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WhenIcamehometoWestEggthatnightIwasafraidforamomentthatmyhousewasonfire.Twoo’clockandthewholecornerofthepeninsulawasblazingwithlight,whichfellunrealontheshrubberyandmadethinelongatingglintsupontheroadsidewires.Turningacorner,IsawthatitwasGatsby’shouse,litfromtowertocellar.
AtfirstIthoughtitwasanotherparty,awildroutthathadresolveditselfinto“hide-and-go-seek”or“sardines-in-the-box”withallthehousethrownopentothegame.Buttherewasn’tasound.Onlywindinthetrees,whichblewthewiresandmadethelightsgooffandonagainasifthehousehadwinkedintothedarkness.AsmytaxigroanedawayIsawGatsbywalkingtowardmeacrosshislawn.
“YourplacelooksliketheWorld’sFair,”Isaid.
“Doesit?”Heturnedhiseyestowarditabsently.“Ihavebeenglancingintosomeoftherooms.Let’sgotoConeyIsland,oldsport.Inmycar.”
“It’stoolate.”
“Well,supposewetakeaplungeintheswimmingpool?Ihaven’tmadeuseofitallsummer.”
“I’vegottogotobed.”
“Allright.”
Hewaited,lookingatmewithsuppressedeagerness.
“ItalkedwithMissBaker,”Isaidafteramoment.“I’mgoingtocallupDaisytomorrowandinviteheroverheretotea.”
“Oh,that’sallright,”hesaidcarelessly.“Idon’twanttoputyoutoanytrouble.”
“Whatdaywouldsuityou?”
“Whatdaywouldsuityou?”hecorrectedmequickly.“Idon’twanttoputyoutoanytrouble,yousee.”
“Howaboutthedayaftertomorrow?”
Heconsideredforamoment.Then,withreluctance:“Iwanttogetthegrasscut,”hesaid.
Webothlookeddownatthegrass—therewasasharplinewheremyraggedlawnendedandthedarker,well-keptexpanseofhisbegan.Isuspectedthathemeantmygrass.
“There’sanotherlittlething,”hesaiduncertainly,andhesitated.
“Wouldyouratherputitoffforafewdays?”Iasked.
“Oh,itisn’taboutthat.Atleast—”Hefumbledwithaseriesofbeginnings.“Why,Ithought—why,lookhere,oldsport,youdon’tmakemuchmoney,doyou?”
“Notverymuch.”
Thisseemedtoreassurehimandhecontinuedmoreconfidently.
“Ithoughtyoudidn’t,ifyou’llpardonmy—yousee,Icarryonalittlebusinessontheside,asortofsideline,youunderstand.AndIthoughtthatifyoudon’tmakeverymuch—You’resellingbonds,aren’tyou,oldsport?”
“Tryingto.”
“Well,thiswouldinterestyou.Itwouldn’ttakeupmuchofyourtimeandyoumightpickupanicebitofmoney.Ithappenstobearatherconfidentialsortofthing.”
Irealizenowthatunderdifferentcircumstancesthatconversationmighthavebeenoneofthecrisesofmylife.But,becausetheofferwasobviouslyandtactlesslyforaservicetoberendered,Ihadnochoiceexcepttocuthimoffthere.
“I’vegotmyhandsfull,”Isaid.“I’mmuchobligedbutIcouldn’ttakeonanymorework.”
“Youwouldn’thavetodoanybusinesswithWolfshiem.”EvidentlyhethoughtthatIwasshyingawayfromthe“gonnegtion”mentionedatlunch,butIassuredhimhewaswrong.Hewaitedamomentlonger,hopingI’dbeginaconversation,butIwastooabsorbedtoberesponsive,sohewentunwillinglyhome.
TheeveninghadmademelightheadedandhappyIthinkIwalkedintoadeepsleepasIenteredmyfrontdoor.SoIdon’tknowwhetherornotGatsbywenttoConeyIsland,orforhowmanyhourshe“glancedintorooms”whilehishouseblazedgaudilyon.IcalledupDaisyfromtheofficenextmorning,andinvitedhertocometotea.
“Don’tbringTom,”Iwarnedher.
“What?”
“Don’tbringTom.”
“Whois‘Tom’?”sheaskedinnocently.
Thedayagreeduponwaspouringrain.Ateleveno’clockamaninaraincoat,draggingalawn-mower,tappedatmyfrontdoorandsaidthatMr.Gatsbyhadsenthimovertocutmygrass.ThisremindedmethatIhadforgottentotellmyFinntocomeback,soIdroveintoWestEggVillagetosearchforheramongsoggywhitewashedalleysandtobuysomecupsandlemonsandflowers.
Theflowerswereunnecessary,forattwoo’clockagreenhousearrivedfromGatsby’s,withinnumerablereceptaclestocontainit.Anhourlaterthefrontdooropenednervously,andGatsbyinawhiteflannelsuit,silvershirt,andgold-colouredtie,hurriedin.Hewaspale,andthereweredarksignsofsleeplessnessbeneathhiseyes.
“Iseverythingallright?”heaskedimmediately.
“Thegrasslooksfine,ifthat’swhatyoumean.”
“Whatgrass?”heinquiredblankly.“Oh,thegrassintheyard.”Helookedoutthewindowatit,but,judgingfromhisexpression,Idon’tbelievehesawathing.
“Looksverygood,”heremarkedvaguely.“Oneofthepaperssaidtheythoughttherainwoulds
