Chapter six of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. About this time,
an ambitious young reporter from New York arrived one morning at Gatsby's door and
asked him if he had anything to say, anything to say about what?
Inquired Gatsby politely, why any statement to give out? It transpired after a
confused five minutes that the man had heard Gatsby's name around his office in a
connection which he either wouldn't reveal or didn't fully understand. This was his day
off, and with laudable initiative, he had hurried out to see. It
was a random shot, and yet the reporter's instinct was right. Gatsby's notoriety,
spread about by the hundreds who had accepted his hospitality and become authorities upon
his past, had increased all summer until he fell just short of being news.
Contemporary legends such as the underground Pipeline to Canada attached themselves to him,
and there was one persistent story that he didn't live in a house at all,
but in a boat that looked like a house and was moved secretly up
and down the Long Island shore. Just why these inventions were a source of
satisfaction to James gats of North Dakota. Isn't easy to say. James gats
that was really, or at least legally, his name. He had changed
it at the age of seventeen, and at the specific moment that witnessed the
beginning of his career, when he saw Dan Cody's yacht drop anchor over the
most insidious flat on Lake Superior. It was James gats who had been loafing
along the beach that afternoon in a torn green jersey and a pair of canvas
pants. But it was already Jay Gatsby, who borrowed a rowboat, pulled
out to the Tuolumnie and informed Cody that a wind might catch him and break
him up in half an hour. I suppose he'd had the name ready for
a long time. Even then. His parents were shiftless and unsuccessful farm people,
his imagination had never really accepted them as his parents at all. The
truth was that Jay Gatsby of West Eglong Island sprang from his platonic conception of
himself. He was a son of God, a phrase which, if it
means anything, means just that. And he must be about his father's business,
the service of a vast, vulgar and meretricious beauty. So he invented
just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen year old boy would be likely
to invent, And to this conception he was faithful to the end. For
over a year he had been beating his way along the south shore of Lake
Superior, as a clam digger, in a salmon fisher, or in any
other capacity that brought him food. In bed, his brown, hardening body
lived naturally through the half fierce, half lazy world of the bracing days.
He knew women early, and since they spoiled him, he became contemptuous of
them, of young virgins because they were ignorant of the others, because they
were hysterical about things which, in his overwhelming self absorption he took for granted.
But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque
and fantastic conceits haunted him in his bed at night. A universe of ineffable
gaudiness spun itself out in his brain, while the clock ticked on the washstand
and the moon soaked with wet light. His tangled clothes upon the floor.
Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon
some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace. For a while, these reveries provided
an outlet for his imagination. They were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of
reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a
fairy's wing. An instinct toward his future glory had led him some months before
to the small Lutheran college of Saint Olaf's in southern Minnesota. He stayed there
two weeks, dismayed at as ferocious indifference to the drums of his destiny to
destiny itself, and despising the janitor's work with which he was to pay his
way through. Then he drifted back to Lake Superior, and he was still
searching for something to do on the day that Dan Cody's yacht dropped anchor in
the shallows along shore. Cody was fifty years old then, a product of
the Nevada silver fields of the Yukon, of every rush for metal since seventy
five. The transactions in Montana copper that made him many times a millionaire found
him physically robust, but on the verge of soft mindedness and Suspecting this,
an infinite number of women tried to separate him from his money. The none
too savory ramifications by which Ella Kay, the newspaper woman, played Madame de
Montenon to whose weakness and sent him to sea in a yacht, were common
property of the turgid journalism. In nineteen o two. He had been coasting
a law all two hospitable shores for five years when he turned up as James
Gatz's destiny in Little Girl Bay. To young gats resting on his oars and
looking up at the railed deck that yacht represented all the beauty and glamor in
the world. I suppose he smiled at Cody. He had probably discovered that
people liked him when he smiled at any rate. Cody asked him a few
questions, one of them elicited the brand new name, and found that he
was quick and extravagantly ambitious. A few days later he took him to Duluth
and bought him a blue coat, six pairs of white duck trousers, and
a yachting cap. And when the Tuolumne left for the West Indies and the
Barbary Coast, Gatsby left too, he was employed in a vague personal capacity.
