was
to be cleared up at last. I told you I went there, said
Gatsby. I heard you, but i'd like to know when it was in
nineteen nineteen. I only stayed five months. That's why I can't really call
myself an Oxford man. Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief,
but we were all looking at Gatsby. It was an opportunity they gave
to some of the officers to the armistice, he continued. We could go
to any of the universities in England or France. I wanted to get up
and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete
faith in him that I had experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly,
and went to the table. Open the whiskey, Tom, she ordered,
and I'll make you a mint, julip thing you won't seem so stupid to
yourself. Look at the mint. Wait a minute, snapped Tom, I
want to ask mister Gatsby one more question. Go on, Gatsby said,
politely, what kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house?
Anyhow, they were out in the open at last, and Gatsby was
content he isn't causing a row. Daisy looked desperately from one to the other.
You're causing a row. Please have a little self control, self control,
Tom repeated incredulously. I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and
let mister nobody nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that's the
idea, you can count me out. Nowadays people begin by sneering at family
life, family institutions, and next they'll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between
black and white. Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone
on the last barrier of civilization. We're all white here, murmured Jordan.
I know I'm not very popular. I don't give big parties. I suppose
you've got to make your house into a pig sty in order to have any
friends in the modern world. Angry as I was, as we all were,
I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from
libertine to prig was so complete. Well, I've got something to tell you
old sport, began Gatsby, but Daisy guessed at his intention. Please don't,
she interrupted, helplessly. Please, let's all go home. Why don't
we all go home? That's a good idea. I got up. Come
on, Tom, nobody wants a drink. I want to know what mister
Gatsby has to tell me. Your wife doesn't love you, said Gatsby.
She never loved you, she loves me. You must be crazy, exclaimed
Tom. Automatically. Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. She
never loved you, do you hear? He cried? She only married you
because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was
a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me.
At this point, Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby
insisted with competitive firmness, that we remain, as though neither of them had
anything to conceal, and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their
emotions. Sit down, Daisy. Tom's voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note.
What's been going on? I want to hear all about it. I
told you what's been going on, said Gatsby, going on for five years
and you didn't know. Tom turned to Daisy, sharply. You've been seeing
this fellow for five years, not seeing, said Gatsby. No, we
couldn't meet, but both of us loved each other all that time, old
sport, and you didn't know. I used to laugh sometimes, but there
was no laughter in his eyes. To think that you didn't know. Oh
that's all. Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back
in his chair. You're crazy, he exploded. I can't speak about what
happened five years ago because I didn't know Daisy then. And I'll be damned
if I see how you got within a mile of her, unless you've brought
the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that's a goddamned
lie. Daisy loved me when she married me, and she loves me now,
No, said Gatsby, shaking his head. She does, though.
The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn't know
what she's doing. He nodded sagely. And what's more, I love Daisy
too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a
fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I
love her all the time. You're revolting, said Daisy. She turned to
me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with
thrilling scorn. Do you know why we left Chicago? I'm surprised that they
didn't treat you to the story of that little spree. Gatsby walked over and
stood beside her. Daisy, that's all over now, he said, earnestly.
It doesn't matter anymore. Just tell him the truth that you never loved
him, and it's all wiped out forever. She looked at him blindly.
Why how could I love him? Possibly? You never loved him, she
hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal,
as though she realized at last what she was doing, and as though she
had never all along intended doing anything at all. But it was done now,
It was too late. I never loved him, she said, with
perceptible reluctance. Not at Cappiolani demanded Tom suddenly, no. From the ballroom
beneath muffled and suffocating cords were drifting up on hot waves of air. Not
that day I carried you down from the punchfowle to keep your shoes dry.
There was a husky tenderness in his tone. Daisy, please don't. Her
voice was cold, but the rancor was gone from it. She looked at
Gatsby. There, Jay, she said, But her hand, as she
tried to light a cigarette, was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and
the burning match on the carpet. Oh you want too much, she cried
to Gatsby. I love you now. Isn't that enough? I can't help
what's passed. She began to sob helplessly. I did love him once,
but I loved you too. Gatsby's eyes opened and closed. You loved me
too, he repeated. Even that's a lie, said Tom savagely. She
didn't know you were alive. Why there's things between Daisy and me that you'll
never know, things that neither of us can ever forget. The words seemed
to bite physically into Gatsby. Well, I want to speak to Daisy alone,
he insisted. She's all excited now, even alone, I can't say
I never loved Tom, she admitted, in a pitiful voice. It wouldn't
be true, of course, it wouldn't, agreed Tom. She turned to
her husband, as if it mattered to you, she said, Of course
it matters. I'm going to take better care of you from now on.
