VII

ItwaswhencuriosityaboutGatsbywasatitshighestthatthelightsinhishousefailedtogoononeSaturdaynight—and,asobscurelyasithadbegun,hiscareerasTrimalchiowasover.OnlygraduallydidIbecomeawarethattheautomobileswhichturnedexpectantlyintohisdrivestayedforjustaminuteandthendrovesulkilyaway.WonderingifheweresickIwentovertofindout—anunfamiliarbutlerwithavillainousfacesquintedatmesuspiciouslyfromthedoor. “IsMr.Gatsbysick?” “Nope.”Afterapauseheadded“sir”inadilatory,grudgingway. “Ihadn’tseenhimaround,andIwasratherworried.TellhimMr.Carrawaycameover.” “Who?”hedemandedrudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway.Allright,I’lltellhim.” Abruptlyheslammedthedoor. MyFinninformedmethatGatsbyhaddismissedeveryservantinhishouseaweekagoandreplacedthemwithhalfadozenothers,whoneverwentintoWestEggvillagetobebribedbythetradesmen,butorderedmoderatesuppliesoverthetelephone.Thegroceryboyreportedthatthekitchenlookedlikeapigsty,andthegeneralopinioninthevillagewasthatthenewpeopleweren’tservantsatall. NextdayGatsbycalledmeonthephone. “Goingaway?”Iinquired. “No,oldsport.” “Ihearyoufiredallyourservants.” “Iwantedsomebodywhowouldn’tgossip.Daisycomesoverquiteoften—intheafternoons.” Sothewholecaravansaryhadfalleninlikeacardhouseatthedisapprovalinhereyes. “They’resomepeopleWolfshiemwantedtodosomethingfor.They’reallbrothersandsisters.Theyusedtorunasmallhotel.” “Isee.” HewascallingupatDaisy’srequest—wouldIcometolunchatherhousetomorrow?MissBakerwouldbethere.HalfanhourlaterDaisyherselftelephonedandseemedrelievedtofindthatIwascoming.Somethingwasup.AndyetIcouldn’tbelievethattheywouldchoosethisoccasionforascene—especiallyfortheratherharrowingscenethatGatsbyhadoutlinedinthegarden. Thenextdaywasbroiling,almostthelast,certainlythewarmest,ofthesummer.Asmytrainemergedfromthetunnelintosunlight,onlythehotwhistlesoftheNationalBiscuitCompanybrokethesimmeringhushatnoon.Thestrawseatsofthecarhoveredontheedgeofcombustionthewomannexttomeperspireddelicatelyforawhileintoherwhiteshirtwaist,andthen,ashernewspaperdampenedunderherfingers,lapseddespairinglyintodeepheatwithadesolatecry.Herpocketbookslappedtothefloor. “Oh,my!”shegasped. Ipickeditupwithawearybendandhandeditbacktoher,holdingitatarm’slengthandbytheextremetipofthecornerstoindicatethatIhadnodesignsuponit—buteveryonenearby,includingthewoman,suspectedmejustthesame. “Hot!”saidtheconductortofamiliarfaces.“Someweather!…Hot!…Hot!…Hot!…Isithotenoughforyou?Isithot?Isit…??” Mycommutationticketcamebacktomewithadarkstainfromhishand.Thatanyoneshouldcareinthisheatwhoseflushedlipshekissed,whoseheadmadedampthepyjamapocketoverhisheart! …ThroughthehalloftheBuchanans’houseblewafaintwind,carryingthesoundofthetelephonebellouttoGatsbyandmeaswewaitedatthedoor. “Themaster’sbody?”roaredthebutlerintothemouthpiece.“I’msorry,madame,butwecan’tfurnishit—it’sfartoohottotouchthisnoon!” Whathereallysaidwas:“Yes…Yes…I’llsee.” Hesetdownthereceiverandcametowardus,glisteningslightly,totakeourstiffstrawhats. “Madameexpectsyouinthesalon!”hecried,needlesslyindicatingthedirection.Inthisheateveryextragesturewasanaffronttothecommonstoreoflife. Theroom,shadowedwellwithawnings,wasdarkandcool.DaisyandJordanlayuponanenormouscouch,likesilveridolsweighingdowntheirownwhitedressesagainstthesingingbreezeofthefans. “Wecan’tmove,”theysaidtogether. Jordan’sfingers,powderedwhiteovertheirtan,restedforamomentinmine. “AndMr.ThomasBuchanan,theathlete?”Iinquired. SimultaneouslyIheardhisvoice,gruff,muffled,husky,atthehalltelephone. Gatsbystoodinthecentreofthecrimsoncarpetandgazedaroundwithfascinatedeyes.Daisywatchedhimandlaughed,hersweet,excitinglaughatinygustofpowderrosefromherbosomintotheair. “Therumouris,”whisperedJordan,“thatthat’sTom’sgirlonthetelephone.” Weweresilent.Thevoiceinthehallrosehighwithannoyance:“Verywell,then,Iwon’tsellyouthecaratall…I’mundernoobligationstoyouatall…andasforyourbotheringmeaboutitatlunchtime,Iwon’tstandthatatall!” “Holdingdownthereceiver,”saidDaisycynically. “No,he’snot,”Iassuredher.“It’sabona-fidedeal.Ihappentoknowaboutit.” Tomflungopenthedoor,blockedoutitsspaceforamomentwithhisthickbody,andhurriedintotheroom. “Mr.Gatsby!”Heputouthisbroad,flathandwithwell-concealeddislike.