About this time an ambitious young reporter from New York arrived one morning at Gatsby\u2019s door and asked him if he had anything to say.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnything to say about what?\u201d inquired Gatsby politely.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy\u2014any statement to give out.\u201d<\/p>\n
It transpired after a confused five minutes that the man had heard Gatsby\u2019s name around his office in a connection which he either wouldn\u2019t reveal or didn\u2019t fully understand. This was his day off and with laudable initiative he had hurried out \u201cto see.\u201d<\/p>\n
It was a random shot, and yet the reporter\u2019s instinct was right. Gatsby\u2019s notoriety, spread about by the hundreds who had accepted his hospitality and so become authorities upon his past, had increased all summer until he fell just short of being news. Contemporary legends such as the \u201cunderground pipeline to Canada\u201d attached themselves to him, and there was one persistent story that he didn\u2019t live in a house at all, but in a boat that looked like a house and was moved secretly up and down the Long Island shore. Just why these inventions were a source of satisfaction to James Gatz of North Dakota, isn\u2019t easy to say.<\/p>\n
James Gatz\u2014that was really, or at least legally, his name. He had changed it at the age of seventeen and at the specific moment that witnessed the beginning of his career\u2014when he saw Dan Cody\u2019s yacht drop anchor over the most insidious flat on Lake Superior. It was James Gatz who had been loafing along the beach that afternoon in a torn green jersey and a pair of canvas pants, but it was already Jay Gatsby who borrowed a rowboat, pulled out to the Tuolomee<\/i>, and informed Cody that a wind might catch him and break him up in half an hour.<\/p>\n
I suppose he\u2019d had the name ready for a long time, even then. His parents were shiftless and unsuccessful farm people\u2014his imagination had never really accepted them as his parents at all. The truth was that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of himself. He was a son of God\u2014a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that\u2014and he must be about His Father\u2019s business, the service of a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty. So he invented just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen-year-old boy would be likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end.<\/p>\n
For over a year he had been beating his way along the south shore of Lake Superior as a clam-digger and a salmon-fisher or in any other capacity that brought him food and bed. His brown, hardening body lived naturally through the half-fierce, half-lazy work of the bracing days. He knew women early, and since they spoiled him he became contemptuous of them, of young virgins because they were ignorant, of the others because they were hysterical about things which in his overwhelming self-absorption he took for granted.<\/p>\n
But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque and fantastic conceits haunted him in his bed at night. A universe of ineffable gaudiness spun itself out in his brain while the clock ticked on the washstand and the moon soaked with wet light his tangled clothes upon the floor. Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace. For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy\u2019s wing.<\/p>\n
An instinct toward his future glory had led him, some months before, to the small Lutheran College of St. Olaf\u2019s in southern Minnesota. He stayed there two weeks, dismayed at its ferocious indifference to the drums of his destiny, to destiny itself, and despising the janitor\u2019s work with which he was to pay his way through. Then he drifted back to Lake Superior, and he was still searching for something to do on the day that Dan Cody\u2019s yacht dropped anchor in the shallows alongshore.<\/p>\n
Cody was fifty years old then, a product of the Nevada silver fields, of the Yukon, of every rush for metal since seventy-five. The transactions in Montana copper that made him many times a millionaire found him physically robust but on the verge of soft-mindedness, and, suspecting this, an infinite number of women tried to separate him from his money. The none too savoury ramifications by which Ella Kaye, the newspaper woman, played Madame de Maintenon to his weakness and sent him to sea in a yacht, were common property of the turgid journalism in 1902. He had been coasting along all too hospitable shores for five years when he turned up as James Gatz\u2019s destiny in Little Girl Bay.<\/p>\n
To young Gatz, resting on his oars and looking up at the railed deck, that yacht represented all the beauty and glamour in the world. I suppose he smiled at Cody\u2014he had probably discovered that people liked him when he smiled. At any rate Cody asked him a few questions (one of them elicited the brand new name) and found that he was quick and extravagantly ambitious. A few days later he took him to Duluth and bought him a blue coat, six pairs of white duck trousers, and a yachting cap. And when the Tuolomee<\/i> left for the West Indies and the Barbary Coast, Gatsby left too.<\/p>\n
He was employed in a vague personal capacity\u2014while he remained with Cody he was in turn steward, mate, skipper, secretary, and even jailor, for Dan Cody sober knew what lavish doings Dan Cody drunk might soon be about, and he provided for such contingencies by reposing more and more trust in Gatsby. The arrangement lasted five years, during which the boat went three times around the Continent. It might have lasted indefinitely except for the fact that Ella Kaye came on board one night in Boston and a week later Dan Cody inhospitably died.<\/p>\n
