About half way between West Egg and New York the motor road joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile. This is a valley of ashes – a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke.
The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small dirty river, and, when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the depressing scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute, and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress.
The fact that he had a mistress was well-known. He went to popular restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, walked about, chatting with whoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire to meet her – but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon, and when we stopped by the ash heaps he jumped to his feet and, taking me by my elbow, literally forced me from the car.
«We’re getting off», he insisted. «I want you to meet my girl».
I followed him over a low railroad fence, and we walked back a hundred yards along the road. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant; the third was a garage with a sign «Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars bought and sold». And I followed Tom inside.
The interior was poor; the only car visible was the dust- covered wreck of a Ford in a dark corner. Soon the owner himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. He was a blond, sad man, pale, and slightly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes.
«Hello, Wilson, old man», said Tom, slapping him in a friendly way on the shoulder. «How’s business?»
«I can’t complain», answered Wilson unconvincingly. «When are you going to sell me that car?»
«Next week; my man is working on it now».
«He works pretty slow, doesn’t he?»
«No, he doesn’t», said Tom coldly. «And if you feel that way about it, maybe I’d better sell it somewhere else after all».
«I don’t mean that», explained Wilson quickly. «I just meant…»
His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs, and in a moment the fleshy figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and slightly stout, but she carried her body sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine[18], contained no gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom, looking into his eyes. Then, without turning around, she spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice:
«Get some chairs, why don’t you, so somebody can sit down».
«Oh, sure», agreed Wilson hurriedly, and went toward the little office. A white ashen dust covered his dark suit and his pale hair as it covered everything in the area – except his wife, who moved close to Tom.
«I want to see you», said Tom. «Get on the next train».
«All right».
«I’ll meet you by the newsstand». She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson appeared with two chairs from his office door.
We waited for her down the road and out of sight.
«Terrible place, isn’t it», said Tom.
«Awful».
«It’s good for her to get away».
«Doesn’t her husband object?»
«Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He’s so dumb».
So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York – or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat in another car.
She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin[19], which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. Upstairs, in the echoing drive she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-colored with gray upholstery, and in this we got away from the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the front glass.
«I want to get one of those dogs», she demanded. «I want to get one for the apartment. It’s so nice to have a dog there».
We backed up to a gray old man who, ironically, looked much like John D. Rockefeller. In a basket swung from his neck there was a dozen puppies of an indeterminate breed.
«What kind are they?» asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as he came to the taxi-window.
«All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?»
«I’d like to get one of those police dogs; I don’t suppose you have that kind?»
The man looked doubtfully into the basket and took out a puppy by the back of the neck.
«That’s not a police dog», said Tom.
«No, it’s not exactly a police dog», said the man with disappointment in his voice. «It’s more of an Airedale[20]. But that’s a dog that’ll never bother you with catching cold».
«I think it’s cute», said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. «How much is it?»
«That dog?» He looked at it admiringly. «That dog will cost you ten dollars».
The Airedale – undoubtedly there was an Airedale concerned in it somewhere – changed hands and settled down into Mrs. Wilson’s lap.
«Is it a boy or a girl?» she asked delicately.
«That dog? That dog’s a boy».
«It’s a bitch», said Tom decisively. «Here’s your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it».
We went on and soon, at 158th Street, the cab stopped at an apartment-house. Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and went haughtily in.
«I’m going to invite the McKees», she announced as we rose in the elevator. «And, of course, I have to call up my sister, Catherine, who is very beautiful».
The apartment was on the top floor – a small living-room, a small dining-room, a small bedroom, and a bath. The living-room was full to the doors with a set of furniture. Several copies of the small scandal magazines of Broadway lay on the table. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant elevator-boy went for a box full of straw and some milk. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door.
I have been drunk just twice in my life, and the second time was that afternoon; so everything that happened has a hazy cover over it, although until after eight o’clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom’s lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes, and I went out to buy some at the drugstore on the corner. When I came back they had disappeared, so I sat down in the living-room and read a magazine.
Just as Tom and Myrtle (after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names) reappeared, company began to arrive at the apartment door.
The sister, Catherine, was a slender girl of about thirty, with red hair, and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more stylish angle. When she moved about there was a continual clicking as innumerable ceramic bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed extravagantly, repeated my question aloud, and told me she lived with a girl friend at a hotel.
Mrs. Wilson had changed her costume some time before, and was now in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream-colored silk, which gave out a rustle as she swept about the room. With the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a change. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage was converted into impressive arrogance.
«I like your dress», remarked Mrs. McKee, the neighbor, «I think it’s adorable».
Mrs. Wilson rejected the compliment by raising her eyebrow in contempt.
«It’s just a crazy old thing», she said. «I just put it on sometimes when I don’t care what I look like».
«But it looks wonderful on you», insisted Mrs. McKee.
Myrtle looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she kissed the dog with ecstasy, and swept into the kitchen, implying that a dozen chefs awaited her orders there.
The sister Catherine sat down beside me on the sofa.
«Do you live down on Long Island?» she inquired.
«I live at West Egg».
«Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. At a man named Gatsby’s. Do you know him?»
«I live next door to him».
«Well, they say he’s a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm’s.
That’s where all his money comes from».
«Really?»
She nodded.
This absorbing information about my neighbor was interrupted by Mrs. McKee who pointed suddenly at Catherine:
«Chester, I think you could do something with HER», she said, but Mr. McKee only nodded in a bored way, and turned his attention to Tom.
«I’d like to do more work on Long Island», said Mr. McKee, «if I could get the entry. All I ask is that they should give me a start».
«Ask Myrtle», said Tom, laughing, as Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. «She’ll give you a letter of introduction[21], won’t you Myrtle?»
«Do what?» she asked, startled.
«You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can do some studies of him». His lips moved silently for a moment as he invented. «GEORGE B. WILSON AT THE GASOLINE PUMP, or something like that».
Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear: «Neither of them can stand the person they’re married to».
«Can’t they?»
«Can’t STAND them». She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. «What I say is, why go on living with them if they can’t stand them? If I were them I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away».
«Doesn’t she like Wilson either?»
The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene.
«You see», cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. «It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and they don’t believe in divorce».
Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the lie.
«When they get married at last», continued Catherine, «they’re going West to live for a while until it blows over[22]».
«It’d be more sensible to go to Europe».
«Oh, do you like Europe?» she exclaimed surprisingly. «I just got back from Monte Carlo».
«Really».
«Just last year. I went over there with another girl».
«Did you stay there long?»
«No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we lost it all in two days in the private rooms[23]. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!»
The late afternoon sky shone in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean – then the sharp voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.
«I almost made a mistake, too», she declared enthusiastically. «I almost married a nonentity who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s ‘way below you!’ But for Chester[24], I could marry him».
«Yes, but listen», said Myrtle Wilson, «at least you didn’t marry him».
«I know I didn’t».
«Well, I married him», said Myrtle, ambiguously. «And that’s the difference between your case and mine».
«Why did you, Myrtle?» said Catherine. «Nobody forced you to».
«I married him because I thought he was a gentleman», Myrtle said finally. «I thought he knew something about manners, but he wasn’t fit to lick my shoe».
«You were crazy about him for a while», said Catherine.
«Crazy about him!» cried Myrtle in disbelief. «Who said I was crazy about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that man there».
She pointed suddenly at me, and every one looked at me accusingly. I tried to show by my expression that I had played no part in her past.
«I was crazy when I married him. I knew right away I made a mistake. He borrowed somebody’s best suit to get married in, and never even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he was out. ‘Oh, is that your suit?’ I said, ‘this is the first time I ever heard about it.’ But I gave it to him and then I lay down and cried all afternoon».
«She really ought to get away from him», resumed Catherine to me. «They’ve been living over that garage for eleven years. And Tom’s the first love she ever had».
The bottle of whiskey – a second one – was now in constant demand by all, excepting Catherine, who «felt just as good without drinking at all». I wanted to get out and walk southward toward the park through the soft twilight, but each time I tried to go I became involved in some wild argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair.
Myrtle pulled her chair close to mine, and suddenly her warm breath poured over me the story of her first meeting with Tom.
«It was on the two little seats facing each other that are always the last ones left on the train. I was going up to New York to see my sister and spend the night. He had on a suit and leather shoes, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, but every time he looked at me I had to pretend to be looking at the advertisement over his head. When we came into the station he was next to me, and his white shirt-front pressed against my arm, and so I told him I’d have to call a policeman, but he knew I lied. I was so excited. All I kept thinking about, over and over, was ‘You can’t live forever; you can’t live forever’».
She turned to Mrs. McKee and the room rang full of her artificial laughter.
«My dear», she cried, «I’m going to give you this dress. I’ve got to get another one tomorrow. I’m going to make a list of all the things I’ve got to get. A massage, and a collar for the dog, and one of those cute little ash-trays where you touch a spring, and a wreath with a black silk bow for mother’s grave that’ll last all summer. I have to write down a list so I won’t forget all the things I have to do».
It was nine o’clock – almost immediately afterward I looked at my watch and found it was ten. Mr. McKee was asleep on a chair.
Some time toward midnight Tom Buchanan and Mrs. Wilson stood face to face discussing, in passionate voices, whether Mrs. Wilson had any right to mention Daisy’s name.
«Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!» shouted Mrs. Wilson. «I’ll say it whenever I want to! Daisy! Dal…»
Making a short movement, Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his open hand.
Then there were bloody towels upon the bathroom floor, and women’s voices scolding, and a long wail of pain. Mr. McKee awoke from his sleep and started in surprise toward the door. When he had gone half way he turned around and stared at the scene – his wife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled here and there among the crowded furniture trying to help Myrtle, and her miserable figure on the sofa. Then Mr. McKee turned and continued on out the door. Taking my hat from the chandelier, I followed.
«Come to lunch some day», he suggested, as we were going down in the elevator.
«Where?»
«Anywhere».
«All right», I agreed, «I’ll be glad to».
Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the Pennsylvania Station, waiting for the four o’clock train.
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