You don't understand, said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. You're not
going to take care of her anymore. I'm not. Tom opened his eyes
wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself. Now, why's that,
Daisy's leaving you? Nonsense I am, though, she said, with
a visible effort, She's not leaving me. Tom's words suddenly leaned down over
Gatsby. Certainly not for a common swindler who'd have to steal the ring to
put on her finger. I won't stand this, cried Daisy. Oh please,
let's get out. Who are you anyhow? Broke out Tom. You're
one of that bunch that hangs around with myer Wolfsheim that much. I happen
to know. I've made a little investigation into your affairs, and I'll carry
it further tomorrow. You can suit yourself about that old sport, said Gatsby
steadily. I found out what your drug stores were. He turned to us
and spoke rapidly. He and this Wolfsheim bought up a lot of side street
drug stores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That's
one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time
I saw him, and I wasn't far wrong. Oh what about it,
said Gatsby politely. I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn't too proud to come
in on it. And you left him in the lurch, didn't you.
You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God,
you ought to hear Walter on the subject of you. He came to
us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old
sport. Don't you call me old sport, cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing.
Walter could have you up on the bedding laws too. But wolfsheim scared
him into shutting his mouth. That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in
Gatsby's face. That drug store business was just small change, Tom, slowly,
But you've got something on now that Walter's afraid to tell me about.
I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband,
and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on
the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby, and was
startled by his expression. He looked, and this is said in all contempt
for the babbled slander of his garden, as if he had killed a man.
For a moment, the set of his face could be described in just
that fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy,
denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made.
But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself. So he
gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped
away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, despairingly
toward the lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go please,
Tom, I can't stand this anymore. Her frightened eyes told that whatever
intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone. You two start
on home, Daisy, said Tom in mister Gadsby's car. She looked at
Tom alarmed now, but he insisted, with magnanimous scorn, go on.
He won't annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is
over. They were gone without a word, snapped out, made accidental,
isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After a moment, Tom
got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whiskey in the towel. Want
any of this stuff, Jordan? Nick? I didn't answer Nick. He
asked again, what want any No? I just remembered that to day's my
birthday. I was thirty before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a
new decade. It was seven o'clock when we got into the coupe with him
and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but
his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamor on the
sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits,
and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights
behind thirty, the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of
single men to know, a thinning brief case of enthusiasm, thinning hair.
But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise
ever to carry well forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over
the dark bridge, her wan face fell lazily against my coat's shoulder, and
the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.
So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight. The young Greek Michaelis,
who ran the coffee joint beside the ash heaps, was the principal witness
at the inquest. He had slept through the heat until after five, when
he strolled over to the garage and found George Wilson sick in his office,
really sick, pale as his own, pale hair, and shaking all over.
Michaelis advised him to go to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that
he'd miss a lot of business if he did. While his neighbor was trying
to persuade him, a violent racket broke out overhead. I've got my wife
locked up and there, explained Wilson, calmly. She's going to stay there
till the day after tomorrow, and then we're going to move away. Michaelis
was astonished. They had been neighbors for four years, and Wilson had never
seemed faintly capable of such a statement. Generally, he was one of these
worn out men. When he wasn't working, he sat on a chair in
the doorway and stared at the people in the cars that passed along the road.
When anyone spoke to him, he invariably laughed in an agreeable, colorless
way. He was his wife's man, and not his own, so naturally
Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson wouldn't say a word.
Instead, he began to throw curious, suspicious glances at his visitor and
ask him what he'd been doing at certain times on certain days. Just as
the latter was getting uneasy, some workmen came past the door, bound for
his restaurant, and Michaelis took the opportunity to get away, intending to come
back later. But he didn't. He supposed he forgot to, that's all.
When he came outside again a little after seven, he was reminded of
the conversation because he heard missus Wilson's voice loud and scolding downstairs in the garage.
