Never Let Me Go

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chapter nine. after two years i remember therest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police andphotographers and newspaper men in and out of gatsby’s front door. a rope stretchedacross the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soondiscovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of themclustered open-mouthed about the pool. someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective,used the expression “madman” as he bent over wilson’s body that afternoon, and theadventitious 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’stestimony at the inquest brought to light

wilson’s suspicions of his wife i thoughtthe whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade — but catherine, whomight have said anything, didn’t say a word. she showed a surprising amount of characterabout it too — looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected browof hers, and swore that her sister had never seen gatsby, that her sister was completelyhappy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. she convincedherself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than shecould endure. s. wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that thecase might remain in its simplest form. and it rested there.but all this part of it seemed remote and

unessential. i found myself on gatsby’sside, and alone. from the moment i telephoned news of the catastrophe to west egg village,every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. at first i wassurprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe orspeak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that i was responsible, because no one else wasinterested — interested, i mean, with that intense personal interest to which every onehas some vague right at the end. i called up daisy half an hour after we foundhim, called her instinctively and without hesitation. but she and tom had gone awayearly 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 wantedto go into the room where he lay and reassure 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 addresson broadway, and i called information, but by the time i had the number it was long afterfive, 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 thoughtfor an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filledit. but, as they drew back the sheet and looked at gatsby with unmoved eyes, his protest continuedin my brain: “look here, old sport, you’ve got to getsomebody 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 hastilythrough the unlocked parts of his desk — he’d never told me definitely that his parentswere dead. but there was nothing — only the picture of dan cody, a token of forgottenviolence, staring down from the wall.

next morning i sent the butler to new yorkwith a letter to wolfsheim, which asked for information and urged him to come out on thenext train. that request seemed superfluous when i wrote it. i was sure he’d start whenhe 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 photographersand newspaper men. when the butler brought back wolfsheim’s answer i began to havea feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity 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 hardlycan believe it that it is true at all. such a mad act as that man did should make us allthink. i cannot come down now as i am tied

up in some very important business and cannotget mixed up in this thing now. if there is anything i can do a little later let me knowin a letter by edgar. i hardly know where i am when i hear about a thing like this andam completely knocked down and out. yours truly meyer wolfshiemand then hasty addenda beneath: let me know about the funeral etc. do notknow his family at all. when the phone rang that afternoon and longdistance said chicago was calling i thought this would be daisy at last. but the connectioncame through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.“this is slagle speaking . . . ” “yes?” the name was unfamiliar.“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 handedthe bonds over the counter. they got a circular from new york giving ’em the numbers justfive minutes before. what d’you know about that, hey? you never can tell in these hicktowns ——” “hello!” i interrupted breathlessly. “lookhere — this isn’t mr. gatsby. mr. gatsby’s dead.”there was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation . . . thena quick squawk as the connection was broken. i think it was on the third day that a telegramsigned henry c. gatz arrived from a town in minnesota. it said only that the sender wasleaving immediately and to postpone the funeral

until he came.it was gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up ina 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 incessantlyat his sparse gray beard that i had difficulty in getting off his coat. he was on the pointof collapse, so i took him into the music room and made him sit down while i sent forsomething to eat. but he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his tremblinghand. “i saw it in the chicago newspaper,” hesaid. “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 aboutthe room. “it was a madman,” he said. “he musthave been mad.” “wouldn’t you like some coffee?” i urgedhim. “i don’t want anything. i’m all rightnow, 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 werelooking 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 flushedslightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual

tears. he had reached an age where death nolonger has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for thefirst time and saw the height and splendor of the hall and the great rooms opening outfrom it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. i helped himto a bedroom up-stairs; while he took off his coat and vest i told him that all arrangementshad been deferred 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 greatman. a man like james j. hill. he’d of helped build up the country.”“that’s true,” i said, uncomfortably. he fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, tryingto 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 wasbefore he would give his name. “this is mr. carraway,” i said.“oh!” he sounded relieved. “this is

klipspringer.” i was relieved too, for thatseemed to promise another friend at gatsby’s grave. i didn’t want it to be in the papersand draw a sightseeing crowd, so i’d been calling up a few people myself. they werehard to find. “the funeral’s to-morrow,” i said. “threeo’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, butif i do.” his tone made me suspicious.“of course you’ll be there yourself.” “well, i’ll certainly try. what i calledup about is ——” “wait a minute,” i interrupted. “howabout saying you’ll come?”