While he remained with Cody, he was in turn steward, mate,
skipper, secretary, and even jailer for Dan Cody. Sober knew what lavish
doings Dan code Drunk might soon be about, and he provided for such contingencies
by reposing more and more trust in Gatsby. The arrangement lasted five years,
during which the boat went three times around the continent. It might have lasted
indefinitely except for the fact that Ella Kay came on board one night in Boston,
and a week later Dan Cody inhospitably died. I remember the portrait of
him up in Gadsby's bedroom, a gray Florid man with a hard, empty
face, the pioneer debauchi, who, during one phase of American life,
brought back to the Eastern Seaboard the savage violence of the Frontier brothel and saloon.
It was indirectly due to Cody that Gatsby drank so little. Sometimes in
the course of gay parties, women used to rub champagne into his hair.
For himself, he formed the habit of letting liquor alone, and it was
from Cody that he inherited money a legacy of twenty five thousand dollars. He
didn't get it. He never understood the legal device that was used against him.
But what remained of the millions went in tact to Ella Kay. He
was left with his singularly appropriate education. The vague contour of Jay Gatsby had
filled out to the substantiality of a man. He told me all this very
much later, but I've put it down here with the idea of exploding those
first wild rumors about his antecedents, which weren't even faintly true. Moreover,
he told it to me at a time of confusion, when I had reached
the point of believing everything and nothing about him. So I take advantage of
this short halt while Gatsby, so to speak, caught his breath to clear
this set of misconceptions away. It was a halt too in my association with
his affairs. For several weeks, I didn't see him or hear his voice
on the phone. Mostly I was in New York, trotting around with Jordan
and trying to ingratiate myself with her senile aunt. But finally I went over
to his house one Sunday afternoon. I hadn't been there two minutes when somebody
brought Tom Buchanan in for a drink. I was startled, naturally, But
the really surprising thing was that it hadn't happened before. There were a party
of three on horseback, Tom and a man named Sloane, and a pretty
woman in brown riding habit who had been there previously. I'm delighted to see
you, said Gatsby, standing on his porch. I'm delighted you dropped in
as though they cared. Sit right down, have a cigarette or a cigar.
He walked around the room, quickly ringing bells. I'll have something to
drink for you in just a minute. He was profoundly affected by the fact
that Tom was there, but he would be uneasy anyhow until he had given
them something, realizing in a vague way that that was all they came for.
Mister Sloane wanted nothing lemon, no thanks, a little champagne, nothing
at all. Thanks. I'm sorry. Did you have a nice ride,
very good roads around here, I suppose the automobiles. Yeah. Moved by
an irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned to Tom, who had accepted the introduction as
a stranger I believe we've met somewhere before, mister Buchanan. Oh yes,
said Tom, gruffly, polite, but obviously not remembering. So we did.
I remember very well about two weeks ago. That's right, you were
with Nick here. I know your wife, continued Gatsby, almost aggressively.
That's so, Tom turned to me. You live near here, Nick,
next door, that's so. Mister Sloan didn't enter into the conversation, but
lounged back haughtily in his chair. The woman said nothing either, until unexpectedly,
after two highballs, she became cordial. We'll all come over to your
party next, mister Gadsby, she suggested, What do you say? Certainly
I'd be delighted to have you. Be very nice, said mister Sloane,
without gratitude. Well, think ought to be starting home. Please don't hurry,
Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself now and he wanted to
see more of Tom. Why don't you Why don't you stay for supper?
I wouldn't be surprised if some other people dropped in from New York. You
come to supper with me, said the lady, enthusiastically. Both of you.
This included me. Mister Sloane got to his feet. Come along,
he said, But to her only I mean it, she insisted, I'd
love to have you lots of room. Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He
wanted to go, and he didn't see that mister Sloane had determined he shouldn't.
I'm afraid I won't be able to, I said, well, you
come, she urged, concentrating on Gatsby. Mister Sloane murmured something close to
her ear. We won't be late if we start now. She insisted aloud.