I remember the portrait of him up in Gatsby\u2019s bedroom, a grey, florid man with a hard, empty face\u2014the pioneer debauchee, who during one phase of American life brought back to the Eastern seaboard the savage violence of the frontier brothel and saloon. It was indirectly due to Cody that Gatsby drank so little. Sometimes in the course of gay parties women used to rub champagne into his hair; for himself he formed the habit of letting liquor alone.<\/p>\n
And it was from Cody that he inherited money\u2014a legacy of twenty-five thousand dollars. He didn\u2019t get it. He never understood the legal device that was used against him, but what remained of the millions went intact to Ella Kaye. He was left with his singularly appropriate education; the vague contour of Jay Gatsby had filled out to the substantiality of a man.<\/p>\n
He told me all this very much later, but I\u2019ve put it down here with the idea of exploding those first wild rumours about his antecedents, which weren\u2019t even faintly true. Moreover he told it to me at a time of confusion, when I had reached the point of believing everything and nothing about him. So I take advantage of this short halt, while Gatsby, so to speak, caught his breath, to clear this set of misconceptions away.<\/p>\n
It was a halt, too, in my association with his affairs. For several weeks I didn\u2019t see him or hear his voice on the phone\u2014mostly I was in New York, trotting around with Jordan and trying to ingratiate myself with her senile aunt\u2014but finally I went over to his house one Sunday afternoon. I hadn\u2019t been there two minutes when somebody brought Tom Buchanan in for a drink. I was startled, naturally, but the really surprising thing was that it hadn\u2019t happened before.<\/p>\n
They were a party of three on horseback\u2014Tom and a man named Sloane and a pretty woman in a brown riding-habit, who had been there previously.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m delighted to see you,\u201d said Gatsby, standing on his porch. \u201cI\u2019m delighted that you dropped in.\u201d<\/p>\n
As though they cared!<\/p>\n
\u201cSit right down. Have a cigarette or a cigar.\u201d He walked around the room quickly, ringing bells. \u201cI\u2019ll have something to drink for you in just a minute.\u201d<\/p>\n
He was profoundly affected by the fact that Tom was there. But he would be uneasy anyhow until he had given them something, realizing in a vague way that that was all they came for. Mr. Sloane wanted nothing. A lemonade? No, thanks. A little champagne? Nothing at all, thanks\u2026 I\u2019m sorry\u2014<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you have a nice ride?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cVery good roads around here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI suppose the automobiles\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n
Moved by an irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned to Tom, who had accepted the introduction as a stranger.<\/p>\n
\u201cI believe we\u2019ve met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, yes,\u201d said Tom, gruffly polite, but obviously not remembering. \u201cSo we did. I remember very well.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAbout two weeks ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s right. You were with Nick here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know your wife,\u201d continued Gatsby, almost aggressively.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat so?\u201d<\/p>\n
Tom turned to me.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou live near here, Nick?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNext door.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat so?\u201d<\/p>\n
Mr. Sloane didn\u2019t enter into the conversation, but lounged back haughtily in his chair; the woman said nothing either\u2014until unexpectedly, after two highballs, she became cordial.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,\u201d she suggested. \u201cWhat do you say?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCertainly; I\u2019d be delighted to have you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBe ver\u2019 nice,\u201d said Mr. Sloane, without gratitude. \u201cWell\u2014think ought to be starting home.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease don\u2019t hurry,\u201d Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself now, and he wanted to see more of Tom. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you\u2014why don\u2019t you stay for supper? I wouldn\u2019t be surprised if some other people dropped in from New York.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou come to supper with me<\/i>,\u201d said the lady enthusiastically. \u201cBoth of you.\u201d<\/p>\n
This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome along,\u201d he said\u2014but to her only.<\/p>\n
\u201cI mean it,\u201d she insisted. \u201cI\u2019d love to have you. Lots of room.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go and he didn\u2019t see that Mr. Sloane had determined he shouldn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m afraid I won\u2019t be able to,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, you come,\u201d she urged, concentrating on Gatsby.<\/p>\n
Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe won\u2019t be late if we start now,\u201d she insisted aloud.<\/p>\n
\u201cI haven\u2019t got a horse,\u201d said Gatsby. \u201cI used to ride in the army, but I\u2019ve never bought a horse. I\u2019ll have to follow you in my car. Excuse me for just a minute.\u201d<\/p>\n