“well, the fact is — the truth of thematter is that i’m staying with some people up here in greenwich, and they rather expectme to be with them to-morrow. in fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. of course i’lldo my very best to get away.” i ejaculated an unrestrained “huh!” andhe must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “what i called up about was a pair of shoesi left there. i wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. yousee, they’re tennis shoes, and i’m sort of helpless without them. my address is careof b. f. ——” i didn’t hear the rest of the name, becausei 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 sneer most bitterly at gatsbyon the courage of gatsby’s liquor, and i should have known better than to call him.the morning of the funeral i went up to new york to see meyer wolfsheim; i couldn’tseem to reach him any other way. the door that i pushed open, on the advice of an elevatorboy, was marked “the swastika holding company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. but when i’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke outbehind a partition, and presently a lovely jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinizedme with black hostile eyes. “nobody’s in,” she said. “mr. wolfsheim’sgone to chicago.”

the first part of this was obviously untrue,for someone had begun to whistle “the rosary,” tunelessly, inside.“please say that mr. carraway wants to see him.”“i can’t get him back from chicago, can i?”at this moment a voice, unmistakably wolfsheim’s, called “stella!” from the other side ofthe door. “leave your name on the desk,” she saidquickly. “i’ll give it to him when he gets back.”“but i know he’s there.” she took a step toward me and began to slideher hands indignantly up and down her hips. “you young men think you can force yourway in here any time,” she scolded. “we’re

getting sickantired of it. when i say he’sin chicago, he’s in chicago.” i mentioned gatsby.“oh — h!” she looked at me over again. “will you just — what was your name?”she vanished. in a moment meyer wolfsheim stood solemnly in the doorway, holding outboth hands. he drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad timefor all of us, and offered me a cigar. “my memory goes back to when i first methim,” he said. “a young major just out of the army and covered over with medals hegot in the war. he was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’tbuy some regular clothes. first time i saw him was when he come into winebrenner’spoolroom at forty-third street and asked for

a job. he hadn’t eat anything for a coupleof days. ‘come on have some lunch with me,’ i sid. he ate more than four dollars’ worthof food in half an hour.” “did you start him in business?” i inquired.“start him! i made him.” “oh.”“i raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. i saw right away he was a fine-appearing,gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at oggsford i knew i could use himgood. i got him to join up in the american legion and he used to stand high there. rightoff he did some work for a client of mine up to albany. we were so thick like that ineverything.”— he held up two bulbous fingers ——” always together.”i wondered if this partnership had included

the world’s series transaction in 1919.“now he’s dead,” i said after a moment. “you were his closest friend, so i knowyou’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”“i’d like to come.” “well, come then.”the hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled withtears. “i can’t do it — i can’t get mixedup in it,” he said. “there’s nothing to get mixed up in. it’sall over now.” “when a man gets killed i never like toget mixed up in it in any way. i keep out. when i was a young man it was different — ifa friend of mine died, no matter how, i stuck

with them to the end. you may think that’ssentimental, but i mean it — to the bitter end.”i saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so i stood up.“are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. for a moment i thought he was going to suggesta “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand.“let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he isdead,” he suggested. “after that my own rule is to let everything alone.”when i left his office the sky had turned dark and i got back to west egg in a drizzle.after changing my clothes i went next door and found mr. gatz walking up and down excitedlyin the hall. his pride in his son and in his

son’s possessions was continually increasingand now he had something to show me. “jimmy sent me this picture.” he tookout his wallet with trembling fingers. “look there.”it was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands.he pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “look there!” and then sought admirationfrom my eyes. he had shown it so often that i think it was more real to him now than thehouse itself. “jimmy sent it to me. i think it’s a verypretty picture. it shows up well.” “very well. had you seen him lately?”“he come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house i live in now. of coursewe was broke up when he run off from home,

but i see now there was a reason for it. heknew he had a big future in front of him. and ever since he made a success he was verygenerous with me.” he seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for anotherminute, lingeringly, before my eyes. then he returned the wallet and pulled from hispocket a ragged old copy of a book called hopalong cassidy.“look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. it just shows you.”he opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. on the last fly-leafwas printed the word schedule, and the date september 12, 1906, and underneath:rise from bed. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.00 a.m.dumbbell exercise and wall-scaling. . . . .. 6.15-6.30

”study electricity, etc. . . . . . . . . . . . 7.15-8.15 ”work. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8.30-4.30 p.m.baseball and sports. . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.30-5.00 ”practice elocution, poise and how to attain it 5.00-6.00 ”study needed inventions. . . . . . . . . . . 7.00-9.00 ”general resolves no wasting time at shafters or [a name, indecipherable] no more smokeingor chewing bath every other day read one improving book or magazine per week save $5.00 {crossedout} $3.00 per week be better to parents “i come across this book by accident,”said the old man. “it just shows you, don’t

it?”“it just shows you.” “jimmy was bound to get ahead. he alwayshad some resolves like this or something. do you notice what he’s got about improvinghis mind? he was always great for that. he told me i et like a hog once, and i beat himfor it.” he was reluctant to close the book, readingeach item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. i think he rather expected me to copydown the list for my own use. a little before three the lutheran ministerarrived from flushing, and i began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars.so did gatsby’s father. and as the time passed and the servants came in and stoodwaiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink

anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried,uncertain way. the minister glanced several times at his watch, so i took him aside andasked him to wait for half an hour. but it wasn’t any use. nobody came.about five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in athick drizzle beside the gate — first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, thenmr. gatz and the minister and i in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants andthe postman from west egg in gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. as we startedthrough the gate into the cemetery i heard a car stop and then the sound of someone splashingafter us over the soggy ground. i looked around. it was the man with owl-eyed glasses whomi had found marvelling over gatsby’s books

in the library one night three months before.i’d never seen him since then. i don’t know how he knew about the funeral, or evenhis name. the rain poured down his thick glasses, and he took them off and wiped them to seethe protecting canvas unrolled from gatsby’s grave.i tried to think about gatsby then for a moment, but he was already too far away, and i couldonly remember, without resentment, that daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower. dimlyi heard someone murmur, “blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” and then theowl-eyed man said “amen to that,” in a brave voice.we straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate.“i couldn’t get to the house,” he remarked.

“neither could anybody else.”“go on!” he started. “why, my god! they used to go there by the hundreds.” he tookoff his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in.“the poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said. one of my most vivid memories is of comingback west from prep school and later from college at christmas time. those who wentfarther than chicago would gather in the old dim union station at six o’clock of a decemberevening, with a few chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gayeties,to bid them a hasty good-by. i remember the fur coats of the girls returning from missthis-or-that’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as wecaught sight of old acquaintances, and the

matchings of invitations: “are you goingto the ordways’? the herseys’? the schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight inour gloved hands. and last the murky yellow cars of the chicago, milwaukee and st. paulrailroad looking cheerful as christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate.when we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretchout beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small wisconsin stationsmoved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. we drew in deep breaths of itas we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of ouridentity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably intoit again.

that’s my middle west — not the wheator the prairies or the lost swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth,and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreathsthrown by lighted windows on the snow. i am part of that, a little solemn with the feelof those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the carraway house in acity where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. i see now thatthis has been a story of the west, after all — tom and gatsby, daisy and jordan and i,were all westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtlyunadaptable to eastern life. even when the east excited me most, even wheni was most keenly aware of its superiority

to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyondthe ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the veryold — even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. west egg, especially, stillfigures in my more fantastic dreams. i see it as a night scene by el greco: a hundredhouses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging skyand a lustreless moon. in the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking alongthe sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress.her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. gravely the men turn inat a house — the wrong house. but no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares.after gatsby’s death the east was haunted

for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’power of correction. so when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the windblew the wet laundry stiff on the line i decided to come back home.there was one thing to be done before i left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhapshad better have been let alone. but i wanted to leave things in order and not just trustthat obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. i saw jordan baker and talkedover and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, andshe lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair.she was dressed to play golf, and i remember thinking she looked like a good illustration,her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair

