Ralph Sr. & Gatsby's Baedeckered Pool

[Terrance]

Not much depends upon what the Cicada sings
his head broad and long
his membranous wings,
that pair of resonating things 
that produce a characteristic high-pitched, droning song. 

I've never met so many celebrities!" Daisy exclaimed. "I liked that
man--what was his name?--with the sort of blue nose."

Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer.

"Well, I liked him anyhow."

"I'd a little rather not be the polo player," said Tom pleasantly, "I'd
rather look at all these famous people in--in oblivion."

Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful,
conservative fox-trot--I had never seen him dance before. Then they
sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while
at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. "In case there's a
fire or a flood," she explained, "or any act of God."

Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper
together.
"Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?" he said. "A fellow's
getting off some funny stuff."

"Go ahead," answered Daisy genially, "and if you want to take down any
addresses here's my little gold pencil." . . . she looked around after
a moment and told me the girl was "common but pretty," and I knew that
except for the half-hour she'd been alone with Gatsby she wasn't having
a good time.

We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault--Gatsby had
been called to the phone, and I'd enjoyed these same people only two
weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now.

"How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?"

The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my
shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes.

"Wha'?"

A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf
with her at the local club to-morrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker's defence:

"Oh, she's all right now. When she's had five or six cocktails she
always
starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone."

"I do leave it alone," affirmed the accused hollowly.

"We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: 'There's somebody
that needs your help, Doc.'"

"She's much obliged, I'm sure," said another friend, without gratitude.
"But you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool."

"Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool," mumbled Miss
Baedeker. "They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey."

"Then you ought to leave it alone," countered Doctor Civet.

"Speak for yourself!" cried Miss Baedeker violently. "Your hand shakes.
I wouldn't let you operate on me!"

It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with
Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were
still under the white plum tree and their faces were touching except
for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he
had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this
proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree
and kiss at her cheek.

"I like her," said Daisy, "I think she's lovely."

But the rest offended her--and inarguably, because it wasn't a gesture
but
an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented "place."
that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village--appalled
by its raw vigor that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too
obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a short-cut from
nothing
to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed
to understand.

I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It
was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of
light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow
moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow,
an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an
invisible glass.

"Who is this Gatsby anyhow?" demanded Tom suddenly. "Some big
bootlegger?"

"Where'd you hear that?" I inquired.

"I didn't hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are
just big bootleggers, you know."

"Not Gatsby," I said shortly.

He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his
feet.

"Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie
together."