IX

wehadonceaboutdrivingacar?” “Why—notexactly.” “Yousaidabaddriverwasonlysafeuntilshemetanotherbaddriver?Well,Imetanotherbaddriver,didn’tI?Imeanitwascarelessofmetomakesuchawrongguess.Ithoughtyouwereratheranhonest,straightforwardperson.Ithoughtitwasyoursecretpride.” “I’mthirty,”Isaid.“I’mfiveyearstoooldtolietomyselfandcallithonour.” Shedidn’tanswer.Angry,andhalfinlovewithher,andtremendouslysorry,Iturnedaway. OneafternoonlateinOctoberIsawTomBuchanan.HewaswalkingaheadofmealongFifthAvenueinhisalert,aggressiveway,hishandsoutalittlefromhisbodyasiftofightoffinterference,hisheadmovingsharplyhereandthere,adaptingitselftohisrestlesseyes.JustasIsloweduptoavoidovertakinghimhestoppedandbeganfrowningintothewindowsofajewellerystore.Suddenlyhesawmeandwalkedback,holdingouthishand. “What’sthematter,Nick?Doyouobjecttoshakinghandswithme?” “Yes.YouknowwhatIthinkofyou.” “You’recrazy,Nick,”hesaidquickly.“Crazyashell.Idon’tknowwhat’sthematterwithyou.” “Tom,”Iinquired,“whatdidyousaytoWilsonthatafternoon?” Hestaredatmewithoutaword,andIknewIhadguessedrightaboutthosemissinghours.Istartedtoturnaway,buthetookastepaftermeandgrabbedmyarm. “Itoldhimthetruth,”hesaid.“Hecametothedoorwhileweweregettingreadytoleave,andwhenIsentdownwordthatweweren’tinhetriedtoforcehiswayupstairs.HewascrazyenoughtokillmeifIhadn’ttoldhimwhoownedthecar.Hishandwasonarevolverinhispocketeveryminutehewasinthehouse—”Hebrokeoffdefiantly.“WhatifIdidtellhim?Thatfellowhaditcomingtohim.HethrewdustintoyoureyesjustlikehedidinDaisy’s,buthewasatoughone.HeranoverMyrtlelikeyou’drunoveradogandneverevenstoppedhiscar.” TherewasnothingIcouldsay,excepttheoneunutterablefactthatitwasn’ttrue. “AndifyouthinkIdidn’thavemyshareofsuffering—lookhere,whenIwenttogiveupthatflatandsawthatdamnboxofdogbiscuitssittingthereonthesideboard,Isatdownandcriedlikeababy.ByGoditwasawful—” Icouldn’tforgivehimorlikehim,butIsawthatwhathehaddonewas,tohim,entirelyjustified.Itwasallverycarelessandconfused.Theywerecarelesspeople,TomandDaisy—theysmashedupthingsandcreaturesandthenretreatedbackintotheirmoneyortheirvastcarelessness,orwhateveritwasthatkeptthemtogether,andletotherpeoplecleanupthemesstheyhadmade… Ishookhandswithhimitseemedsillynotto,forIfeltsuddenlyasthoughIweretalkingtoachild.Thenhewentintothejewellerystoretobuyapearlnecklace—orperhapsonlyapairofcuffbuttons—ridofmyprovincialsqueamishnessforever. Gatsby’shousewasstillemptywhenIleft—thegrassonhislawnhadgrownaslongasmine.OneofthetaxidriversinthevillagenevertookafarepasttheentrancegatewithoutstoppingforaminuteandpointinginsideperhapsitwashewhodroveDaisyandGatsbyovertoEastEggthenightoftheaccident,andperhapshehadmadeastoryaboutitallhisown.Ididn’twanttohearitandIavoidedhimwhenIgotoffthetrain. IspentmySaturdaynightsinNewYorkbecausethosegleaming,dazzlingpartiesofhiswerewithmesovividlythatIcouldstillhearthemusicandthelaughter,faintandincessant,fromhisgarden,andthecarsgoingupanddownhisdrive.OnenightIdidhearamaterialcarthere,andsawitslightsstopathisfrontsteps.ButIdidn’tinvestigate.Probablyitwassomefinalguestwhohadbeenawayattheendsoftheearthanddidn’tknowthatthepartywasover. Onthelastnight,withmytrunkpackedandmycarsoldtothegrocer,Iwentoverandlookedatthathugeincoherentfailureofahouseoncemore.Onthewhitestepsanobsceneword,scrawledbysomeboywithapieceofbrick,stoodoutclearlyinthemoonlight,andIerasedit,drawingmyshoeraspinglyalongthestone.ThenIwandereddowntothebeachandsprawledoutonthesand. Mostofthebigshoreplaceswereclosednowandtherewerehardlyanylightsexcepttheshadowy,movingglowofaferryboatacrosstheSound.AndasthemoonrosehighertheinessentialhousesbegantomeltawayuntilgraduallyIbecameawareoftheoldislandherethatfloweredonceforDutchsailors’eyes—afresh,greenbreastofthenewworld.Itsvanishedtrees,thetreesthathadmadewayforGatsby’shouse,hadoncepanderedinwhisperstothelastandgreatestofallhumandreamsforatransitoryenchantedmomentmanmusthaveheldhisbreathinthepresenceofthiscontinent,compelledintoanaestheticcontemplationheneitherunderstoodnordesired,facetofaceforthelasttimeinhistorywithsomethingcommensuratetohiscapacityforwonder. AndasIsattherebroodingontheold,unknownworld,IthoughtofGatsby’swonderwhenhefirstpickedoutthegreenlightattheendofDaisy’sdock.Hehadcomealongwaytothisbluelawn,andhisdreammusthaveseemedsoclosethathecouldhardlyfailtograspit.Hedidnotknowthatitwasalreadybehindhim,somewherebackinthatvastobscuritybeyondthecity,wherethedarkfieldsoftherepublicrolledonunderthenight. Gatsbybelievedinthegreenlight,theorgasticfuturethatyearbyyearrecedesbeforeus.Iteludedusthen,butthat’snomatter—tomorrowwewillrunfaster,stretchoutourarmsfurther…Andonefinemorning— Sowebeaton,boatsagainstthecurrent,bornebackceaselesslyintothepast.