Beat me, he heard her cry, throw me down and beat me,
you dirty little coward. A moment later, she rushed out into the
dusk waving her hands and shouting before he could move from his door. The
business was over. The death car, as the newspapers called it, didn't
stop. It came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment,
and then disappeared around the next bend. Mavre Michaelis wasn't even sure of
its color. He told the first policeman that it was light green. The
other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred
yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life
violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick, dark blood with
the dust. Michaelis and this man reached her first, But when they had
torn open her shirt waist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her
left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to
listen for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped a little
at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the
tremendous vitality she had stored so long. We saw the three or four automobiles
in the crowd when we were still some distance away, wreck, said Tom.
That's good, Wilson, have a little business at least. He slowed
down, but still without any intention of stopping, until as we came near,
the hushed intent faces of the people at the garage door made him automatically
put on the brakes. We'll take a look, he said, doubtfully,
just a look. I became aware now of a hollow, wailing sound which
issued incessantly from the garage, a sound which, as we got out of
the coop and walked toward the door, resolved itself into the words, oh
my God, uttered over and over in a gasping moan. There's some bad
trouble here, said Tom excitedly. He reached up on tiptoes and peered over
a circle of heads into the garage, which was lit only by a yellow
light in a swinging metal basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in
his throat, and with a violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms, pushed
his way through the circle, closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation.
It was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new
arrivals deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside myrtle.
Wilson's body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another blanket, as
though she suffered from a chill. In the hot night, lay on a
work table by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us,
was bending over it motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down
names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I couldn't
find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed clamorously through the bare
garage. Then I saw Wilson standing on the raised threshold of his office,
swaying back and forth and holding to the doorposts with both hands. Some man
was talking to him in a low voice and attempting from time to time to
lay a hand on his shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His
eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall,
and then jerk back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly
his high, horrible call, oh my god, Oh my god, Oh
my god, oh my God. Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk,
and, after staring around the garage with glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled
incoherent remark to the policeman. M A v. The policeman was saying,
oh, no R corrected the man m A V R. O listen to
me, muttered Tom, fiercely are The policeman said, oh, gee gee.
He looked up as Tom's broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder. What
do you want, fella, what happened? That's what I want to know.
Bouto hit her? Instantly, killed, instantly killed, repeated Tom,
staring. She ran out in a row, son of a bitch, didn't
even stop us car. There was two cars, said michaelis one coming,
one going? See going? Where? Asked the policeman, keenly, one
going each way? Well, she his hand rose toward the blankets, but
stopped halfway and fell to his side. She ran out. And there's one
of them coming from New York, knocking right into it, going thirty or
forty miles an hour. What's the name of this place here, demanded the
officer hasn't got any name. A pale, well dressed negro stepped near.
It was a yellow car, he said, big yellow car. Knew see
the accident, asked the policeman. No, but the car passed me.
Down on the road going faster and forty going fifty sixty. Come here and
let's have your name. Look out now, I want to get his name.
Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in the office
door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his grasping cries. You
don't have to tell me what kind of car it was. I know what
kind of car. Was watching Tom. I saw the wad of muscles back
of his shoulder tightened under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson,
and, standing in front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms.
You've got to pull yourself together, he said, with soothing gruffness.
Wilson's eyes fell upon Tom. He started up on his tiptoes and then would
have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright. Listen, said
Tom, shaking him a little. I just got here a minute ago from
New York. I was bringing you that coop we've been talking about. That
yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn't mine, do you hear? I
haven't been in it all afternoon. Only the Negro and I were near enough
to hear what he said, But the policeman caught something in the tone and
looked over with truculent eyes. Well what's all that, he demanded, I'm
a friend of his. Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on
Wilson's body. He says he knows the car that did it. It was
a yellow car. Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom.
And what colors your car? It's a blue car, a coup We've
come straight from New York, I said. Someone who had been driving a
little behind us confirmed this, and the policeman turned away. Now, if
you'll let me have that name again? Correct. Picking up Wilson like a
doll, Tom carried him into the office, set him down in a chair,
and came back. If somebody'll come here and sit down with him,
he snapped authoritatively. We watched a while while the two men standing closest glanced
at each other and went unwillingly into the room. Then Tom shut the door
on them and came down the single step, his eyes avoiding the table.
