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on.Nowitwasagainagreenlightonadock.Hiscountofenchantedobjectshaddiminishedbyone.
Ibegantowalkabouttheroom,examiningvariousindefiniteobjectsinthehalfdarkness.Alargephotographofanelderlymaninyachtingcostumeattractedme,hungonthewalloverhisdesk.
“Who’sthis?”
“That?That’sMr.DanCody,oldsport.”
Thenamesoundedfaintlyfamiliar.
“He’sdeadnow.Heusedtobemybestfriendyearsago.”
TherewasasmallpictureofGatsby,alsoinyachtingcostume,onthebureau—Gatsbywithhisheadthrownbackdefiantly—takenapparentlywhenhewasabouteighteen.
“Iadoreit,”exclaimedDaisy.“Thepompadour!Younevertoldmeyouhadapompadour—orayacht.”
“Lookatthis,”saidGatsbyquickly.“Here’salotofclippings—aboutyou.”
Theystoodsidebysideexaminingit.Iwasgoingtoasktoseetherubieswhenthephonerang,andGatsbytookupthereceiver.
“Yes…Well,Ican’ttalknow…Ican’ttalknow,oldsport…Isaidasmalltown…Hemustknowwhatasmalltownis…Well,he’snousetousifDetroitishisideaofasmalltown…”
Herangoff.
“Comeherequick!”criedDaisyatthewindow.
Therainwasstillfalling,butthedarknesshadpartedinthewest,andtherewasapinkandgoldenbillowoffoamycloudsabovethesea.
“Lookatthat,”shewhispered,andthenafteramoment:“I’dliketojustgetoneofthosepinkcloudsandputyouinitandpushyouaround.”
Itriedtogothen,buttheywouldn’thearofitperhapsmypresencemadethemfeelmoresatisfactorilyalone.
“Iknowwhatwe’lldo,”saidGatsby,“we’llhaveKlipspringerplaythepiano.”
Hewentoutoftheroomcalling“Ewing!”andreturnedinafewminutesaccompaniedbyanembarrassed,slightlywornyoungman,withshell-rimmedglassesandscantyblondhair.Hewasnowdecentlyclothedina“sportshirt,”openattheneck,sneakers,andducktrousersofanebuloushue.
“Didweinterruptyourexercise?”inquiredDaisypolitely.
“Iwasasleep,”criedMr.Klipspringer,inaspasmofembarrassment.“Thatis,I’dbeenasleep.ThenIgotup…”
“Klipspringerplaysthepiano,”saidGatsby,cuttinghimoff.“Don’tyou,Ewing,oldsport?”
“Idon’tplaywell.Idon’t—hardlyplayatall.I’malloutofprac—”
“We’llgodownstairs,”interruptedGatsby.Heflippedaswitch.Thegreywindowsdisappearedasthehouseglowedfulloflight.
Inthemusic-roomGatsbyturnedonasolitarylampbesidethepiano.HelitDaisy’scigarettefromatremblingmatch,andsatdownwithheronacouchfaracrosstheroom,wheretherewasnolightsavewhatthegleamingfloorbouncedinfromthehall.
WhenKlipspringerhadplayed“TheLoveNest”heturnedaroundonthebenchandsearchedunhappilyforGatsbyinthegloom.
“I’malloutofpractice,yousee.ItoldyouIcouldn’tplay.I’malloutofprac—”
“Don’ttalksomuch,oldsport,”commandedGatsby.“Play!”
“Inthemorning,
Intheevening,
Ain’twegotfun—”
OutsidethewindwasloudandtherewasafaintflowofthunderalongtheSound.AllthelightsweregoingoninWestEggnowtheelectrictrains,men-carrying,wereplunginghomethroughtherainfromNewYork.Itwasthehourofaprofoundhumanchange,andexcitementwasgeneratingontheair.
“Onething’ssureandnothing’ssurer
Therichgetricherandthepoorget—children.
Inthemeantime,
Inbetweentime—”
AsIwentovertosaygoodbyeIsawthattheexpressionofbewildermenthadcomebackintoGatsby’sface,asthoughafaintdoubthadoccurredtohimastothequalityofhispresenthappiness.Almostfiveyears!TheremusthavebeenmomentseventhatafternoonwhenDaisytumbledshortofhisdreams—notthroughherownfault,butbecauseofthecolossalvitalityofhisillusion.Ithadgonebeyondher,beyondeverything.Hehadthrownhimselfintoitwithacreativepassion,addingtoitallthetime,deckingitoutwitheverybrightfeatherthatdriftedhisway.Noamountoffireorfreshnesscanchallengewhatamancanstoreupinhisghostlyheart.
AsIwatchedhimheadjustedhimselfalittle,visibly.Hishandtookholdofhers,andasshesaidsomethinglowinhisearheturnedtowardherwitharushofemotion.Ithinkthatvoiceheldhimmost,withitsfluctuating,feverishwarmth,becauseitcouldn’tbeover-dreamed—thatvoicewasadeathlesssong.
Theyhadforgottenme,butDaisyglancedupandheldoutherhandGatsbydidn’tknowmenowatall.Ilookedoncemoreatthemandtheylookedbackatme,remotely,possessedbyintenselife.ThenIwentoutoftheroomanddownthemarblestepsintotherain,leavingthemtheretogether.