I haven't got a horse, said Gatsby. I used to ride in
the army, but I never bought a horse. I'll have to follow you
in my car. Excuse me for just a minute. The rest of us
walked out on the porch, where Sloane and the lady began an impassioned conversation.
Aside, my god, I believe the man's coming, said Tom.
Doesn't he know she doesn't want him? She says she does want him.
She has a big dinner party, and he won't know a soul there.
He frowned. I wonder where in the devil, he meant, Daisy,
By God, I may be old fashioned in my ideas, But women run
around too much these days to suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy
fish. Suddenly, mister Sloane and the lady walked down the steps and mounted
their horses. Come on, said mister Sloane to Tom, we're late.
We got to go, And then to me tell him we couldn't wait,
will you. Tom and I shook hands. The rest of us exchanged a
cool nod, and they trotted quickly down the drive, disappearing under the august
foliage, just as Gatsby, with hat and light overcoat in hand, came
out the front door. Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy's running round alone,
for on the following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby's party. Perhaps
his presence gave the evening its peculiar quality of oppressiveness. It stands out in
my memory from Gatsby's other parties that summer. There were the same people,
at least the same sort of people, the same profusion of champagne, the
same many colored, many keyed commotion. But I felt an unpleasantness in the
air, a pervading harshness that hadn't been there before. Or perhaps I had
merely grown used to it, grown to accept West Egg as a world complete
in itself, with its own standards and its own great figure, second to
nothing, because it had no consciousness of being so. And now I was
looking at it again through Daisy's eyes. It is invariably saddening to look through
new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment.
They arrived at twilight, and as we strolled out among the sparkling hundreds,
Daisy's voice was playing murmurous tricks in her throat. These things excite me,
soul, she whispered. If you want to kiss me any time during the
evening, Nick, just let me know, and I'll be glad to arrange
it for you. Just mention my name or present a green card. I'm
giving out green. Look around, suggested Gadsby. I'm looking around. I'm
having a marvelous You must see the faces of many people you've heard about.
Tom's arrogant eyes roamed the crowd. We don't go around very much, he
said. In fact, I was just thinking, I don't know a soul
here. Perhaps know that Lady Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely human orchid of
a woman who sat in state under a white plum tree. Tom and Daisy
stared with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies the recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity
of the movies. She's lovely, said Daisy. The man bending over her
is her director. He took them ceremoniously from group to group, Missus Buchanan
and mister Buchanan. After an instant's hesitation, he added the polo player.
Oh no, objected Tom quickly, not me, but evidently the sound of
it pleased Gatsby, for Tom remained the polo player for the rest of the
evening. I've never met so many celebrities, Daisy exclaimed. I liked that
man. What was his name? What the sort of blue nos? Gatsby
identified him, adding that he was a small producer. Well, I liked
him anyhow. I'd a little rather not be a polo player, said Tom
pleasantly. I'd rather look at all these famous people in men oblivion. Daisy
and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful conservative foxtrot. I
had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and
sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request, I
remained watchfully in the garden in case there's a fire or a flood, she
explained, or any act of God. Tom appeared from his oblivion as we
were sitting down to supper together. Do you mind if I eat with some
people over here? He asked? A fellow's getting off some funny stuff.
Go ahead, answered Daisy genially, and if you want to take down any
addresses, here's my little gold pencil. She looked around after a moment and
told me the girl was common but pretty, and I knew that except for
the half hour she'd been alone with Gaf, she wasn't having a good time.
We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault. Gatsby
had been called to the phone, and I'd enjoyed these same people only two
weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air.
Now, how do you feel, miss Piedecker? The girl addressed was trying
unsuccessfully to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry, she sat up and
opened her eyes. WHA A massive and lethargic woman who had been urging Daisy
to play golf with her at a local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Piedecker's
defense. Oh she's all right now. When she had five or six cocktails,
she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave
it alone. I do leave it alone, affirmed the accused, hollily.
We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc civit here. There's somebody
that needs your help. Doc. She's much obliged, I'm sure, said
another friend, without gratitude. But you got her dress all wet when you
stuck her head in the pool. Anything I hate is to get my head
stuck in a pool, mumbled Miss Piedecker. They almost drowned me once over
in New Jersey. Then you ought to leave it alone, countered Doc Civic.