As he passed close to me, he whispered, let's get out, self
consciously with the authoritative arms breaking the way We pushed through the still gathering crowd,
passing a hurried doctor case in hand, who had been sent for in
wild Hope half an hour ago. Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the
bend, and then his foot came down hard, and the coop raced along
through the night. In a little while, I heard a low, husky
sob and saw that the tears were overflowing down his face. Goddamn coward,
he whimpered. He didn't even stop his car to Cannon's house, floated suddenly
toward us through the dark, rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and
looked up at the second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the
vines. Daisy's home, he said. As we got out of the car,
he glanced at me and frowned slightly. I ought to have dropped you
in West egg Nick. There's nothing we can do tonight. A change had
come over him, and he spoke gravely and with decision. As we walked
across the moonlight gravel to the porch. He disposed of the situation in a
few brisk phrases. I'll telephone for a taxi to take you home, And
while you're waiting. You and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them
get you some supper, if you want any. He opened the door.
Come in, No thanks, but I'd be glad if you'd order me the
taxi. I'll wait outside. Jordan put her hand on my arm. Won't
you come in? Nick? No thanks. I was feeling a little sick
and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan lingered for a moment. More.
It's only half past nine, she said, I'd be damned if I'd
go in. I'd had enough of all of them for one day, and
suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of this in my
expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the porch steps into the
house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands,
until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler's voice calling a
taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending
to wait by the gate. I hadn't gone twenty yards when I heard my
name, and Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path. I must
have felt pretty weird by that time, because I could think of nothing except
the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon. What are you doing,
I inquired, But just standing here old sport. Somehow that seemed a despicable
occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a
moment, I wouldn't have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of
Wolfsheim's people standing behind him in the dark shrubbery. Did you see any trouble
on the road, he asked after a minute, Yes, he hesitated.
Was she killed? Yes? I thought so, I told Daisy. I
thought so. It's better that the shock should all come at once. She
stood it pretty well. He spoke, as if Daisy's reaction was the only
thing that mattered. I got the west Egg by a side road. He
went on and left the car in my garage. I don't think anybody saw
us, but of course I can't be sure. I disliked him so much
by this time that I didn't find it necessary to tell him he was wrong.
Who was the woman? He inquired? Her name was Wilson. Her
husband owns the garage. How the devil did it happen? Well? I
tried to swing the wheel, he broke off and suddenly I guessed at the
truth. Was Daisy driving, Yes, he said, after a moment,
But of course I'll say I was. You see, when we left New
York, she was very nervous and thought it would steady her to drive.
And this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming
the other way. It all happened in a minute, but it seemed to
me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody she knew
well. First Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and
then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second in my hand reached
the wheel. I felt the shock. It must have killed her instantly.
It ripped her open. Don't tell me old sport, he winced. Anyhow,
Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she
couldn't, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into
my lap and I drove on. She'll be all right tomorrow, he said.
Presently. I'm just going to wait here and see if he tries to
bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She's locked herself into her room,
and if he tries any brutality, she's going to turn the light out and
on again. He won't touch her, I said, he's not thinking about
her. I don't trust em, old Sport. How long are you going
to wait all night, if necessary, anyhow, till they all go to
bed. A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out
that Daisy had been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it.
He might think anything. I looked at the house. There were two
or three bright windows downstairs, and the pink glow from Daisy's room on the
ground floor. You wait here, I said, I'll see if there's any
sign of a commotion. I walked back along the border of the lawn,
traversed the gravel softly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing room
curtains were open, and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the
porch where we had dined that June night, three months before, I came
to a small rectangle of light, which I guessed was the pantry window.
The blind was drawn, but I found a rift at the sill. Daisy
and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, with a plate
of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of ale. He was
talking intently across the table adder, and in his earnestness, his hand had
fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a while. She looked up
at him and nodded in agreement. They weren't happy, and neither of them
had touched the chicken or the ale, And yet they weren't unhappy either.
There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture, and anybody would
have said that they were conspiring together. As I tiptoed from the porch,
I heard my taxi feeling its way along the dark road toward the house.
Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in the drive. Is it all
quiet there, he asked anxiously, Yes, it's all quiet, I hesitated.
You better come home and get some sleep. He shook his head.
I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old
Sport. He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to
his scrutiny of the house. As though my presence marred the sacredness of the
vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight,
watching over nothing. End of chapter seven,