“I’mgladtoseeyou,sir…Nick…” “Makeusacolddrink,”criedDaisy. AshelefttheroomagainshegotupandwentovertoGatsbyandpulledhisfacedown,kissinghimonthemouth. “YouknowIloveyou,”shemurmured. “Youforgetthere’saladypresent,”saidJordan. Daisylookedarounddoubtfully. “YoukissNicktoo.” “Whatalow,vulgargirl!” “Idon’tcare!”criedDaisy,andbegantoclogonthebrickfireplace.Thensherememberedtheheatandsatdownguiltilyonthecouchjustasafreshlylaunderednurseleadingalittlegirlcameintotheroom. “Bles-sedpre-cious,”shecrooned,holdingoutherarms.“Cometoyourownmotherthatlovesyou.” Thechild,relinquishedbythenurse,rushedacrosstheroomandrootedshylyintohermother’sdress. “Thebles-sedpre-cious!Didmothergetpowderonyouroldyellowyhair?Standupnow,andsay—How-de-do.” GatsbyandIinturnleaneddownandtookthesmallreluctanthand.Afterwardhekeptlookingatthechildwithsurprise.Idon’tthinkhehadeverreallybelievedinitsexistencebefore. “Igotdressedbeforeluncheon,”saidthechild,turningeagerlytoDaisy. “That’sbecauseyourmotherwantedtoshowyouoff.”Herfacebentintothesinglewrinkleofthesmallwhiteneck.“Youdream,you.Youabsolutelittledream.” “Yes,”admittedthechildcalmly.“AuntJordan’sgotonawhitedresstoo.” “Howdoyoulikemother’sfriends?”DaisyturnedheraroundsothatshefacedGatsby.“Doyouthinkthey’repretty?” “Where’sDaddy?” “Shedoesn’tlooklikeherfather,”explainedDaisy.“Shelookslikeme.She’sgotmyhairandshapeoftheface.” Daisysatbackuponthecouch.Thenursetookastepforwardandheldoutherhand. “Come,Pammy.” “Goodbye,sweetheart!” Withareluctantbackwardglancethewell-disciplinedchildheldtohernurse’shandandwaspulledoutthedoor,justasTomcameback,precedingfourginrickeysthatclickedfullofice. Gatsbytookuphisdrink. “Theycertainlylookcool,”hesaid,withvisibletension. Wedrankinlong,greedyswallows. “Ireadsomewherethatthesun’sgettinghottereveryyear,”saidTomgenially.“Itseemsthatprettysoontheearth’sgoingtofallintothesun—orwaitaminute—it’sjusttheopposite—thesun’sgettingcoldereveryyear. “Comeoutside,”hesuggestedtoGatsby,“I’dlikeyoutohavealookattheplace.” Iwentwiththemouttotheveranda.OnthegreenSound,stagnantintheheat,onesmallsailcrawledslowlytowardthefreshersea.Gatsby’seyesfolloweditmomentarilyheraisedhishandandpointedacrossthebay. “I’mrightacrossfromyou.” “Soyouare.” Oureyesliftedovertherose-bedsandthehotlawnandtheweedyrefuseofthedog-daysalongshore.Slowlythewhitewingsoftheboatmovedagainstthebluecoollimitofthesky.Aheadlaythescallopedoceanandtheaboundingblessedisles. “There’ssportforyou,”saidTom,nodding.“I’dliketobeouttherewithhimforaboutanhour.” Wehadluncheoninthedining-room,darkenedtooagainsttheheat,anddrankdownnervousgaietywiththecoldale. “What’llwedowithourselvesthisafternoon?”criedDaisy,“andthedayafterthat,andthenextthirtyyears?” “Don’tbemorbid,”Jordansaid.“Lifestartsalloveragainwhenitgetscrispinthefall.” “Butit’ssohot,”insistedDaisy,onthevergeoftears,“andeverything’ssoconfused.Let’sallgototown!” Hervoicestruggledonthroughtheheat,beatingagainstit,mouldingitssenselessnessintoforms. “I’veheardofmakingagarageoutofastable,”TomwassayingtoGatsby,“butI’mthefirstmanwhoevermadeastableoutofagarage.” “Whowantstogototown?”demandedDaisyinsistently.Gatsby’seyesfloatedtowardher.“Ah,”shecried,“youlooksocool.” Theireyesmet,andtheystaredtogetherateachother,aloneinspace.Withaneffortsheglanceddownatthetable. “Youalwayslooksocool,”sherepeated. Shehadtoldhimthatshelovedhim,andTomBuchanansaw.Hewasastounded.Hismouthopenedalittle,andhelookedatGatsby,andthenbackatDaisyasifhehadjustrecognizedherassomeoneheknewalongtimeago. “Youresembletheadvertisementoftheman,”shewentoninnocently.“Youknowtheadvertisementoftheman—” “Allright,”brokeinTomquickly,“I’mperfectlywillingtogototown.Comeon—we’reallgoingtotown.” Hegotup,hiseyesstillflashingbetweenGatsbyandhiswife.Noonemoved. “Comeon!”Histempercrackedalittle.“What’sthematter,anyhow?Ifwe’regoingtotown,let’sstart.” Hishand,tremblingwithhiseffortatself-control,boretohislipsthelastofhisglassofale.Daisy’svoicegotustoourfeetandoutontotheblazinggraveldrive. “Arewejustgoingtogo?”sheobjecte