Текст книги "Великий Гэтсби / The Great Gatsby"

Chapter 5

When I came home to West Egg that night I was afraid for a moment that my house was on fire. Two o'clock and everything was blazing with light. Turning a corner I saw that Gatsby's house was lit from roof to cellar.

At first I thought it was another party. But there wasn't a sound. Only wind in the trees which blew the wires. My taxi went away and I saw Gatsby. He was walking toward me across his lawn.

“Your place looks like the world's fair,” I said.

“Does it?” He turned his eyes toward it absently. “Let's go to Coney Island, old sport. In my automobile.”

“It's too late.”

“Well, then maybe a swimming pool? I haven't used it all summer.”

“I've got to go to bed.”

“All right.”

He waited, looking at me.

“I talked with Miss Baker,” I said after a moment. “I'm going to call up Daisy tomorrow and invite her over here to tea.”

“Oh, that's all right,” he said carelessly. “I don't want to put you to any trouble.”

“What day would suit you?”

“What day would suit YOU?” he corrected me quickly. “I don't want to put you to any trouble, you see.”

“How about the day after tomorrow?” He considered for a moment. Then, with reluctance:

“I want to get the grass cut,” he said.

We both looked at the grass. I suspected that he meant my grass.

“There's another little thing,” he said uncertainly, and hesitated.

“So maybe later?” I asked.

“Oh, it isn't about that. At least… Why, I thought – why, look here, old sport, you don't make much money, do you?”

“Not very much.”

This reassured him and he continued more confidently.

“I thought you didn't, if you'll pardon my – you see, I carry on a little business, you understand. And I thought that if you don't make very much – you're selling bonds, aren't you, old sport?”

“Trying to.”

“Well, this would interest you. It wouldn't take up much of your time and you might pick up a nice bit of money. But it is rather confidential.”

I realize now that under different circumstances that conversation might change my life. But the offer was tactless enough. I had to refuse.

“I'm very busy at the moment,” I said. “I'm much obliged but I can't work more.”

“You won't have any business with Wolfsheim.”

He waited a moment longer, hoping I'd begin a conversation, but I did not want to talk to him, so he went unwillingly home.

I called up Daisy from the office next morning and invited her to come to tea.

“Don't bring Tom,” I warned her.

“What?”

“Don't bring Tom.”

“Who is 'Tom'?” she asked innocently.

It was a rainy day. At eleven o'clock a man in a raincoat with a lawn-mower tapped at my front door and said that Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. At two o'clock many flowers arrived from Gatsby's. An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel suit, silver shirt and gold-colored tie went in. He was pale and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes.

“Is everything all right?” he asked immediately.

“The grass looks fine, if that's what you mean.”

“What grass?” he inquired. “Oh, the grass in the yard.”

He looked out the window at it, but I don't think he saw a thing.

“Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “The papers say the rain will stop about four. I think it was The Journal. Do you have everything for tea?”

I showed him twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop.

“All right?” I asked.

“Of course, of course! They're fine!” and he added, “…old sport.”

Gatsby was looking with vacant eyes through a copy of Economics. Suddenly he got up and informed me in an uncertain voice that he was going home.

“Why's that?”

“Nobody's coming to tea. It's too late!” He looked at his watch. “I can't wait all day.”

“Don't be silly; it's just two minutes to four.”

He sat down, miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a car. We both jumped up and I went out into the yard.

When a large open automobile stopped near my house, Daisy's face looked out at me with a bright smile.

“Oh, is this the place where you live, my dearest one?”

I helped her from the automobile.

“Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear. “Or why did I have to come alone?”

“That's the secret. Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour.”

“Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a murmur, “His name is Ferdie.”

We went in. To my surprise the living room was deserted.

“Well, that's funny!” I exclaimed.

“What's funny?”

She heard knocking at the front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, was standing outside in a puddle of water and glaring tragically into my eyes.

With his hands in his coat pockets he went into the hall, turned sharply and disappeared into the living room. For half a minute there wasn't a sound. Then from the living room I heard a murmur and Daisy's voice.

A pause. I had nothing to do in the hall so I went into the room. Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the mantelpiece. Daisy was sitting frightened but graceful on the edge of a chair.

“We've met before,” muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at me and his lips tried to smile. Then he sat down.

“We haven't met for many years,” said Daisy.

“Five years next November.”

I offered them to go to the kitchen. The cups and cakes were waiting for us. Gatsby got himself into a shadow while Daisy and I talked. Soon I made an excuse at the first possible moment and stood up.

“Where are you going?” demanded Gatsby.

“I'll be back.”

“I've got to speak to you about something before you go.”

