Hello there,
It's Mandy here.
Welcome back to The Great Gatsby by F.
Scott Fitzgerald and welcome back to Chapter 7.
I'm going to read the third part of the chapter tonight.
But before I begin,
Please go ahead and make yourself really comfortable.
Settle down into your chair or your bed and just relax your hands.
Loosen your shoulders.
Release your jaw.
You might like to gently close your eyes.
That's lovely.
Okay,
Then I'll begin.
Chapter 7 part 3.
The young Greek Michaelis,
Who ran the coffee joint beside the ash heaps,
Was the principal witness at the inquest.
He had slept through the heat until after five when he strolled over to the garage and found George Wilson sick in his office.
Really sick,
Pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over.
Michaelis advised him to go to bed,
But Wilson refused,
Saying that he'd miss a lot of business if he did.
While his neighbour was trying to persuade him,
A violent racket broke out overhead.
I've got my wife locked in up there,
Explained Wilson calmly.
She's going to stay there till the day after tomorrow,
And then we're going to move away.
Michaelis was astonished.
They had been neighbours for four years,
And Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement.
Generally,
He was one of these worn out men.
When he wasn't working,
He sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars that passed along the road.
When anyone spoke to him,
He invariably laughed in an agreeable,
Colourless way.
He was his wife's man,
Not his own.
So naturally,
Michaelis tried to find out what had happened,
But Wilson wouldn't say a word.
Instead,
He began to throw curious,
Suspicious glances at his visitor and ask him what he'd been doing at certain times on certain days.
Just as the latter was getting uneasy,
Some workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant,
And Michaelis took the opportunity to get away,
Intending to come back later,
But he didn't.
He supposed he forgot to,
That's all.
When he came outside again,
A little after seven,
He was reminded of the conversation,
Because he heard Mrs Wilson's voice,
Loud and scolding,
Downstairs in the garage.
Beat me,
He heard her cry.
Throw me down and beat me,
You dirty little coward.
A moment later,
She rushed out into the dusk,
Waving her hands and shouting.
Before he could move from his door,
The business was over.
The death car,
As the newspapers called it,
Didn't stop.
It came out of the gathering darkness,
Wavered tragically for a moment,
And then disappeared around the next bend.
Mavro Michaelis wasn't even sure of its colour.
He told the first policeman that it was light green.
The other car,
The one going towards New York,
Came to rest a hundred yards beyond,
And its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson,
Her life violently extinguished,
Knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark blood with the dust.
Michaelis and this man reached her first,
But when they had torn open her shirt waist,
Still damp with perspiration,
They saw that her left breast was swinging loose,
Like a flap,
And there was no need to listen for the heart beneath.
Her mouth was wide open and ripped a little at the corners,
As though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long.
We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still some distance away.
Wreck,
Said Tom.
That's good.
Wilson will have a little business at last.
He slowed down,
But still without any intention of stopping,
Until,
As we came nearer,
The hushed,
Intent faces of the people at the garage door made him automatically put on the brakes.
We'll take a look,
He said doubtfully.
Just a look.
I became aware now of a hollow wailing sound which issued incessantly from the garage,
A sound which,
As we got out of the coupe and walked towards the door,
Resolved itself into the words,
Oh my God,
Uttered over and over in a gasping moan.
There's some bad trouble here,
Said Tom excitedly.
He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the garage,
Which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging metal basket overhead.
Then he made a harsh sound in his throat and with a violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way through.
The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation.
It was a minute before I could see anything at all.
Then new arrivals deranged the line and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside.
Myrtle Wilson's body,
Wrapped in a blanket and then in another blanket,
As though she suffered from a chill in the hot night,
Lay on a work table by the wall and Tom,
With his back to us,
Was bending over it motionless.
Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down names with much sweat and correction in a little book.
At first,
I couldn't find the source of the high groaning words that echoed clamorously through the bare garage.
Then I saw Wilson standing on the raised threshold of his office,
Swaying back and forth and holding to the doorposts with both hands.
Some man was talking to him in a low voice and attempting from time to time to lay a hand on his shoulder,
But Wilson neither heard nor saw.
His eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall and then jerk back to the light again and he gave out incessantly his high horrible call.
Oh my God!
Oh my God!
Oh my God!
Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and after staring around the garage with glazed eyes addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to the policeman.
M-A-V,
The policeman was saying,
O.
No,
R,
Corrected the man.
M-A-V-R,
O.
Listen to me,
Muttered Tom fiercely.
R,
Said the policeman,
O.
G,
G,
He looked up as Tom's broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder.
What do you want,
Fella?
What happened?
That's what I want to know.
Auto hitter,
Instantly killed.
Instantly killed,
Repeated Tom,
Staring.
She ran out in the road.
Son of a bitch didn't even stop his car.
There was two cars,
Said Michaelis,
One coming,
One going,
See.
Going where?
Asked the policeman keenly.
One going each way.
Well,
She,
His hand rose toward the blankets but stopped halfway and fell to his side.
She ran out there and the one coming from New York knocked right into her going 30 or 40 miles an hour.
What's the name of this place here?
Demanded the officer.
Hasn't got any name.
A pale,
Well-dressed black man stepped near.
It was a yellow car,
He said,
Big yellow car,
New.
See the accident?
Asked the policeman.
No,
But the car passed me down the road going faster and 40 going 50,
60.
Come here and let's have your name.
Look out now.
I want to get his name.
Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson,
Swaying in the office door,
For suddenly a new theme found among his grasping cries.
You don't have to tell me what kind of car it was.
I know what kind of car it was.
Watching Tom,
I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under his coat.
