I couldn\u2019t sleep all night; a foghorn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby\u2019s drive, and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress\u2014I felt that I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning would be too late.<\/p>\n
Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep.<\/p>\n
\u201cNothing happened,\u201d he said wanly. \u201cI waited, and about four o\u2019clock she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned out the light.\u201d<\/p>\n
His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches\u2014once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they hadn\u2019t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou ought to go away,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s pretty certain they\u2019ll trace your car.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGo away now<\/i>, old sport?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGo to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.\u201d<\/p>\n
He wouldn\u2019t consider it. He couldn\u2019t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn\u2019t bear to shake him free.<\/p>\n
It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody\u2014told it to me because \u201cJay Gatsby\u201d had broken up like glass against Tom\u2019s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy.<\/p>\n
She was the first \u201cnice\u201d girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him\u2014he had never been in such a beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless intensity, was that Daisy lived there\u2014it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year\u2019s shining motorcars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved Daisy\u2014it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions.<\/p>\n
But he knew that he was in Daisy\u2019s house by a colossal accident. However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was at present a penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and unscrupulously\u2014eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took her because he had no real right to touch her hand.<\/p>\n
He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under false pretences. I don\u2019t mean that he had traded on his phantom millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he let her believe that he was a person from much the same strata as herself\u2014that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of fact, he had no such facilities\u2014he had no comfortable family standing behind him, and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government to be blown anywhere about the world.<\/p>\n
But he didn\u2019t despise himself and it didn\u2019t turn out as he had imagined. He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go\u2014but now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn\u2019t realize just how extraordinary a \u201cnice\u201d girl could be. She vanished into her rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby\u2014nothing. He felt married to her, that was all.<\/p>\n
When they met again, two days later, it was Gatsby who was breathless, who was, somehow, betrayed. Her porch was bright with the bought luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth. She had caught a cold, and it made her voice huskier and more charming than ever, and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many clothes, and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the hot struggles of the poor.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her, old sport. I even hoped for a while that she\u2019d throw me over, but she didn\u2019t, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot because I knew different things from her\u2026 Well, there I was, way off my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden I didn\u2019t care. What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do?\u201d<\/p>\n
On the last afternoon before he went abroad, he sat with Daisy in his arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with fire in the room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his arm a little, and once he kissed her dark shining hair. The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised. They had never been closer in their month of love, nor communicated more profoundly one with another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat\u2019s shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were asleep.<\/p>\n
He did extraordinarily well in the war. He was a captain before he went to the front, and following the Argonne battles he got his majority and the command of the divisional machine-guns. After the armistice he tried frantically to get home, but some complication or misunderstanding sent him to Oxford instead. He was worried now\u2014there was a quality of nervous despair in Daisy\u2019s letters. She didn\u2019t see why he couldn\u2019t come. She was feeling the pressure of the world outside, and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all.<\/p>\n
For Daisy was young and her artificial world was redolent of orchids and pleasant, cheerful snobbery and orchestras which set the rhythm of the year, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in new tunes. All night the saxophones wailed the hopeless comment of the \u201cBeale Street Blues\u201d while a hundred pairs of golden and silver slippers shuffled the shining dust. At the grey tea hour there were always rooms that throbbed incessantly with this low, sweet fever, while fresh faces drifted here and there like rose petals blown by the sad horns around the floor.<\/p>\n
Through this twilight universe Daisy began to move again with the season; suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with half a dozen men, and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and chiffon of an evening-dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor beside her bed. And all the time something within her was crying for a decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately\u2014and the decision must be made by some force\u2014of love, of money, of unquestionable practicality\u2014that was close at hand.<\/p>\n
That force took shape in the middle of spring with the arrival of Tom Buchanan. There was a wholesome bulkiness about his person and his position, and Daisy was flattered. Doubtless there was a certain struggle and a certain relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was still at Oxford.<\/p>\n
It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of the windows downstairs, filling the house with grey-turning, gold-turning light. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a slow, pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool, lovely day.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t think she ever loved him.\u201d Gatsby turned around from a window and looked at me challengingly. \u201cYou must remember, old sport, she was very excited this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that frightened her\u2014that made it look as if I was some kind of cheap sharper. And the result was she hardly knew what she was saying.\u201d<\/p>\n
He sat down gloomily.<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course she might have loved him just for a minute, when they were first married\u2014and loved me more even then, do you see?\u201d<\/p>\n
Suddenly he came out with a curious remark.<\/p>\n
\u201cIn any case,\u201d he said, \u201cit was just personal.\u201d<\/p>\n
What could you make of that, except to suspect some intensity in his conception of the affair that couldn\u2019t be measured?<\/p>\n
He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their wedding trip, and made a miserable but irresistible journey to Louisville on the last of his army pay. He stayed there a week, walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which they had driven in her white car. Just as Daisy\u2019s house had always seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses, so his idea of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded with a melancholy beauty.<\/p>\n