He followed me wildly, closed the door and whispered: “Oh, God!” in a miserable way.

“What's the matter?”

“This is a terrible mistake,” he said, shaking his head from side to side, “a terrible, terrible mistake.”

“You're just embarrassed, that's all,” and luckily I added: “Daisy's embarrassed too.”

“She's embarrassed?” he repeated incredulously.

“Just as much as you are.”

“Don't talk so loud.”

“You're acting like a little boy,” I said impatiently. “Not only that but you're rude. Daisy's sitting in there all alone.”

He raised his hand to stop my words, and opening the door cautiously went back into the other room.

I walked out. My lawn was well-shaved by Gatsby's gardener. I looked at Gatsby's enormous house, and I stared at it for half an hour.

After half an hour the sun shone again and the grocer's automobile rounded Gatsby's drive. A maid began to open the upper windows of his house. It was time to come back.

I went in – but I don't believe they heard a sound. They were sitting at either end of the couch looking at each other, and there was no sign of embarrassment. Daisy's face was wet with tears and when I came in she jumped up and began to wipe it with her handkerchief before a mirror. Gatsby literally glowed; his joy filled the little room.

“Oh, hello, old sport,” he said, as if he hadn't seen me for years. I thought for a moment he was going to shake hands.

“Rain is over.”

“Really?” When he realized what I was talking about, he smiled and repeated the news to Daisy. “What do you think of that? Rain is over.”

“I'm glad, Jay.” Her voice told only of her unexpected joy.

“I want you and Daisy to come over to my house,” he said, “I'd like to show her my house.”

“Are you're sure you want me to come?”

“Absolutely, old sport.”

Daisy went upstairs to wash her face while Gatsby and I waited outside.

“My house looks well, doesn't it?” he demanded.

I agreed that it was splendid.

“Yes.” He looked at his house. “It took me three years to earn the money that bought it.”

“I thought you inherited your money.”

“I did, old sport,” he said automatically, “but I lost most of it in the big panic – the panic of the war.”

I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what business he was in he answered “That's my affair.” Then he realized that it wasn't the appropriate reply.

“Oh, I've been in several things,” he corrected himself. “I was in the drug business and then I was in the oil business. But I stopped it.” He looked at me with attention.

Daisy came out of the house and two rows of buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight.

“Is that huge building your house?” she cried.

“Do you like it?”

“I love it, but how do you live there all alone?”

“It is always full of interesting people, night and day. People who do interesting things. Celebrated people.”

We went down the road and entered the big gates. Daisy admired everything: the house, the gardens, the beach.

It was strange to enter the house steps and find no guests inside. I felt that there were guests concealed behind every couch and table.

We went upstairs, through bedrooms swathed in rose and lavender silk, through dressing rooms and poolrooms, and bathrooms with baths – in one chamber a man in pajamas was doing exercises on the floor. It was Mr. Klipspringer, the “boarder.”

Finally we came to Gatsby's own apartment, a bedroom and a bath and a study, where we sat down and drank some wine.

His bedroom was the simplest room of all. Daisy took the brush with delight and smoothed her hair, while Gatsby began to laugh.

“It's the funniest thing, old sport,” he said hilariously. “I can't – when I try to…”

After his embarrassment and his joy he was consumed with wonder at her presence. He opened for us two big wardrobes which held his suits and gowns and ties and his shirts.

“I've got a man in England who buys me clothes. He sends over a selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall.”

He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one before us. While we admired he brought more and the soft rich heap mounted higher. Suddenly with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into the shirts and began to cry.

“They're such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed. “It makes me sad because I've never seen such – such beautiful shirts before.”

After the house, we were going to see the grounds and the swimming pool, and the hydroplane and the midsummer flowers – but outside Gatsby's window it began to rain again.

Daisy put her arm through his abruptly. I began to walk about the room, examining various objects. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk.

“Who's this?”

“That? That's Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.”

The name sounded familiar.

“He's dead now. He was my best friend years ago.”

There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume – taken apparently when he was about eighteen.

“I adore it!” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour – or a yacht.”

“Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here's a lot of clippings – about you.”

They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the collection of rubies when the phone rang and Gatsby took up the receiver.

“Yes… Well, I can't talk now… I can't talk now, old sport… I said a small town… He must know what a small town is… Well, if he thinks about Detroit we have nothing to talk about!”

He rang off.

“Come here, quick!” cried Daisy at the window.

The rain was still falling, but there were pink and golden foamy clouds above the sea.

“Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I'd like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.”

I tried to go, but they wouldn't hear of it.

“I know what we'll do,” said Gatsby, “we'll have Klipspringer play the piano.”