The rest of us walked out on the porch, where Sloane and the lady began an impassioned conversation aside.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy God, I believe the man\u2019s coming,\u201d said Tom. \u201cDoesn\u2019t he know she doesn\u2019t want him?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe says she does want him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe has a big dinner party and he won\u2019t know a soul there.\u201d He frowned. \u201cI wonder where in the devil he met Daisy. By God, I may be old-fashioned in my ideas, but women run around too much these days to suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy fish.\u201d<\/p>\n
Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down the steps and mounted their horses.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome on,\u201d said Mr. Sloane to Tom, \u201cwe\u2019re late. We\u2019ve got to go.\u201d And then to me: \u201cTell him we couldn\u2019t wait, will you?\u201d<\/p>\n
Tom and I shook hands, the rest of us exchanged a cool nod, and they trotted quickly down the drive, disappearing under the August foliage just as Gatsby, with hat and light overcoat in hand, came out the front door.<\/p>\n
Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy\u2019s running around alone, for on the following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby\u2019s party. Perhaps his presence gave the evening its peculiar quality of oppressiveness\u2014it stands out in my memory from Gatsby\u2019s other parties that summer. There were the same people, or at least the same sort of people, the same profusion of champagne, the same many-coloured, many-keyed commotion, but I felt an unpleasantness in the air, a pervading harshness that hadn\u2019t been there before. Or perhaps I had merely grown used to it, grown to accept West Egg as a world complete in itself, with its own standards and its own great figures, second to nothing because it had no consciousness of being so, and now I was looking at it again, through Daisy\u2019s eyes. It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment.<\/p>\n
They arrived at twilight, and, as we strolled out among the sparkling hundreds, Daisy\u2019s voice was playing murmurous tricks in her throat.<\/p>\n
\u201cThese things excite me so<\/i>,\u201d she whispered. \u201cIf you want to kiss me any time during the evening, Nick, just let me know and I\u2019ll be glad to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a green card. I\u2019m giving out green\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLook around,\u201d suggested Gatsby.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m looking around. I\u2019m having a marvellous\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou must see the faces of many people you\u2019ve heard about.\u201d<\/p>\n
Tom\u2019s arrogant eyes roamed the crowd.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe don\u2019t go around very much,\u201d he said; \u201cin fact, I was just thinking I don\u2019t know a soul here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPerhaps you know that lady.\u201d Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely human orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white-plum tree. Tom and Daisy stared, with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies the recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity of the movies.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s lovely,\u201d said Daisy.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe man bending over her is her director.\u201d<\/p>\n
He took them ceremoniously from group to group:<\/p>\n
\u201cMrs. Buchanan\u2026 and Mr. Buchanan\u2014\u201d After an instant\u2019s hesitation he added: \u201cthe polo player.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh no,\u201d objected Tom quickly, \u201cnot me.\u201d<\/p>\n
But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby for Tom remained \u201cthe polo player\u201d for the rest of the evening.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve never met so many celebrities,\u201d Daisy exclaimed. \u201cI liked that man\u2014what was his name?\u2014with the sort of blue nose.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, I liked him anyhow.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019d a little rather not be the polo player,\u201d said Tom pleasantly, \u201cI\u2019d rather look at all these famous people in\u2014in oblivion.\u201d<\/p>\n
Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot\u2014I 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. \u201cIn case there\u2019s a fire or a flood,\u201d she explained, \u201cor any act of God.\u201d<\/p>\n
Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. \u201cDo you mind if I eat with some people over here?\u201d he said. \u201cA fellow\u2019s getting off some funny stuff.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGo ahead,\u201d answered Daisy genially, \u201cand if you want to take down any addresses here\u2019s my little gold pencil.\u201d\u2026 She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was \u201ccommon but pretty,\u201d and I knew that except for the half-hour she\u2019d been alone with Gatsby she wasn\u2019t having a good time.<\/p>\n
We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault\u2014Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I\u2019d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow do you feel, Miss Baedeker?\u201d<\/p>\n
The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cWha\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n
