Великий Гэтсби / The Great Gatsby. Френсис Скотт Фицджеральд

and somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s door. Sometimes they came and went without having met Gatsby at all.

      I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in a uniform gave me a formal note from his employer—the honor would be entirely Jay Gatsby’s, it said, if I would attend his “little party” that night.

      Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after seven. I was immediately struck by the number of young Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a little hungry. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or insurance or automobiles.

      As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me.

      I noticed Jordan Baker with two girls in yellow dresses.

      She came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden.

      “Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden.

      “I thought I would meet you here,” she responded absently. “I remembered you lived next door to…”

      “Hello!” the girls in yellow dresses cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.”

      They were talking about the golf competition the week before.

      “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”

      “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her.

      “The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl. She turned to her companion: “You too, Lucille?”

      Of course, Lucille, too.

      “I like to come here,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—and in some days I got a package with a new evening gown in it.”

      “Did you accept it?” asked Jordan.

      “Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big for me. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.”

      “He doesn’t want any trouble,” said the other girl eagerly, “with anybody.”

      “Who doesn’t?” I inquired.

      “Gatsby. Somebody told me…”

      The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially.

      “Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.”

      “I don’t think it’s so much THAT,” argued Lucille sceptically; “it’s more that he was a German spy during the war.”

      One of the men nodded in confirmation.

      “I heard that from a man who knew all about him, he grew up with him in Germany,” he assured us.

      “Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in the American army during the war. But just look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.”

      We all turned and looked around for Gatsby.

      The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her around a table on the other side of the garden.

      “Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a half hour.

      We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host.

      The bar, where we went first, was crowded but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. We opened a heavy door, and walked into a library.

      A stout, middle-aged man with enormous spectacles was sitting on the edge of a great table, staring at the shelves of books. As we entered he turned around and examined Jordan from head to foot.

      “What do you think?” he demanded impetuously.

      “About what?”

      He waved his hand toward the book-shelves.

      “About that. They’re real.”

      “The books?”

      He nodded.

      “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they were unreal. But they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Let me show you.”

      He rushed to the bookcases and returned with a big volume.

      “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a masterpiece. But he didn’t cut the pages. What do you want? What do you expect?”

      He took the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf.

      “Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.”

      Jordan looked at him cheerfully without answering.

      “I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I decide to sit in a library.”

      “And?”

      “I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re…”

      “You told us.”

      We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors.

      I tried to find the host. I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a girl who was laughing all the time. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two glasses of champagne.