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AbouthalfwaybetweenWestEggandNewYorkthemotorroadhastilyjoinstherailroadandrunsbesideitforaquarterofamile,soastoshrinkawayfromacertaindesolateareaofland.Thisisavalleyofashes—afantasticfarmwhereashesgrowlikewheatintoridgesandhillsandgrotesquegardenswhereashestaketheformsofhousesandchimneysandrisingsmokeand,finally,withatranscendenteffort,ofash-greymen,whomovedimlyandalreadycrumblingthroughthepowderyair.Occasionallyalineofgreycarscrawlsalonganinvisibletrack,givesoutaghastlycreak,andcomestorest,andimmediatelytheash-greymenswarmupwithleadenspadesandstirupanimpenetrablecloud,whichscreenstheirobscureoperationsfromyoursight.
Butabovethegreylandandthespasmsofbleakdustwhichdriftendlesslyoverit,youperceive,afteramoment,theeyesofDoctorT.J.Eckleburg.TheeyesofDoctorT.J.Eckleburgareblueandgigantic—theirretinasareoneyardhigh.Theylookoutofnoface,but,instead,fromapairofenormousyellowspectacleswhichpassoveranonexistentnose.EvidentlysomewildwagofanoculistsetthemtheretofattenhispracticeintheboroughofQueens,andthensankdownhimselfintoeternalblindness,orforgotthemandmovedaway.Buthiseyes,dimmedalittlebymanypaintlessdays,undersunandrain,broodonoverthesolemndumpingground.
Thevalleyofashesisboundedononesidebyasmallfoulriver,and,whenthedrawbridgeisuptoletbargesthrough,thepassengersonwaitingtrainscanstareatthedismalsceneforaslongashalfanhour.Thereisalwaysahaltthereofatleastaminute,anditwasbecauseofthisthatIfirstmetTomBuchanan’smistress.
Thefactthathehadonewasinsisteduponwhereverhewasknown.Hisacquaintancesresentedthefactthatheturnedupinpopularcaféswithherand,leavingheratatable,saunteredabout,chattingwithwhomsoeverheknew.ThoughIwascurioustoseeher,Ihadnodesiretomeether—butIdid.IwentuptoNewYorkwithTomonthetrainoneafternoon,andwhenwestoppedbytheash-heapshejumpedtohisfeetand,takingholdofmyelbow,literallyforcedmefromthecar.
“We’regettingoff,”heinsisted.“Iwantyoutomeetmygirl.”
Ithinkhe’dtankedupagooddealatluncheon,andhisdeterminationtohavemycompanyborderedonviolence.ThesuperciliousassumptionwasthatonSundayafternoonIhadnothingbettertodo.
Ifollowedhimoveralowwhitewashedrailroadfence,andwewalkedbackahundredyardsalongtheroadunderDoctorEckleburg’spersistentstare.Theonlybuildinginsightwasasmallblockofyellowbricksittingontheedgeofthewasteland,asortofcompactMainStreetministeringtoit,andcontiguoustoabsolutelynothing.Oneofthethreeshopsitcontainedwasforrentandanotherwasanall-nightrestaurant,approachedbyatrailofashesthethirdwasagarage—Repairs.GeorgeB.Wilson.Carsboughtandsold.—andIfollowedTominside.
Theinteriorwasunprosperousandbaretheonlycarvisiblewasthedust-coveredwreckofaFordwhichcrouchedinadimcorner.Ithadoccurredtomethatthisshadowofagaragemustbeablind,andthatsumptuousandromanticapartmentswereconcealedoverhead,whentheproprietorhimselfappearedinthedoorofanoffice,wipinghishandsonapieceofwaste.Hewasablond,spiritlessman,anaemic,andfaintlyhandsome.Whenhesawusadampgleamofhopesprangintohislightblueeyes.
“Hello,Wilson,oldman,”saidTom,slappinghimjoviallyontheshoulder.“How’sbusiness?”
“Ican’tcomplain,”answeredWilsonunconvincingly.“Whenareyougoingtosellmethatcar?”
“NextweekI’vegotmymanworkingonitnow.”
“Worksprettyslow,don’the?”
“No,hedoesn’t,”saidTomcoldly.“Andifyoufeelthatwayaboutit,maybeI’dbettersellitsomewhereelseafterall.”
“Idon’tmeanthat,”explainedWilsonquickly.“Ijustmeant—”
HisvoicefadedoffandTomglancedimpatientlyaroundthegarage.ThenIheardfootstepsonastairs,andinamomentthethickishfigureofawomanblockedoutthelightfromtheofficedoor.Shewasinthemiddlethirties,andfaintlystout,butshecarriedherfleshsensuouslyassomewomencan.Herface,aboveaspotteddressofdarkbluecrêpe-de-chine,containednofacetorgleamofbeauty,buttherewasanimmediatelyperceptiblevitalityaboutherasifthenervesofherbodywerecontinuallysmouldering.Shesmiledslowlyand,walkingthroughherhusbandasifhewereaghost,shookhandswithTom,lookinghimflushintheeye.Thenshewetherlips,andwithoutturningaroundspoketoherhusbandinasoft,coarsevoice:
“Getsomechairs,