He walked quickly over to Wilson and,
Standing in front of him,
Seized him firmly by the upper arms.
You've got to pull yourself together,
He said,
With soothing gruffness.
Wilson's eyes fell upon Tom.
He started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.
Listen,
Said Tom,
Shaking him a little.
I just got here a minute ago from New York.
I was bringing you that coupe we've been talking about.
That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn't mine,
Do you hear?
I haven't seen it all afternoon.
Only the black man and I were near enough to hear what he said,
But the policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent eyes.
What's all that?
He demanded.
I'm a friend of his.
Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on Wilson's body.
He says he knows the car that did it.
It was a yellow car.
Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom.
And what colour's your car?
It's a blue car,
A coupe.
We've come straight from New York,
I said.
Someone who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this and the policeman turned away.
Now,
If you'll let me have that name again,
Correct?
Picking up Wilson like a doll,
Tom carried him into the office,
Set him down in a chair and came back.
If somebody will come here and sit with him,
He snapped authoritatively.
He watched while the two men standing closest glance at each other and went unwillingly into the room.
Then Tom shut the door on them and came down the single step,
His eyes avoiding the table.
As he passed close to me,
He whispered,
Let's get out.
Self-consciously,
With his authoritative arms breaking the way,
We pushed through the still gathering crowd,
Passing a hurried doctor,
Case in hand,
Who had been sent for in wild hope half an hour ago.
Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend.
Then his foot came down hard and the coupe raced along through the night.
In a little while,
I heard a low husky sob and saw that the tears were overflowing down his face.
The goddamned coward,
He whimpered.
He didn't even stop his car.
The Buchanan's house floated suddenly towards us through the dark rustling trees.
Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second floor,
Where two windows bloomed with light among the vines.
Daisy's home,
He said.
As we got out of the car,
He glanced at me and frowned slightly.
I ought to have dropped you in West Eggnick.
There's nothing we can do tonight.
A change had come over him and he spoke gravely and with decision.
As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch,
He disposed of the situation in a few brisk phrases.
I'll telephone for a taxi to take you home and while you're waiting,
You and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them get you some supper.
He opened the door.
No thanks,
But I'd be glad if you'd order me the taxi.
I'll wait outside.
Jordan put her hand on my arm.
Won't you come in,
Nick?
No thanks.
I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone,
But Jordan lingered for a moment more.
It's only half past nine,
She said.
I'd be damned if I'd go in.
I'd had enough of all of them for one day and suddenly that included Jordan too.
She must have seen something of this in my expression,
For she turned abruptly away and ran up the porch steps into the house.
I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler's voice calling a taxi.
Then I walked slowly down the driveway away from the house,
Intending to wait by the gate.
I hadn't gone 20 yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path.
I must have felt pretty weird by that time because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon.
What are you doing?
I inquired.
Just standing here,
Old sport.
Somehow that seemed a despicable occupation.
For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment.
I wouldn't have been surprised to see sinister faces,
The faces of Wolfsheim's people behind him in the dark shrubbery.
Did you see any trouble on the road?
He asked after a minute.
Yes.
He hesitated.
Was she killed?
Yes.
I thought so.
I told Daisy I thought so.
It's better that the shock should all come at once.
She stood it pretty well.
He spoke as if Daisy's reaction was the only thing that mattered.
I got to West Egg by a side road,
He went on,
And left the car in my garage.
I don't think anybody saw us,
But of course I can't be sure.
I disliked him so much by this time that I didn't find it necessary to tell him he was wrong.
Who was the woman?
He inquired.
Her name was Wilson.
Her husband owns the garage.
How the devil did it happen?
Well,
I tried to swing the wheel.
He broke off and suddenly I guessed at the truth.
Was Daisy driving?
Yes,
He said after a moment,
But of course I'll say I was.
You see,
When we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would steady her to drive,
And this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming the other way.
It all happened in a minute,
But it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us,
Thought we were somebody she knew.
Well,
First Daisy turned away from the woman towards the other car,
And then she lost her nerve and turned back.
The second my hand reached the wheel,
I felt the shock.
It must have killed her instantly.
It ripped her open.
Don't tell me old sport,
He winced.
Anyhow,
Daisy stepped on it.
I tried to make a stop,
But she couldn't,
So I pulled on the emergency brake.
Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.
She'll be all right tomorrow,
He said presently.
I'm just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon.
She's locked herself into her room and if he tries any brutality she's going to turn the light out and on again.
He won't touch her,
I said.
He's not thinking about her.
I don't trust him old sport.
How long are you going to wait?
All night if necessary.
Anyhow,
Till they all go to bed.
A new point of view occurred to me.
Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had been driving.
He might think he saw a connection in it.
He might think anything.
I looked at the house.
There were two or three bright windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy's room on the ground floor.
You wait here,
I said.
I'll see if there's any sign of a commotion.
I walked back along the border of the lawn,
Traversed the gravel softly and tiptoed up the veranda steps.
The drawing room curtains were open and I saw that the room was empty.
Crossing the porch where we had dined that June night three months before,
I came to a small rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window.
The blind was drawn but I found a rift at the sill.
Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table with a plate of cold fried chicken between them and two bottles of ale.
He was talking intently across the table at her and in his earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own.
Once in a while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement.
They weren't happy and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale and yet they weren't unhappy either.
There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together.
As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the dark road towards the house.
Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in the drive.
Is it all quiet up there?
He asked anxiously.
Yeah it's all quiet.
I hesitated.
You'd better come home and get some sleep.
He shook his head.
I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed.
Goodnight old sport.
He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his scrutiny of the house as though my presence marred the sacredness of the vigil.
So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight watching over nothing to be continued.