He left feeling that if he had searched harder, he might have found her\u2014that he was leaving her behind. The day-coach\u2014he was penniless now\u2014was hot. He went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a folding-chair, and the station slid away and the backs of unfamiliar buildings moved by. Then out into the spring fields, where a yellow trolley raced them for a minute with people in it who might once have seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street.<\/p>\n
The track curved and now it was going away from the sun, which, as it sank lower, seemed to spread itself in benediction over the vanishing city where she had drawn her breath. He stretched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too fast now for his blurred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part of it, the freshest and the best, forever.<\/p>\n
It was nine o\u2019clock when we finished breakfast and went out on the porch. The night had made a sharp difference in the weather and there was an autumn flavour in the air. The gardener, the last one of Gatsby\u2019s former servants, came to the foot of the steps.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m going to drain the pool today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves\u2019ll start falling pretty soon, and then there\u2019s always trouble with the pipes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t do it today,\u201d Gatsby answered. He turned to me apologetically. \u201cYou know, old sport, I\u2019ve never used that pool all summer?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at my watch and stood up.<\/p>\n
\u201cTwelve minutes to my train.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t want to go to the city. I wasn\u2019t worth a decent stroke of work, but it was more than that\u2014I didn\u2019t want to leave Gatsby. I missed that train, and then another, before I could get myself away.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll call you up,\u201d I said finally.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo, old sport.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll call you about noon.\u201d<\/p>\n
We walked slowly down the steps.<\/p>\n
\u201cI suppose Daisy\u2019ll call too.\u201d He looked at me anxiously, as if he hoped I\u2019d corroborate this.<\/p>\n
\u201cI suppose so.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, goodbye.\u201d<\/p>\n
We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I remembered something and turned around.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019re a rotten crowd,\u201d I shouted across the lawn. \u201cYou\u2019re worth the whole damn bunch put together.\u201d<\/p>\n
I\u2019ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we\u2019d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of colour against the white steps, and I thought of the night when I first came to his ancestral home, three months before. The lawn and drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his corruption\u2014and he had stood on those steps, concealing his incorruptible dream, as he waved them goodbye.<\/p>\n
I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for that\u2014I and the others.<\/p>\n
\u201cGoodbye,\u201d I called. \u201cI enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.\u201d<\/p>\n
Up in the city, I tried for a while to list the quotations on an interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel-chair. Just before noon the phone woke me, and I started up with sweat breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker; she often called me up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other way. Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool, as if a divot from a green golf-links had come sailing in at the office window, but this morning it seemed harsh and dry.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve left Daisy\u2019s house,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m at Hempstead, and I\u2019m going down to Southampton this afternoon.\u201d<\/p>\n
Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy\u2019s house, but the act annoyed me, and her next remark made me rigid.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou weren\u2019t so nice to me last night.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow could it have mattered then?\u201d<\/p>\n
Silence for a moment. Then:<\/p>\n
\u201cHowever\u2014I want to see you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI want to see you, too.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSuppose I don\u2019t go to Southampton, and come into town this afternoon?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo\u2014I don\u2019t think this afternoon.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cVery well.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s impossible this afternoon. Various\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren\u2019t talking any longer. I don\u2019t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I know I didn\u2019t care. I couldn\u2019t have talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never talked to her again in this world.<\/p>\n
I called Gatsby\u2019s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my timetable, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.<\/p>\n
When I passed the ash-heaps on the train that morning I had crossed deliberately to the other side of the car. I supposed there\u2019d be a curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark spots in the dust, and some garrulous man telling over and over what had happened, until it became less and less real even to him and he could tell it no longer, and Myrtle Wilson\u2019s tragic achievement was forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at the garage after we left there the night before.<\/p>\n
They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have broken her rule against drinking that night, for when she arrived she was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of this, she immediately fainted, as if that was the intolerable part of the affair. Someone, kind or curious, took her in his car and drove her in the wake of her sister\u2019s body.<\/p>\n
Until long after midnight a changing crowd lapped up against the front of the garage, while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on the couch inside. For a while the door of the office was open, and everyone who came into the garage glanced irresistibly through it. Finally someone said it was a shame, and closed the door. Michaelis and several other men were with him; first, four or five men, later two or three men. Still later Michaelis had to ask the last stranger to wait there fifteen minutes longer, while he went back to his own place and made a pot of coffee. After that, he stayed there alone with Wilson until dawn.<\/p>\n
About three o\u2019clock the quality of Wilson\u2019s incoherent muttering changed\u2014he grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car. He announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car belonged to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago his wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose swollen.<\/p>\n
But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry \u201cOh, my God!\u201d again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt to distract him.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit still a minute, and answer my question. How long have you been married?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTwelve years.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEver had any children? Come on, George, sit still\u2014I asked you a question. Did you ever have any children?\u201d<\/p>\n
The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light, and whenever Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it sounded to him like the car that hadn\u2019t stopped a few hours before. He didn\u2019t like to go into the garage, because the work bench was stained where the body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably around the office\u2014he knew every object in it before morning\u2014and from time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet.<\/p>\n
