The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive.
“Good night, Nick,” said Daisy.
Gatsby was silent.
“I feel far away from her,” he said.
He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say, “I never loved you.”
“You can't repeat the past.”
“Can't repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course[53] 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.
Chapter 7
It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night – and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio[54] was over.
Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out – an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.
“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?”
“Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way.
“I hadn't seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.”
“Who?” he demanded rudely.
“Carraway.”
“Carraway. All right, I'll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door.
My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg Village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren't servants at all.
Next day Gatsby called me on the phone.
“Going away?” I inquired.
“No, old sport.”
“I hear you fired all your servants.”
“I wanted somebody who wouldn't gossip. Daisy comes over quite often – in the afternoons.”
He was calling up at Daisy's request – would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. I couldn't believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene[55].
The next day I stood before the Buchanans' house.
“Madame expects you in the salon!” cried the servant.
Gatsby stood in the center of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh.
We were silent. Tom opened the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room.
“Mr. Gatsby! I'm glad to see you, sir… Nick…”
“Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy.
As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down kissing him on the mouth.
“You know I love you,” she murmured. “I don't care!”
Daisy sat back upon the couch.
“It's so hot,” said Daisy. “Let's all go to town! Who wants to go to town?”
“Let's go! Come on, come on!” said Tom.
“I can't say anything in his house, old sport,” said Gatsby to me. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly.
That was it. I'd never understood before. It was full of money.
“Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby.
“Well, you take mine and let me drive your car to town,” offered Tom.
“I don't think there's much gas,” said Gatsby.
Daisy walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby's car.
“You think I'm pretty dumb, don't you?” suggested Tom. “Perhaps I am, but I have a – almost a second sight, sometimes. I've made a small investigation of this fellow,” he continued. “I'd been making a small investigation of his past.”
“And you found he was an Oxford man,” said Jordan helpfully.
“An Oxford man!” He was incredulous. “Like hell he is![56]”
“Listen, Tom. Why did you invite him to lunch?” demanded Jordan.
“Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married!”
The car began to make strange sounds. I remembered Gatsby's caution about gasoline.
“There's a garage right here,” objected Jordan.
Tom threw on both brakes impatiently and we came to a dusty stop under Wilson's sign.
“Let's have some gas!” cried Tom roughly. “What do you think we stopped for – to admire the view?”
“I'm sick,” said Wilson without moving. “I've been sick all day.”
“Well, shall I help myself?” Tom demanded.
With an effort Wilson left the shade and unscrewed the cap of the tank. In the sunlight his face was green.
“I've been here too long. I want to get away. My wife and I want to go west.”
“Your wife does!” exclaimed Tom.
“She's been talking about it for ten years. I'm going to get her away. I learned something,” remarked Wilson. “That's why I want to get away.”
Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress were slipping from his control.
“You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza,” said he.
Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side street and out of his life forever.
We all decided to take the suite in the Plaza Hotel.
The room was large and stifling. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair.
“It's a great suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully and every one laughed.
“Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around.
“The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.”
He unrolled the bottle of whiskey from the towel and put it on the table.
“Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You're the one that wanted to come to town.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Where'd you pick that up – this 'old sport'?”
“Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you're going to make personal remarks I won't stay here a minute.”
“By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you're an Oxford man.”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh,