按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
stared at the scene—his wife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled here and there among the crowded furniture with articles of aid； and the despairing figure on the couch； bleeding fluently； and trying to spread a copy of TOWN TATTLE。 over the tapestry scenes of Versailles。 Then Mr。 McKee turned and continued on out the door。 Taking my hat from the chandelier； I followed。
“e to lunch some day；” he suggested； as we groaned down in the elevator。
“Where？”
“Anywhere。”
“Keep your hands off the lever；” snapped the elevator boy。
“I beg your pardon；” said Mr。 McKee with dignity； “I didn’t know I was touching it。”
“All right；” I agreed； “I’ll be glad to。”
。 。 。 I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the sheets； clad in his underwear； with a great portfolio in his hands。
“Beauty and the Beast 。 。 。 Loneliness 。 。 。 Old Grocery Horse 。 。 。 Brook’n Bridge 。 。 。 。”
Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the Pennsylvania Station； staring at the morning TRIBUNE； and waiting for the four o’clock train。
Chapter 3
There was music from my neighbor’s house through the summer nights。 In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars。 At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft； or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motorboats slit the waters of the Sound； drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam。 On weekends his RollsRoyce became an omnibus； bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight； while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains。 And on Mondays eight servants； including an extra gardener； toiled all day with mops and scrubbingbrushes and hammers and gardenshears； repairing the ravages of the night before。
Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York—every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves。 There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler’s thumb。
At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby’s enormous garden。 On buffet tables； garnished with glistening horsd’oeuvre； spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold。 In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up； and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another。
By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived； no thin fivepiece affair； but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cors and piccolos； and low and high drums。 The last swimmers have e in from the beach now and are dressing upstairs； the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive； and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors； and hair shorn in strange new ways； and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile。 The bar is in full swing； and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside； until the air is alive with chatter and laughter； and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot； and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other’s names。
①西班牙一地区，以产头巾出名。
大地蹒跚着离开太阳，电灯显得更亮，此刻乐队正在奏黄色鸡尾酒会音乐，于是大合唱般的人声又提高了一个音凋。笑声每时每刻都变得越来越容易，毫无节制地倾泻出来，只要一句笑话就会引起哄然大笑。人群的变化越来越快，忽而随着新来的客人而增大，忽而分散后又立即重新组合。已经有一些人在东飘西荡脸皮厚的年轻姑娘在比较稳定的人群中间钻进钻出，一会儿在片刻的欢腾中成为一群人注意的中心，一会儿又得意洋洋在不断变化的灯光下穿过变幻不定的面孔、声音和色彩扬长而去。
忽然间，这些吉卜赛人式的姑娘中有一个，满身珠光宝气，一伸手就抓来一杯鸡尾酒，一回于下去壮壮胆子，然后手舞足蹈，一个人跳到篷布舞池中间去表演。片刻的寂静，乐队指挥殷勤地为她改变了拍子，随后突然响起了一阵叽叽喳喳的说话声，因为有谣言传开，说她是速演剧团的吉尔德·格雷①的替角。晚会正式开始了。
I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’s house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invited。 People were not invited—they went there。 They got into automobiles which bore them out to Long Island； and somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s door。 Once there they were introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby； and after that they conducted themselves according to the rules of behavior associated with amusement parks。 Sometimes they came and went without having met Gatsby at all； came for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission。
I had been actually invited。 A chauffeur in a uniform of robin’segg blue crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning with a surprisingly formal note from his employer： the honor would be entirely Gatsby’s； it said； if I would attend his “little party。” that night。 He had seen me several times； and had intended to call on me long before； but a peculiar bination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay Gatsby； in a majestic hand。
Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after seven； and wandered around rather ill at ease among swirls and eddies of people I didn’t know—though here and there was a face I had noticed on the muting train。 I was immediately struck by the number of young Englishmen dotted about； all well dressed； all looking a little hungry； and all talking in low； earnest voices to solid and prosperous Americans。 I was sure that they were selling something： bonds or insurance or automobiles。 They were at least agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key。
As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host； but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way； and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements； that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone。
I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps； leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden。
Wele or not； I found it necessary to attach myself to some one before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby。
“Hello！” I roared； advancing toward her。 My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden。
“I thought you might be here；” she responded absently as I came up。 “I remembered you lived next door to——”
She held my hand impersonally； as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute； and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses； who stopped at the foot of the steps。
“Hello！” they cried together。 “Sorry you didn’t win。”
That was for the golf tournament。 She had lost in the finals the week before。
“You don’t know who we are；” said one of the girls in yellow； “but we met you here about a month ago。”
“You’ve dyed your hair since then；” remarked Jordan； and I started； but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon； produced like the supper； no doubt； out of a caterer’s basket。 With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine； we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden。 A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight； and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men； each one introduced to us as Mr。 Mumble。
“Do you e to these parties often？” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her。
“The last one was the one I met you at；” answered the girl； in an alert confident voice。 She turned to her panion： “Wasn’t it for you； Lucille？”
It was for Lucille； too。
“I like to e；” Lucille said。 “I never care what I do； so I a