Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro’s troubled history and sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. It appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had elicited this tribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. My incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming hastily through a dozen magazines.

  He reached in his pocket, and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon, fell into my palm.

  “That’s the one from Montenegro.”

  To my astonishment, the thing had an authentic look. “Orderi di Danilo,” ran the circular legend, “Montenegro, Nicolas Rex.”

  “Turn it.”

  “Major Jay Gatsby,” I read. “For Valour Extraordinary.”

  “Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. It was taken in Trinity Quad—the man on my left is now the Earl of Doncaster.”

  It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby, looking a little, not much, younger—with a cricket bat in his hand.

  Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart.

  “I’m going to make a big request of you today,” he said, pocketing his souvenirs with satisfaction, “so I thought you ought to know something about me. I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad thing that happened to me.” He hesitated. “You’ll hear about it this afternoon.”

  “At lunch?”

  “No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss Baker to tea.”

  “Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?”

  “No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak to you about this matter.”

  I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon his overpopulated lawn.

  He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted ocean-going ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by.

  With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.

  “All right, old sport,” called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes.

  “Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!”

  “What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?”

  “I was able to do the commissioner a favor once, and he sends me a Christmas card every year.”

  Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of non-olfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world.

  A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their somber holiday. As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry.

  “Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought; “anything at all. . . .”

  Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder.

  ◆

  Roaring noon. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man.

  “Mr. Carraway, this is my friend Mr. Wolfshiem.”

  A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a moment I discovered his tiny eyes in the half darkness.

  “—So I took one look at him,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, shaking my hand earnestly, “and what do you think I did?”

  “What?” I inquired politely.

  But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my hand and covered Gatsby with his expressive nose.

  “I handed the money to Katspaugh and I sid: ‘All right, Katspaugh, don’t pay him a penny till he shuts his mouth.’ He shut it then and there.”

  Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfshiem swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction.

  “Highballs?” asked the head waiter.

  “This is a nice restaurant here,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, looking at the Presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like across the street better!”

  “Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfshiem: “It’s too hot over there.”

  “Hot and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “but full of memories.”

  “What place is that?” I asked Gatsby.

  “The old Metropole.”

  “The old Metropole,” brooded Mr. Wolfshiem gloomily. “Filled with faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can’t forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. ‘All right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his chair.

  “‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t you, so help me, move outside this room.’

  “It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the blinds we’d of seen daylight.”

  “Did he go?” I asked innocently.

  “Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.”

  “Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering.

  “Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. “I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.”

  The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me:

  “Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.”

  “No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.

  “This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem. “I had a wrong man.”

  A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one short glance beneath our own table.

  “Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I made you a little angry this morning in the car.”

  There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it.

  “I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you won’t come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got to come through Miss Baker?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing underhand,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great sportswoman, you know, and she’d never do anything that wasn’t all right.”

  Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room, leaving me with Mr. Wolfshiem at the table.

  “He has to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, following him with his eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman.”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s an Oggsford man.”

  “Oh!”

  “He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.”

  “Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired.

  “Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce to your mother and sister.’” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my cuff buttons.”

  I hadn’t been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory.

  “Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me.

  “Well!” I inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.”

  “Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s wife.”

  When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet.

  “I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you two young men before I outstay my welcome.”

  “Don’t hurry, Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolf­­shiem raised his hand in a sort of benediction.

  “You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,” he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on you any longer.”

  As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I wondered if I had said anything to offend him.

  “He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York—a denizen of Broadway.”

  “Who is he, anyhow, an actor?”

  “No.”

  “A dentist?”

  “Meyer Wolfshiem? No, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added coolly: “He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919.”

  “Fixed the World’s Series?” I repeated.

  The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World’s Series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it at all I would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, the end of some inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could start to play with the faith of fifty million people—with the single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe.

  “How did he happen to do that?” I asked after a minute.

  “He just saw the opportunity.”

  “Why isn’t he in jail?”

  “They can’t get him, old sport. He’s a smart man.”

  I insisted on paying the check. As the waiter brought my change I caught sight of Tom Buchanan across the crowded room.

  “Come along with me for a minute,” I said; “I’ve got to say hello to someone.”

  When he saw us Tom jumped up and took half a dozen steps in our direction.

  “Where’ve you been?” he demanded eagerly. “Daisy’s furious because you haven’t called up.”

  “This is Mr. Gatsby, Mr. Buchanan.”

  They shook hands briefly, and a strained, unfamiliar look of embarrassment came over Gatsby’s face.

  “How’ve you been, anyhow?” demanded Tom of me. “How’d you happen to come up this far to eat?”

