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The Great Gatsby
by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Chapter 9 - Part 1
After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman.” as he bent1 over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious2 authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning.
Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony3 at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined4 eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief5 whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief.” in order that the case might remain in its simplist form. And it rested there.
But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe6 to West Egg village, every surmise7 about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which every one has some vague right at the end.
I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively8 and without hesitation9. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them.
“Left no address?”
“No.”
“Say when they’d be back?”
“No.”
“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”
“I don’t know. Can’t say.”
I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure10 him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you——”
Meyer Wolfsheim’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.
“Will you ring again?”
“I’ve rung them three times.”
“It’s very important.”
“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”
I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, as they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with unmoved eyes, his protest continued in my brain:
“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”
Some one started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going up-stairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall.
Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfsheim, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous11 when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfsheim arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfsheim’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance12, of scornful solidarity13 between Gatsby and me against them all.
DEAR MR. CARRAWAY. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.
Yours truly MEYER WOLFSHIEM
Let me know about the funeral etc. do not know his family at all.
When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.
“This is Slagle speaking . . .”
“Yes?” The name was unfamiliar15.
“Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?”
“There haven’t been any wires.”
“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns——”
“Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation16 . . . then a quick squawk as the connection was broken.
I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone17 the funeral until he came.
It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly18 at his sparse19 gray beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse20, so I took him into the music room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.
“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”
“I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.
“It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.”
“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.
“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.——”
“Carraway.”
“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away.
After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated21 and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendor22 of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed23 pride. I helped him to a bedroom up-stairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred24 until he came.
“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby——”
“Gatz is my name.”
“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”
He shook his head.
“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”
“We were close friends.”
“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”
He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.
“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”
“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably.
He fumbled25 at the embroidered26 coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep.
That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.
“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said.
“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.
“The funeral’s to-morrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”
“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.”
His tone made me suspicious.
“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”
“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is——”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?”
“Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them to-morrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my very best to get away.”
“What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. Iwonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.——”
I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver.
After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer28 most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him.
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1
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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2
adventitious
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| adj.偶然的 | |
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3
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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4
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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5
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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6
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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7
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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8
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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9
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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10
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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11
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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12
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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13
solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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14
addenda
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| n.附录，附加物；附加物( addendum的名词复数 )；补遗；附录；（齿轮的）齿顶（高） | |
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15
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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16
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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17
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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18
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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19
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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20
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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21
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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22
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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23
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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25
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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26
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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27
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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28
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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