IV
關燈
小
中
大
’treachedWestEggvillagebeforeGatsbybeganleavinghiselegantsentencesunfinishedandslappinghimselfindecisivelyonthekneeofhiscaramel-colouredsuit.
“Lookhere,oldsport,”hebrokeoutsurprisingly,“what’syouropinionofme,anyhow?”
Alittleoverwhelmed,Ibeganthegeneralizedevasionswhichthatquestiondeserves.
“Well,I’mgoingtotellyousomethingaboutmylife,”heinterrupted.“Idon’twantyoutogetawrongideaofmefromallthesestoriesyouhear.”
Sohewasawareofthebizarreaccusationsthatflavouredconversationinhishalls.
“I’lltellyouGod’struth.”Hisrighthandsuddenlyordereddivineretributiontostandby.“IamthesonofsomewealthypeopleintheMiddleWest—alldeadnow.IwasbroughtupinAmericabuteducatedatOxford,becauseallmyancestorshavebeeneducatedthereformanyyears.Itisafamilytradition.”
Helookedatmesideways—andIknewwhyJordanBakerhadbelievedhewaslying.Hehurriedthephrase“educatedatOxford,”orswallowedit,orchokedonit,asthoughithadbotheredhimbefore.Andwiththisdoubt,hiswholestatementfelltopieces,andIwonderediftherewasn’tsomethingalittlesinisterabouthim,afterall.
“WhatpartoftheMiddleWest?”Iinquiredcasually.
“SanFrancisco.”
“Isee.”
“MyfamilyalldiedandIcameintoagooddealofmoney.”
Hisvoicewassolemn,asifthememoryofthatsuddenextinctionofaclanstillhauntedhim.ForamomentIsuspectedthathewaspullingmyleg,butaglanceathimconvincedmeotherwise.
“AfterthatIlivedlikeayoungrajahinallthecapitalsofEurope—Paris,Venice,Rome—collectingjewels,chieflyrubies,huntingbiggame,paintingalittle,thingsformyselfonly,andtryingtoforgetsomethingverysadthathadhappenedtomelongago.”
WithaneffortImanagedtorestrainmyincredulouslaughter.Theveryphraseswerewornsothreadbarethattheyevokednoimageexceptthatofaturbaned“character”leakingsawdustateveryporeashepursuedatigerthroughtheBoisdeBoulogne.
“Thencamethewar,oldsport.Itwasagreatrelief,andItriedveryhardtodie,butIseemedtobearanenchantedlife.Iacceptedacommissionasfirstlieutenantwhenitbegan.IntheArgonneForestItooktheremainsofmymachine-gunbattalionsofarforwardthattherewasahalfmilegaponeithersideofuswheretheinfantrycouldn’tadvance.Westayedtheretwodaysandtwonights,ahundredandthirtymenwithsixteenLewisguns,andwhentheinfantrycameupatlasttheyfoundtheinsigniaofthreeGermandivisionsamongthepilesofdead.Iwaspromotedtobeamajor,andeveryAlliedgovernmentgavemeadecoration—evenMontenegro,littleMontenegrodownontheAdriaticSea!”
LittleMontenegro!Heliftedupthewordsandnoddedatthem—withhissmile.ThesmilecomprehendedMontenegro’stroubledhistoryandsympathizedwiththebravestrugglesoftheMontenegrinpeople.ItappreciatedfullythechainofnationalcircumstanceswhichhadelicitedthistributefromMontenegro’swarmlittleheart.Myincredulitywassubmergedinfascinationnowitwaslikeskimminghastilythroughadozenmagazines.
Hereachedinhispocket,andapieceofmetal,slungonaribbon,fellintomypalm.
“That’stheonefromMontenegro.”
Tomyastonishment,thethinghadanauthenticlook.“OrderidiDanilo,”ranthecircularlegend,“Montenegro,NicolasRex.”
“Turnit.”
“MajorJayGatsby,”Iread,“ForValourExtraordinary.”
“Here’sanotherthingIalwayscarry.AsouvenirofOxforddays.ItwastakeninTrinityQuad—themanonmyleftisnowtheEarlofDoncaster.”
Itwasaphotographofhalfadozenyoungmeninblazersloafinginanarchwaythroughwhichwerevisibleahostofspires.TherewasGatsby,lookingalittle,notmuch,younger—withacricketbatinhishand.
Thenitwasalltrue.IsawtheskinsoftigersflaminginhispalaceontheGrandCanalIsawhimopeningachestofrubiestoease,withtheircrimson-lighteddepths,thegnawingsofhisbrokenheart.
“I’mgoingtomakeabigrequestofyoutoday,”hesaid,pocketinghissouvenirswithsatisfaction,“soIthoughtyououghttoknowsomethingaboutme.Ididn’twantyoutothinkIwasjustsomenobody.Yousee,IusuallyfindmyselfamongstrangersbecauseIdrifthereandtheretryingtoforgetthesadthingsthathappenedtome.”Hehesitated.“You’llhearaboutitthisafternoon.”
“Atlunch?”
“No,thisafternoon.Ihappenedtofindoutthatyou’retakingMissBakertotea.”
“Doyoumeanyou’reinlovewithMissBaker?”
“No,oldsport,I’mnot.ButMissBakerhaskindlyconsentedtospeaktoyouaboutthismatter.”
Ihadn’tthefaintestideawhat“thismatter”was,butIwasmoreannoyedthaninterested.Ihadn’taskedJordantoteainordertodiscussMr.JayGatsby.Iwassuretherequestwouldbesomethingutterlyfantastic,andforamomentIwassorryI’deversetfootuponhisoverpopulatedlawn.
Hewouldn’tsayanotherword.Hiscorrectnessgrewonhimaswenearedthecity.WepassedPortRoosevelt,wheretherewasaglimpseofred-beltedoceangoingships,andspedalongacobbledslumlinedwiththedark,undesertedsaloonsofthefaded-giltnineteen-hundreds.Thenthevalleyofashesopenedoutonbothsidesofus,andIhadaglimpseofMrs.Wilsonstrainingatthegaragepumpwithpantingvitalityaswewentby.
WithfendersspreadlikewingswescatteredlightthroughhalfAstoria—onlyhalf,foraswetwistedamongthepillarsoftheelevatedIheardthefamiliar“jug-jug-spat!”ofamotorcycle,andafranticpolicemanrodealongside.
“Allright,oldsport,”calledGatsby.Wesloweddown.Takingawhitecardfromhiswallet,hewaveditbeforetheman’seyes.
“Rightyouare,”agreedthepoliceman,tippinghiscap.“Knowyounexttime,Mr.Gatsby.Excuseme!”
“Whatwasthat?”Iinquired.“ThepictureofOxford?”
“Iwasabletodothecommissionerafavouronce,andhesendsmeaChris