\u201cHave you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you haven\u2019t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t belong to any.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must have gone to church once. Didn\u2019t you get married in a church? Listen, George, listen to me. Didn\u2019t you get married in a church?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat was a long time ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking\u2014for a moment he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came back into his faded eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cLook in the drawer there,\u201d he said, pointing at the desk.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhich drawer?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat drawer\u2014that one.\u201d<\/p>\n
Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided silver. It was apparently new.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis?\u201d he inquired, holding it up.<\/p>\n
Wilson stared and nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cI found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I knew it was something funny.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou mean your wife bought it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.\u201d<\/p>\n
Michaelis didn\u2019t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle, because he began saying \u201cOh, my God!\u201d again in a whisper\u2014his comforter left several explanations in the air.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen he killed her,\u201d said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho did?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have a way of finding out.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re morbid, George,\u201d said his friend. \u201cThis has been a strain to you and you don\u2019t know what you\u2019re saying. You\u2019d better try and sit quiet till morning.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe murdered her.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt was an accident, George.\u201d<\/p>\n
Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened slightly with the ghost of a superior \u201cHm!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know,\u201d he said definitely. \u201cI\u2019m one of these trusting fellas and I don\u2019t think any harm to no<\/i>body, but when I get to know a thing I know it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him and he wouldn\u2019t stop.\u201d<\/p>\n
Michaelis had seen this too, but it hadn\u2019t occurred to him that there was any special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson had been running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any particular car.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow could she of been like that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s a deep one,\u201d said Wilson, as if that answered the question. \u201cAh-h-h\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
He began to rock again, and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe you got some friend that I could telephone for, George?\u201d<\/p>\n
This was a forlorn hope\u2014he was almost sure that Wilson had no friend: there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window, and realized that dawn wasn\u2019t far off. About five o\u2019clock it was blue enough outside to snap off the light.<\/p>\n
Wilson\u2019s glazed eyes turned out to the ash-heaps, where small grey clouds took on fantastic shapes and scurried here and there in the faint dawn wind.<\/p>\n
\u201cI spoke to her,\u201d he muttered, after a long silence. \u201cI told her she might fool me but she couldn\u2019t fool God. I took her to the window\u201d\u2014with an effort he got up and walked to the rear window and leaned with his face pressed against it\u2014\u201cand I said \u2018God knows what you\u2019ve been doing, everything you\u2019ve been doing. You may fool me, but you can\u2019t fool God!\u2019\u200a\u201d<\/p>\n
Standing behind him, Michaelis saw with a shock that he was looking at the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale and enormous, from the dissolving night.<\/p>\n
\u201cGod sees everything,\u201d repeated Wilson.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s an advertisement,\u201d Michaelis assured him. Something made him turn away from the window and look back into the room. But Wilson stood there a long time, his face close to the window pane, nodding into the twilight.<\/p>\n
By six o\u2019clock Michaelis was worn out, and grateful for the sound of a car stopping outside. It was one of the watchers of the night before who had promised to come back, so he cooked breakfast for three, which he and the other man ate together. Wilson was quieter now, and Michaelis went home to sleep; when he awoke four hours later and hurried back to the garage, Wilson was gone.<\/p>\n
His movements\u2014he was on foot all the time\u2014were afterward traced to Port Roosevelt and then to Gad\u2019s Hill, where he bought a sandwich that he didn\u2019t eat, and a cup of coffee. He must have been tired and walking slowly, for he didn\u2019t reach Gad\u2019s Hill until noon. Thus far there was no difficulty in accounting for his time\u2014there were boys who had seen a man \u201cacting sort of crazy,\u201d and motorists at whom he stared oddly from the side of the road. Then for three hours he disappeared from view. The police, on the strength of what he said to Michaelis, that he \u201chad a way of finding out,\u201d supposed that he spent that time going from garage to garage thereabout, inquiring for a yellow car. On the other hand, no garage man who had seen him ever came forward, and perhaps he had an easier, surer way of finding out what he wanted to know. By half-past two he was in West Egg, where he asked someone the way to Gatsby\u2019s house. So by that time he knew Gatsby\u2019s name.<\/p>\n
At two o\u2019clock Gatsby put on his bathing-suit and left word with the butler that if anyone phoned word was to be brought to him at the pool. He stopped at the garage for a pneumatic mattress that had amused his guests during the summer, and the chauffeur helped him to pump it up. Then he gave instructions that the open car wasn\u2019t to be taken out under any circumstances\u2014and this was strange, because the front right fender needed repair.<\/p>\n
Gatsby shouldered the mattress and started for the pool. Once he stopped and shifted it a little, and the chauffeur asked him if he needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among the yellowing trees.<\/p>\n
No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep and waited for it until four o\u2019clock\u2014until long after there was anyone to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn\u2019t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about\u2026 like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees.<\/p>\n
The chauffeur\u2014he was one of Wolfshiem\u2019s prot\u00e9g\u00e9s\u2014heard the shots\u2014afterwards he could only say that he hadn\u2019t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby\u2019s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried down to the pool.<\/p>\n
There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water.<\/p>\n
It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson\u2019s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":299,"menu_order":9,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[48],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-25","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry","chapter-type-numberless"],"part":3,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/25","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/299"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/25\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":85,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/25\/revisions\/85"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/3"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/25\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=25"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=25"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=25"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=25"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}