He went out of the room and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed young man with glasses and scanty blonde hair. He was now decently clothed in a sport suit.

“Did we interrupt your exercises?” inquired Daisy politely.

“I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer. “That is, I'd BEEN asleep. Then I got up…”

“Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, interrupting him. “Don't you, Ewing, old sport?”

“I don't play well. I don't – I hardly play at all. I have no prac…”

“We'll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby.

In the music room Gatsby turned on a lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy's cigarette, and sat down with her on a couch.

When Klipspringer had played The Love Nest he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom.

“You see… I told you I couldn't play. I'm…”

“Don't talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!”

In the morning,

In the evening,

Ain't we got fun…

Outside the wind was loud.

One thing's sure and nothing's surer

The rich get richer and the poor get – children.

In the meantime,

In the meantime…

As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby's face. Almost five years! His hand took hold of hers and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. They had forgotten me, Gatsby didn't know me now at all. I looked once more at them and went out of the room, leaving them there together.

Chapter 6

About this time an ambitious young reporter from New York arrived one morning at Gatsby's door and asked him if he had anything to say.

“Anything to say about what?” inquired Gatsby politely.

“Oh, just few words for our newspaper.”

The reporter's instinct was right. Many legends about Gatsby were spread about by the hundreds who had accepted his hospitality. Contemporary legends such as the “underground pipe-line to Canada”, stories that he doesn't live in a house at all, but in a boat that looks like a house and moves secretly up and down the Long Island shore and so on.

James Gatz of North Dakota – that was his real name. He had changed it at the age of seventeen and at the specific moment – when he saw Dan Cody's yacht. It was James Gatz who had been loafing along the beach that afternoon, but it was already Jay Gatsby who borrowed a row-boat and informed Cody that a wind might catch him and break him up in half an hour.

His parents were unsuccessful farm people – his imagination had never really accepted them as his parents at all. He was a son of God – so he invented Jay Gatsby, and to this conception he was faithful to the end.

For over a year he had been walking along the south shore of Lake Superior. He was a clam digger and a salmon fisher, and that brought him food and bed. He knew women early and he became contemptuous of them, of young virgins because they were ignorant, of the others because they were hysterical.

Dan Cody was fifty years old then, he was a millionaire, and an infinite number of women tried to separate him from his money. To the young Gatz the yacht represented all the beauty and glamour in the world. I suppose he smiled at Cody – he had probably discovered that people liked him when he smiled. At any rate Cody asked him a few questions (one of them was his new name) and found that he was quick, and extravagantly ambitious. A few days later he took him to Duluth and bought him a blue coat, white trousers and a yachting cap.

He was employed as a steward, skipper, and secretary, and even jailor. The arrangement lasted five years during which the boat went three times around the continent. Finally Ella Kaye came on board one night in Boston and a week later Dan Cody died.

I remember the portrait of him up in Gatsby's bedroom, a grey, florid man with a hard empty face. Thanks to Cody, Gatsby drank so little.

And it was from Cody that he inherited money – a legacy of twenty-five thousand dollars. He didn't get it. He never understood what was used against him but what remained of the millions went intact to Ella Kaye.

He told me all this very much later.

For several weeks I didn't see him or hear his voice on the phone. But finally I went over to his house one Sunday afternoon. I hadn't been there two minutes when somebody brought Tom Buchanan in for a drink. They were a party of three on horseback – Tom and a man named Sloane and a pretty woman who had been there previously.

“I'm delighted to see you,” said Gatsby standing on his porch. “Sit right down. Have a cigarette or a cigar.” He walked around the room quickly, ringing bells. “I'll have something to drink for you in just a minute.”

He was profoundly affected by the fact that Tom was there.

Mr. Sloane wanted nothing. A lemonade? No, thanks. A little champagne? Nothing at all, thanks… I'm sorry…

“Did you have a nice ride?”

“Very good roads around here.”

“I suppose the automobiles…”

“Yeah.”

Gatsby turned to Tom.

“I believe we've met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan.”

“Oh, yes,” said Tom. “So we did. I remember very well.”

“About two weeks ago.”

“That's right. You were with Nick here.”

“I know your wife,” continued Gatsby, almost aggressively.

“That so?“

Tom turned to me.

“You live near here, Nick?”

“Next door.”

“That so?”

Mr. Sloane didn't enter into the conversation; the woman said nothing either.

“We'll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,” she suggested.

“Certainly. I'd be delighted to have you.”

“You are very nice,” said Mr. Sloane. “Well – I think it's time to go home.”

“Please don't hurry,” Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself now and he wanted to see more of Tom.