the color of an autumn leaf, her face thesame brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. when i had finished she told mewithout comment that she was engaged to another man. i doubted that, though there were severalshe could have married at a nod of her head, but i pretended to be surprised. for justa minute i wondered if i wasn’t making a mistake, then i thought it all over againquickly and got up to say good-bye. “nevertheless you did throw me over,”said jordan suddenly. “you threw me over on the telephone. i don’t give a damn aboutyou now, but it was a new experience for me, and i felt a little dizzy for a while.”we shook hands. “oh, and do you remember.”— she added——” a conversation we had once about

driving a car?”“why — not exactly.” “you said a bad driver was only safe untilshe met another bad driver? well, i met another bad driver, didn’t i? i mean it was carelessof me to make such a wrong guess. i thought you were rather an honest, straightforwardperson. i thought it was your secret pride.” “i’m thirty,” i said. “i’m fiveyears too old to lie to myself and call it honor.”she didn’t answer. angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, i turnedaway. one afternoon late in october i saw tom buchanan.he was walking ahead of me along fifth avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands outa little from his body as if to fight off

interference, his head moving sharply hereand there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. just as i slowed up to avoid overtakinghim he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewelry store. suddenly he sawme and walked back, holding out his hand. “what’s the matter, nick? do you objectto shaking hands with me?” “yes. you know what i think of you.”“you’re crazy, nick,” he said quickly. “crazy as hell. i don’t know what’sthe matter with you.” “tom,” i inquired, “what did you sayto wilson that afternoon?” he stared at me without a word, and i knew i had guessedright about those missing hours. i started to turn away, but he took a step after meand grabbed my arm.

“i told him the truth,” he said. “hecame to the door while we were getting ready to leave, and when i sent down word that weweren’t in he tried to force his way up-stairs. he was crazy enough to kill me if i hadn’ttold him who owned the car. his hand was on a revolver in his pocket every minute he wasin the house ——” he broke off defiantly. “what if i did tell him? that fellow hadit coming to him. he threw dust into your eyes just like he did in daisy’s, but hewas a tough one. he ran over myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even stopped hiscar.” there was nothing i could say, except theone unutterable fact that it wasn’t true. “and if you think i didn’t have my shareof suffering — look here, when i went to

give up that flat and saw that damn box ofdog biscuits sitting there on the sideboard, i sat down and cried like a baby. by god itwas awful ——” i couldn’t forgive him or like him, buti saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. it was all very careless and confused.they were careless people, tom and daisy — they smashed up things and creatures and then retreatedback into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together,and let other people clean up the mess they had made. . . .i shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for i felt suddenly as though i were talkingto a child. then he went into the jewelry store to buy a pearl necklace — or perhapsonly a pair of cuff buttons — rid of my

provincial squeamishness forever.gatsby’s house was still empty when i left — the grass on his lawn had grown as longas mine. one of the taxi drivers in the village never took a fare past the entrance gate withoutstopping for a minute and pointing inside; perhaps it was he who drove daisy and gatsbyover to east egg the night of the accident, and perhaps he had made a story about it allhis own. i didn’t want to hear it and i avoided him when i got off the train.i spent my saturday nights in new york because those gleaming, dazzling parties of his werewith me so vividly that i could still hear the music and the laughter, faint and incessant,from his garden, and the cars going up and down his drive. one night i did hear a materialcar there, and saw its lights stop at his

front steps. but i didn’t investigate. probablyit was some final guest who had been away at the ends of the earth and didn’t knowthat the party was over. on the last night, with my trunk packed andmy car sold to the grocer, i went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure ofa house once more. on the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a piece ofbrick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and i erased it, drawing my shoe raspinglyalong the stone. then i wandered down to the beach and sprawled out on the sand.most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except theshadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the sound. and as the moon rose higher theinessential houses began to melt away until

gradually i became aware of the old islandhere that flowered once for dutch sailors’ eyes — a fresh, green breast of the newworld. its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for gatsby’s house, had oncepandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchantedmoment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled intoan aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last timein history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.and as i sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, i thought of gatsby’s wonder whenhe first picked out the green light at the end of daisy’s dock. he had come a longway to this blue lawn, and his dream must

have seemed so close that he could hardlyfail to grasp it. he did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back inthat vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled onunder the night. gatsby believed in the green light, the orgasticfuture that year by year recedes before us. it eluded us then, but that’s no matter— to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . and one fine morning—— so we beat on, boats against the current,borne back ceaselessly into the past.