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The Great Gatsby
by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Chapter 8 - Part 2
It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of the windows down-stairs, filling the house with gray-turning, gold-turning light. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly1 across the dew and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a slow, pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising2 a cool, lovely day.
“I don’t think she ever loved him.” Gatsby turned around from a window and looked at me challengingly. “You must remember, old sport, she was very excited this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that frightened her—that made it look as if I was some kind of cheap sharper. And the result was she hardly knew what she was saying.”
He sat down gloomily.
“Of course she might have loved him just for a minute, when they were first married—and loved me more even then, do you see?”
Suddenly he came out with a curious remark.
“In any case,” he said, “it was just personal.”
What could you make of that, except to suspect some intensity3 in his conception of the affair that couldn’t be measured?
He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their wedding trip, and made a miserable4 but irresistible5 journey to Louisville on the last of his army pay. He stayed there a week, walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which they had driven in her white car. Just as Daisy’s house had always seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses, so his idea of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded6 with a melancholy7 beauty.
He left feeling that if he had searched harder, he might have found her—that he was leaving her behind. The day-coach—he was penniless now—was hot. He went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a folding-chair, and the station slid away and the backs of unfamiliar8 buildings moved by. Then out into the spring fields, where a yellow trolley9 raced them for a minute with people in it who might once have seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street.
The track curved and now it was going away from the sun, which as it sank lower, seemed to spread itself in benediction10 over the vanishing city where she had drawn11 her breath. He stretched out his hand desperately12 as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too fast now for his blurred13 eyes and he knew that he had lost that part of it, the freshest and the best, forever.
It was nine o’clock when we finished breakfast and went out on the porch. The night had made a sharp difference in the weather and there was an autumn flavor in the air. The gardener, the last one of Gatsby’s former servants, came to the foot of the steps.
“I’m going to drain the pool to-day, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves’ll start falling pretty soon, and then there’s always trouble with the pipes.”
“Don’t do it to-day,” Gatsby answered. He turned to me apologetically. “You know, old sport, I’ve never used that pool all summer?”
I looked at my watch and stood up.
“Twelve minutes to my train.”
I didn’t want to go to the city. I wasn’t worth a decent stroke of work, but it was more than that—I didn’t want to leave Gatsby. I missed that train, and then another, before I could get myself away.
“I’ll call you up,” I said finally.
“Do, old sport.”
“I’ll call you about noon.”
We walked slowly down the steps.
“I suppose Daisy’ll call too.” He looked at me anxiously, as if he hoped I’d corroborate14 this.
“I suppose so.”
“Well, good-by.”
We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I remembered something and turned around.
“They’re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”
I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved15 of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of color against the white steps, and I thought of the night when I first came to his ancestral home, three months before. The lawn and drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his corruption—and he had stood on those steps, concealing16 his incorruptible dream, as he waved them good-by.
I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for that—I and the others.
“Good-by,” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.”
Up in the city, I tried for a while to list the quotations17 on an interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel-chair. Just before noon the phone woke me, and I started up with sweat breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker18; she often called me up at this hour because the uncertainty19 of her own movements between hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other way. Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool, as if a divot from a green golf-links had come sailing in at the office window, but this morning it seemed harsh and dry.
“I’ve left Daisy’s house,” she said. “I’m at Hempstead, and I’m going down to Southampton this afternoon.”
Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy’s house, but the act annoyed me, and her next remark made me rigid20.
“You weren’t so nice to me last night.”
“How could it have mattered then?”
Silence for a moment. Then:
“However—I want to see you.”
“I want to see you, too.”
“Suppose I don’t go to Southampton, and come into town this afternoon?”
“No—I don’t think this afternoon.”
“Very well.”
“It’s impossible this afternoon. Various——”
We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren’t talking any longer. I don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never talked to her again in this world.
I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I tried four times; finally an exasperated21 central told me the wire was being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my time-table, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.
When I passed the ashheaps on the train that morning I had crossed deliberately22 to the other side of the car. I suppose there’d be a curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark spots in the dust, and some garrulous23 man telling over and over what had happened, until it became less and less real even to him and he could tell it no longer, and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic24 achievement was forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at the garage after we left there the night before.
They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have broken her rule against drinking that night, for when she arrived she was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of this, she immediately fainted, as if that was the intolerable part of the affair. Some one, kind or curious, took her in his car and drove her in the wake of her sister’s body.
Until long after midnight a changing crowd lapped up against the front of the garage, while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth25 on the couch inside. For a while the door of the office was open, and every one who came into the garage glanced irresistibly26 through it. Finally someone said it was a shame, and closed the door. Michaelis and several other men were with him; first, four or five men, later two or three men. Still later Michaelis had to ask the last stranger to wait there fifteen minutes longer, while he went back to his own place and made a pot of coffee. After that, he stayed there alone with Wilson until dawn.
About three o’clock the quality of Wilson’s incoherent muttering changed—he grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car. He announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car belonged to, and then he blurted27 out that a couple of months ago his wife had come from the city with her face bruised28 and her nose swollen29.
But when he heard himself say this, he flinched30 and began to cry “Oh, my God!” again in his groaning31 voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt to distract him.
“How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit still a minute and answer my question. How long have you been married?”
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1
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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2
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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5
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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6
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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8
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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10
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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11
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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12
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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13
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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14
corroborate
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| v.支持，证实，确定 | |
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15
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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17
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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19
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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27
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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29
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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30
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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