A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker\u2019s defence:<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, she\u2019s all right now. When she\u2019s had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI do leave it alone,\u201d affirmed the accused hollowly.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: \u2018There\u2019s somebody that needs your help, Doc.\u2019\u200a\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s much obliged, I\u2019m sure,\u201d said another friend, without gratitude, \u201cbut you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,\u201d mumbled Miss Baedeker. \u201cThey almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen you ought to leave it alone,\u201d countered Doctor Civet.<\/p>\n
\u201cSpeak for yourself!\u201d cried Miss Baedeker violently. \u201cYour hand shakes. I wouldn\u2019t let you operate on me!\u201d<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u201cI like her,\u201d said Daisy, \u201cI think she\u2019s lovely.\u201d<\/p>\n
But the rest offended her\u2014and inarguably because it wasn\u2019t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented \u201cplace\u201d that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village\u2014appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho is this Gatsby anyhow?\u201d demanded Tom suddenly. \u201cSome big bootlegger?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere\u2019d you hear that?\u201d I inquired.<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot Gatsby,\u201d I said shortly.<\/p>\n
He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.\u201d<\/p>\n
A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy\u2019s fur collar.<\/p>\n
\u201cAt least they are more interesting than the people we know,\u201d she said with an effort.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou didn\u2019t look so interested.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, I was.\u201d<\/p>\n
Tom laughed and turned to me.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you notice Daisy\u2019s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?\u201d<\/p>\n
Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air.<\/p>\n
\u201cLots of people come who haven\u2019t been invited,\u201d she said suddenly. \u201cThat girl hadn\u2019t been invited. They simply force their way in and he\u2019s too polite to object.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019d like to know who he is and what he does,\u201d insisted Tom. \u201cAnd I think I\u2019ll make a point of finding out.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI can tell you right now,\u201d she answered. \u201cHe owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.\u201d<\/p>\n
The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood night, Nick,\u201d said Daisy.<\/p>\n
Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where \u201cThree O\u2019Clock in the Morning,\u201d a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby\u2019s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion.<\/p>\n
I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe didn\u2019t like it,\u201d he said immediately.<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course she did.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe didn\u2019t like it,\u201d he insisted. \u201cShe didn\u2019t have a good time.\u201d<\/p>\n
He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression.<\/p>\n
\u201cI feel far away from her,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s hard to make her understand.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou mean about the dance?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe dance?\u201d He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. \u201cOld sport, the dance is unimportant.\u201d<\/p>\n
He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: \u201cI never loved you.\u201d After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house\u2014just as if it were five years ago.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd she doesn\u2019t understand,\u201d he said. \u201cShe used to be able to understand. We\u2019d sit for hours\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers.<\/p>\n
\u201cI wouldn\u2019t ask too much of her,\u201d I ventured. \u201cYou can\u2019t repeat the past.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCan\u2019t repeat the past?\u201d he cried incredulously. \u201cWhy of course you can!\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m going to fix everything just the way it was before,\u201d he said, nodding determinedly. \u201cShe\u2019ll see.\u201d<\/p>\n
He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was\u2026<\/p>\n
\u2026 One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees\u2014he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.<\/p>\n
His heart beat faster as Daisy\u2019s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips\u2019 touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.<\/p>\n
Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something\u2014an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man\u2019s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":299,"menu_order":7,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[48],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-41","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\/41","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":2,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/41\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":83,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/41\/revisions\/83"}],"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\/41\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=41"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=41"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=41"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thegreatgatsby\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=41"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}