  “I’ve been having lunch with Mr. Gatsby.”

  I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there.

  ◆

  One October day in nineteen-seventeen——

  (said Jordan Baker that afternoon, sitting up very straight on a straight chair in the tea-garden at the Plaza Hotel)

  —I was walking along from one place to another, half on the sidewalks and half on the lawns. I was happier on the lawns because I had on shoes from England with rubber nobs on the soles that bit into the soft ground. I had on a new plaid skirt also that blew a little in the wind, and whenever this happened the red, white, and blue banners in front of all the houses stretched out stiff and said tut-tut-tut-tut, in a disapproving way.

  The largest of the banners and the largest of the lawns belonged to Daisy Fay’s house. She was just eighteen, two years older than me, and by far the most popular of all the young girls in Louisville. She dressed in white, and had a little white roadster, and all day long the telephone rang in her house and excited young officers from Camp Taylor demanded the privilege of monopolizing her that night. “Anyways, for an hour!”

  When I came opposite her house that morning her white roadster was beside the curb, and she was sitting in it with a lieutenant I had never seen before. They were so engrossed in each other that she didn’t see me until I was five feet away.

  “Hello, Jordan,” she called unexpectedly. “Please come here.”

  I was flattered that she wanted to speak to me, because of all the older girls I admired her most. She asked me if I was going to the Red Cross and make bandages. I was. Well, then, would I tell them that she couldn’t come that day? The officer looked at Daisy while she was speaking, in a way that every young girl wants to be looked at sometime, and because it seemed romantic to me I have remembered the incident ever since. His name was Jay Gatsby, and I didn’t lay eyes on him again for over four years—even after I’d met him on Long Island I didn’t realize it was the same man.

  That was nineteen-seventeen. By the next year I had a few beaux myself, and I began to play in tournaments, so I didn’t see Daisy very often. She went with a slightly older crowd—when she went with anyone at all. Wild rumors were circulating about her—how her mother had found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say good-by to a soldier who was going overseas. She was effectually prevented, but she wasn’t on speaking terms with her family for several weeks. After that she didn’t play around with the soldiers any more, but only with a few flat-footed, short-sighted young men in town, who couldn’t get into the army at all.

  By the next autumn she was gay again, gay as ever. She had a début after the armistice, and in February she was presumably engaged to a man from New Orleans. In June she married Tom Buchanan of Chicago, with more pomp and circumstance than Louisville ever knew before. He came down with a hundred people in four private cars, and hired a whole floor of the Seelbach Hotel, and the day before the wedding he gave her a string of pearls valued at three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

  I was a bridesmaid. I came into her room half an hour before the bridal dinner, and found her lying on her bed as lovely as the June night in her flowered dress—and as drunk as a monkey. She had a bottle of Sauterne in one hand and a letter in the other.

  “’Gratulate me,” she muttered. “Never had a drink before, but oh how I do enjoy it.”

  “What’s the matter, Daisy?”

  I was scared, I can tell you; I’d never seen a girl like that before.

  “Here, deares’.” She groped around in a wastebasket she had with her on the bed and pulled out the string of pearls. “Take ’em downstairs and give ’em back to whoever they belong to. Tell ’em all Daisy’s change’ her mine. Say: ‘Daisy’s change’ her mine!’”

  She began to cry—she cried and cried. I rushed out and found her mother’s maid, and we locked the door and got her into a cold bath. She wouldn’t let go of the letter. She took it into the tub with her and squeezed it up into a wet ball, and only let me leave it in the soap dish when she saw that it was coming to pieces like snow.

  But she didn’t say another word. We gave her spirits of ammonia and put ice on her forehead and hooked her back into her dress, and half an hour later, when we walked out of the room, the pearls were around her neck and the incident was over. Next day at five o’clock she married Tom Buchanan without so much as a shiver, and started off on a three months’ trip to the South Seas.

  I saw them in Santa Barbara when they came back, and I thought I’d never seen a girl so mad about her husband. If he left the room for a minute she’d look around uneasily, and say: “Where’s Tom gone?” and wear the most abstracted expression until she saw him coming in the door. She used to sit on the sand with his head in her lap by the hour, rubbing her fingers over his eyes and looking at him with unfathomable delight. It was touching to see them together—it made you laugh in a hushed, fascinated way. That was in August. A week after I left Santa Barbara Tom ran into a wagon on the Ventura road one night, and ripped a front wheel off his car. The girl who was with him got into the papers, too, because her arm was broken—she was one of the chambermaids in the Santa Barbara Hotel.