Speak for yourself, cried Miss Pidecker. Violently, your handshakes. I
wouldn't let you operate on me. It was like that. Almost The last
thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving picture director and his
star. They were still under the white plum tree, and their faces were
touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to
me that he had been very slowly bending toward her. All evening to attain
his proximity, and even while I watched, I saw him stoop one ultimate
degree and kiss at her cheek. I like her, said Daisy, I
think she's lovely. But the rest offended her, and inarguably because it wasn't
a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by west Egg, this unprecedented
place that Broadway had begotten upon, a long island fishing village. Appalled by
its raw vigor that chafed under the old euphemisms, and by the too obtrusive
fate that hurted its inhabitants along a short cut from nothing to nothing. She
saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on
the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark
here in front. Only the bright door sent ten square feet of light falling
out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing room
blind above gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows who rouged
and powdered in an invisible glass. Who is this Gatsby anyhow? Demanded Tom.
Suddenly, some big bootlegger, where'd you hear that? I inquired.
I didn't hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich
people are just big bootleggers, you know, not Gadsby, I said shortly.
He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under
his feet. Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie
together. A breeze stirred the gray haze of Daisy's fur collar. At least
they are more interesting than the people we know, she said, with an
effort. You didn't look so interested, Well I was, Tom laughed and
turned to me. Did you notice Daisy's face? When that girl asked her
to put her under a cold shower? Daisy began to sing with the music
in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that
it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose,
her voice broke up, sweetly, following it in a way contralto voices
have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm hu and magic
upon the air. Lots of people come who haven't been invited, she said
suddenly. That girl hadn't been invited. They simply forced their way in,
and he's too polite to object. I'd like to know who he is and
what he does, insisted Tom. And I think I'll make a point of
finding out. I can tell you right now, she answered. He owned
some drug stores, a lot of drug stores. He built them up himself.
The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. Good night, Nick,
said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps,
where three o'clock in the morning, an eat sad little waltz of that
year was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness
of Gatsby's party, there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What
was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside?
What would happen now in the dim incalculable hours, Perhaps some unbelievable guest
would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marveled at, some authentically
radiant young girl, who, with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment
of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I
stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free,
and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up,
chilled and exalted from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the
guest rooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last, the tanned
skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and
tired. She didn't like it, he said, immediately, Of course she
did. She didn't like it, He insisted. She didn't have a good
time. He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression. I
feel far away from her, he said. It's hard to make her understand.
You mean about the dance. The dance. He dismissed all the dances
he had given with a snap of his fingers, old sport. The dance
is unimportant. He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to
Tom and say I never loved you. After she had obliterated four years with
that sentence, they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken.
One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go
back to Louisville and be married from her house, just as if it were
five years ago, and she doesn't understand, he said. She used to
be able to understand. We'd sit for hours. He broke off and began
to walk up and down the desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favors and
crushed flowers. I wouldn't ask too much of her, I ventured. You
can't repeat the past. Can't repeat the past, he cried, incredulously.
Why of course you can. He looked around him wildly, as if the
past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach
of his hand. Well, I'm going to fix everything just the way it
was before, he said, nodding determinedly. She'll see. He talked a
lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something,
some idea of himself perhaps that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had
been confused and disoriented since then. But if he could once return to a
certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what
that thing was. One autumn night, five years before, they had been
walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a
place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They
stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night,
with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year.
The quiet lights in the houses were humming out out into the darkness,
and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner
of his eye, Gadsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a
ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees. He could climb to
it if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the path
of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster
as Daisy's white face came up to his own. He knew that when he
kissed this girl and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his
mind would never romp again, like the mind of God. So he waited,
listening for a moment longer to the tuning fork that had been struck upon
a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips touch she blossomed for
him like a flower, and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said,
even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something, an elusive
rhythm, a fragment of lost words that I had heard somewhere a long time
ago. For a moment, a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth,
and my lips parted like a dumb man's, as though there was more
struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound,
and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. End of Chapter six