Through the summer nights. In his blue gardensmen 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 guestsdiving from the tower of his raft or taking thesun on the hot sand of his beach while his twomotor-boats slit the waters of the Sound， drawingaquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On weekends hisRolls-Royce became an omnibus， bearing partiesto and from the city， between nine in the morningand long past midnight， while his sta-tion wagonscampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains.
And on Mondays eight servants including an extragardener toiled all day with mops and scrubbingbrushesand hammers and garden-shears， repairing the ravages of the night before.
Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemonsarrived from a fruiterer in New York—every Mondaythese same oranges and lemons left his back door ina pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machinein the kitchen which could extract the juice of twohundred oranges in half an hour， if a little buttonwas pressed two hundred times by a butler’s thumb.
At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers camedown with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas treeof Gatsby’s enormous garden. On buffet tables，garnished with glistening horsd’oeuvre， spicedbaked hams crowded against salads of harlequindesigns and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched toa dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brassrail was set up， and stocked with gins and liquorsand with cordials so long forgotten that most of hisfemale guests were too young to know one fromanother.
By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived—nothin five-piece affair but a whole pitful of oboes andtrombones and saxophones and viols and cornetsand piccolos and low and high drums. The lastswimmers have come in from the beach now and
are dressing upstairs； the cars from New York areparked five deep in the drive， and already the hallsand salons and verandas are gaudy with primarycolors and hair shorn in strange new ways andshawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is infull swing and floating rounds of cocktails permeatethe garden outside until the air is alive with chatterand laughter and casual innuendo and introductionsforgotten on the spot and enthusiastic meetingsbetween women who never knew each other’s names.
The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches awayfrom the sun and now the orchestra is playing yellowcocktail music and the opera of voices pitches a keyhigher. Laughter is easier， minute by minute， spilledwith prodigality， tipped out at a cheerful word. Thegroups change more swiftly， swell with new arrivals，dissolve and form in the same breath—already thereare wanderers， confident girls who weave here andthere among the stouter and more stable， becomefor a sharp， joyous moment the center of a groupand then excited with triumph glide on through thesea-change of faces and voices and color under theconstantly changing light.
Suddenly one of these gypsies in trembling opal，seizes a cocktail out of the air， dumps it down forcourage and moving her hands like Frisco dances outalone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush；the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly forher and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneousnews goes around that she is Gilda Gray’s understudyfrom the “Follies”. The party has begun.
I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’shouse I was one of the few guests who had actuallybeen invited. People were not invited—they wentthere. They got into automobiles which bore themout to Long Island and somehow they ended up atGatsby’s door. Once there they were introducedby somebody who knew Gatsby and after that they conducted themselves according to the rulesof behavior associated with amusement parks.
Sometimes they came and went without having metGatsby at all， came for the party with a simplicity ofheart that was its own ticket of admission.
I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in uniform of robin’s egg blue crossed my lawn earlythat Saturday morning with a surprisingly formalnote 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 severaltimes and had intended to call on me long beforebut a peculiar combination of circumstances hadprevented it—signed Jay Gatsby in a majestic hand.
Dressed up in white flannels I went over to hislawn a little after seven and wandered around ratherill-at-ease among swirls and eddies of people I didn’tknow—though here and there was a face I had noticed on the commuting train. I was immediatelystruck by the number of young Englishmen dottedabout； all well dressed， all looking a little hungryand all talking in low earnest voices to solidand prosperous Americans. I was sure that theywere selling something： bonds or insurance orautomobiles. They were， at least， agonizingly awareof the easy money in the vicinity and convincedthat it was theirs for a few words in the right key.
As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find myhost but the two or three people of whom I askedhis where abouts stared at me in such an amazedway and denied so vehemently any knowledge of hismovements that I slunk off in the direction of thecocktail table—the only place in the garden where asingle man could linger without looking purposelessand alone.
I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheerembarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marblesteps， leaning a little backward and looking withcontemptuous interest down into the garden.
Welcome or not， I found it necessary to attachmyself to someone before I should begin to addresscordial remarks to the passers-by.
“Hello！” I roared， advancing toward her. My voiceseemed unnaturally loud across the garden.
“I thought you might be here，” she respondedabsently as I came up. “I remembered you livednext door to—”