“Why don't you – why don't you stay for supper? I think some other people will come, from New York.”

“You come to supper with ME,” said the lady enthusiastically. “Both of you.”

This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet.

“Come along,” he said – but to her only.

Gatsby looked at me questioningly.

“I'm afraid I won't be able to,” I said.

“Well, you come,” she urged, concentrating on Gatsby.

Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear.

“It won't be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud.

“I'll follow you in my automobile,” said Gatsby. “I'll be ready in a minute.”

The rest of us walked out on the porch.

“My God, I think he will come indeed,” said Tom. “Doesn't he know she doesn't want to see him?”

“She says she wants.”

“She has a big dinner party and he doesn't know anybody there.” He frowned. “I wonder where he met Daisy. By God, I may be old-fashioned in my ideas, but women walk around too much these days. They meet all kinds of strange people.”

Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down the steps.

“Come on,” said Mr. Sloane to Tom, “we're late. We've got to go.” And then to me: “Tell him we couldn't wait, will you?”

Tom and I shook hands, and they trotted quickly down the drive, just as Gatsby with hat and overcoat in hand came out the front door.

Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy's running around alone, for on the following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby's party. There were the same people, or at least the same sort of people, the same champagne, the same commotion, but I felt an unpleasantness in the air.

Tom and Daisy arrived at twilight, and Daisy's voice was sounding sweetly.

“These things excite me SO,” she whispered. “If you want to kiss me any time during the evening, Nick, just let me know and I'll be glad to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a green card. I'm giving out green cards to…”

“Look around, “ said Gatsby.

“I'm looking around. I'm having a marvelous…”

“You will see the faces of many people you've heard about.”

Tom's eyes watched the crowd.

“In fact,” he said, “I was just thinking I don't know anybody here.”

“Perhaps you know that lady.” Gatsby indicated a gorgeous woman who sat under a plum tree.

“She's lovely,” said Daisy.

“The man behind her is her director.”

He took them ceremoniously from group to group:

“Mrs. Buchanan… and Mr. Buchanan…” After an instant's hesitation he added: “the polo player.”

“Oh no,” objected Tom quickly, “Not me.”

“I've never met so many celebrities!” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that man – what was his name? – with the sort of blue nose.”

Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a producer.

“Well, I liked him anyhow.”

“I'd a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly.

Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative fox-trot – I had never seen him dance before. Then they came to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden.

Tom appeared as we were sitting down to supper together.

“Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow is telling some funny jokes.”

“Go ahead,” answered Daisy, “And if you want to write down any addresses here's my little gold pencil.”

We were at a table with the drunken company. That was my fault – Gatsby went to the phone and I noticed the people I had met two weeks before.

“How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?”

The girl was trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep on against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes.

“What?”

A massive woman spoke in Miss Baedeker's defence:

“Oh, she's all right now. When she's had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought not to drink.”

“I do not drink at all,” said the girl.

“We heard you were yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: 'There's somebody that needs your help, Doc.”

“She's much obliged, I'm sure,” said another woman, “But you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.”

“I hate when someone gets my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker.

“Then you ought not to drink,” said Doctor Civet.

“Speak for yourself! “ cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. How do you operate?”

It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the director and his Star. They were still under the plum tree and their faces were touching.

“I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she's lovely.”

The party was over. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their automobile. It was dark here.

“Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “A big bootlegger?”

“Where did you hear that?” I inquired.

“I didn't hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.”

“Not Gatsby,” I said shortly.

He was silent for a moment.

“Well, he did a great work to get this menagerie together.”

“At least they're more interesting than the people we know,” Daisy said with an effort.

“You didn't look so interested.”

“Well, I was.”

Tom laughed and turned to me.

“Did you notice Daisy's face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?”

“Lots of people come without invitations,” she said suddenly. “That girl was not invited. And he's too polite to object.”

“I'd like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I'll make a point of finding out.”

“I can tell you right now,” answered Daisy. “He owned some drug stores, a lot of drug stores. He built them up himself.”

The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive.

“Good night, Nick,” said Daisy.

I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free and I walked in the garden. When he came down the steps at last, his eyes were bright and tired.

“She didn't like it,” he said immediately.

“Of course she did.”

“She didn't like it,” he insisted. “She didn't have a good time.”

He was silent.

“I feel far away from her,” he said. “It's hard to make her understand.”

“You mean about the dance?”

“The dance? Old sport, the dance is unimportant.”

When she is free, they will go back to Louisville and get married – just as if it were five years ago.

“And she doesn't understand,” he said.

“You can't repeat the past.”

“Can't repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!”

He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house.

“I'm going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly.