III
關燈
小
中
大
remarkedJordan,andIstarted,butthegirlshadmovedcasuallyonandherremarkwasaddressedtotheprematuremoon,producedlikethesupper,nodoubt,outofacaterer’sbasket.WithJordan’sslendergoldenarmrestinginmine,wedescendedthestepsandsaunteredaboutthegarden.Atrayofcocktailsfloatedatusthroughthetwilight,andwesatdownatatablewiththetwogirlsinyellowandthreemen,eachoneintroducedtousasMr.Mumble.
“Doyoucometothesepartiesoften?”inquiredJordanofthegirlbesideher.
“ThelastonewastheoneImetyouat,”answeredthegirl,inanalertconfidentvoice.Sheturnedtohercompanion:“Wasn’titforyou,Lucille?”
ItwasforLucille,too.
“Iliketocome,”Lucillesaid.“InevercarewhatIdo,soIalwayshaveagoodtime.WhenIwasherelastItoremygownonachair,andheaskedmemynameandaddress—insideofaweekIgotapackagefromCroirier’swithaneweveninggowninit.”
“Didyoukeepit?”askedJordan.
“SureIdid.Iwasgoingtowearittonight,butitwastoobiginthebustandhadtobealtered.Itwasgasbluewithlavenderbeads.Twohundredandsixty-fivedollars.”
“There’ssomethingfunnyaboutafellowthat’lldoathinglikethat,”saidtheothergirleagerly.“Hedoesn’twantanytroublewithanybody.”
“Whodoesn’t?”Iinquired.
“Gatsby.Somebodytoldme—”
ThetwogirlsandJordanleanedtogetherconfidentially.
“Somebodytoldmetheythoughthekilledamanonce.”
Athrillpassedoverallofus.ThethreeMr.Mumblesbentforwardandlistenedeagerly.
“Idon’tthinkit’ssomuchthat,”arguedLucillesceptically“It’smorethathewasaGermanspyduringthewar.”
Oneofthemennoddedinconfirmation.
“Iheardthatfromamanwhoknewallabouthim,grewupwithhiminGermany,”heassureduspositively.
“Oh,no,”saidthefirstgirl,“itcouldn’tbethat,becausehewasintheAmericanarmyduringthewar.”Asourcredulityswitchedbacktohersheleanedforwardwithenthusiasm.“Youlookathimsometimeswhenhethinksnobody’slookingathim.I’llbethekilledaman.”
Shenarrowedhereyesandshivered.Lucilleshivered.WeallturnedandlookedaroundforGatsby.Itwastestimonytotheromanticspeculationheinspiredthattherewerewhispersabouthimfromthosewhohadfoundlittlethatitwasnecessarytowhisperaboutinthisworld.
Thefirstsupper—therewouldbeanotheroneaftermidnight—wasnowbeingserved,andJordaninvitedmetojoinherownparty,whowerespreadaroundatableontheothersideofthegarden.TherewerethreemarriedcouplesandJordan’sescort,apersistentundergraduategiventoviolentinnuendo,andobviouslyundertheimpressionthatsoonerorlaterJordanwasgoingtoyieldhimupherpersontoagreaterorlesserdegree.Insteadoframbling,thispartyhadpreservedadignifiedhomogeneity,andassumedtoitselfthefunctionofrepresentingthestaidnobilityofthecountryside—EastEggcondescendingtoWestEggandcarefullyonguardagainstitsspectroscopicgaiety.
“Let’sgetout,”whisperedJordan,afterasomehowwastefulandinappropriatehalf-hour“thisismuchtoopoliteforme.”
Wegotup,andsheexplainedthatweweregoingtofindthehost:Ihadnevermethim,shesaid,anditwasmakingmeuneasy.Theundergraduatenoddedinacynical,melancholyway.
Thebar,whereweglancedfirst,wascrowded,butGatsbywasnotthere.Shecouldn’tfindhimfromthetopofthesteps,andhewasn’tontheveranda.Onachancewetriedanimportant-lookingdoor,andwalkedintoahighGothiclibrary,panelledwithcarvedEnglishoak,andprobablytransportedcompletefromsomeruinoverseas.
Astout,middle-agedman,withenormousowl-eyedspectacles,wassittingsomewhatdrunkontheedgeofagreattable,staringwithunsteadyconcentrationattheshelvesofbooks.AsweenteredhewheeledexcitedlyaroundandexaminedJordanfromheadtofoot.
“Whatdoyouthink?”hedemandedimpetuously.
“Aboutwhat?”
Hewavedhishandtowardthebookshelves.
“Aboutthat.Asamatteroffactyouneedn’tbothertoascertain.Iascertained.They’rereal.”
“Thebooks?”
Henodded.
“Absolutelyreal—havepagesandeverything.Ithoughtthey’dbeanicedurablecardboard.Matteroffact,they’reabsolutelyreal.Pagesand—Here!Lemmeshowyou.”
Takingourscepticismforgranted,herushedtothebookcasesandreturnedwithVolumeOneoftheStoddardLectures.
“See!”hecriedtriumphantly.“It’sabona-fidepieceofprintedmatter.Itfooledme.Thisfella’saregularBelasco.It’satriumph.Whatthoroughness!Whatrealism!Knewwhentostop,too—didn’tcutthepages.Butwhatdoyouwant?Whatdoyouexpect?”
Hesnatchedthebookfrommeandreplacedithastilyonitsshelf,mutteringthatifonebrickwasremovedthewholelibrarywasliabletocollapse.
“Whobroughtyou?”hedemanded.“Ordidyoujustcome?Iwasbrought.Mostpeoplewerebrought.”
Jordanlookedathimalertly,cheerfully,withoutanswering.
“IwasbroughtbyawomannamedRoosevelt,”hecontinued.“Mrs.ClaudRoosevelt.Doyouknowher?Imethersomewherelastnight.I’vebeendrunkforaboutaweeknow,andIthoughtitmightsobermeuptositinalibrary.”
“Hasit?”
“Alittlebit,Ithink.Ican’ttellyet.I’veonlybeenhereanhour.DidItellyouaboutthebooks?They’rereal.They’re—”
“Youtoldus.”
Weshookhandswithhimgravelyandwentbackoutdoors.
Therewasdancingnowonthecanvasinthegardenoldmenpushingyounggirlsbackwardineternalgracelesscircles,superiorcouplesholdingeachothertortuously,fashionably,andkeepinginthecorners—andagreatnumberofsinglegirlsdancingindividuallyorrelievingtheorchestraforamomentoftheburdenofthebanjoorthetraps.Bymidnightthehilarityhadincreased.AcelebratedtenorhadsunginItalian,andanotoriouscontraltohadsunginjazz,andbetweenthenumberspeopleweredoing“stunts”alloverthegarden,whilehappy,vacuousburstsoflaughterrosetowardthesummersky.Apairofstagetwins,whoturnedouttobethegirlsinyellow,didababyactincostume,andchampagnewasservedinglassesbiggerthanfinger-bowls.Themoonhadrisenhigher,andfloatingintheSoundwasatriangleofsilverscales,tremblingalittletothestiff,tinnydripofthebanjoesonthelawn.
IwasstillwithJordanBaker.Weweresittin
