Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg especially still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lusterless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the 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 in at 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 wind blew 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 perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together and what had happened afterward to me, and she 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 the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye.

即使东部最令我兴奋的时候，即使我最敏锐地感觉到比之俄亥俄河那边的那些枯燥无味、乱七八糟的城镇，那些只有儿童和老人可幸免于无止无休的闲话的城镇，东部具有无比的优越性——即使在那种时候，我也总觉得东部有畸形的地方。尤其西卵仍然出现在我做的比较荒唐的梦里。在我的梦中，这个小镇就像埃尔·格列柯画的一幅夜景：上百所房屋，既平常又怪诞，蹲伏在阴沉沉的天空和黯淡无光的月亮之下。在前景里有四个板着面孔、身穿大礼服的男人沿人行道走着，抬着一副担架，上面躺着一个喝醉酒的女人，身上穿着一件白色的晚礼服。她一只手耷拉在一边，闪耀着珠宝的寒光。那几个人郑重其事地转身走进一所房子——走错了地方。但是没人知道这个女人的姓名，也没有人关心。盖茨比死后，东部在我心目中就是这样鬼影幢幢，面目全非到超过了我眼睛矫正的能力。因此等到烧枯叶的蓝烟弥漫空中，寒风把晾在绳上的湿衣服吹得邦邦硬的时候，我就决定回家来了。在我离开之前还有一件事要办，一件尴尬的、不愉快的事，本来也许应当不了了之的。但是我希望把事情收拾干净，而不指望那个乐于帮忙而又不动感情的大海来把我的垃圾冲掉。我去见了乔丹·贝克，从头到尾谈了围绕着我们两人之间发生的事情，然后谈到我后来的遭遇，而她躺在一张大椅子里听着，一动也不动。她穿的是打高尔夫球的衣服，我还记得我当时想过她活像一幅很好的插图，她的下巴很神气地微微翘起，她头发像秋叶的颜色，她的脸和她放在膝盖上的浅棕色无指手套一个颜色。等我讲完之后，她告诉我她和另一个人订了婚，别的话一句没说。我怀疑她的话，虽然有好几个人只要她一点头就可以结婚的，但是我故作惊讶。一刹那间我寻思自己是否正在犯错误，接着我很快地考虑了一番就站起来告辞了。