菲茨杰拉德丨了不起的盖茨比丨选段丨无关痛痒的喧嚣

After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression ‘mad man’ as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning.

Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it and cried into her handkerchief as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man ‘deranged by grief’ in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there.

But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak hour upon hour it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which every one has some vague right at the end.

I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them.


事隔两年，我回想起那天其余的时间，那一晚以及第二天，只记得一批又一批的警察、摄影师和新闻记者在盖茨比家的前门口进进出出。外面的大门口有一根绳子拦住，旁边站着一名警察，不让看热闹的人进来，但是小男孩们不久就发现他们可以从我的院子里绕过来，因此总有几个孩子目瞪口呆地挤在游泳池旁边。那天下午，有一个神态自信的人，也许是一名侦探，低头检视威尔逊的尸体时用了“疯子”两个字，而他的语气偶然的权威就为第二天早上所有报纸的报道定了调子。那些报道大多数都是一场噩梦——离奇古怪，捕风捉影，煞有介事，而且不真实。等到米切里斯在验尸时的证词透露了威尔逊对他妻子的猜疑以后，我以为整个故事不久就会被添油加醋在黄色小报上登出来了——不料凯瑟琳，她本可以信口开河的，却什么都不说，并且表示出惊人的魄力——她那描过的眉毛底下的两只坚定的眼睛笔直地看着验尸官，又发誓说她姐姐从来没见过盖茨比，说她姐姐和她丈夫生活在一起非常美满，说她姐姐从来没有什么不端的行为。她说得自己都信以为真了，又用手帕捂着脸痛哭了起来，仿佛连提出这样的疑问都是她受不了的。于是威尔逊就被归结为一个“悲伤过度精神失常”的人，以便这个案子可以保持最简单的情节。案子也就这样了结了。但是事情的这个方面似乎整个都是不痛不痒、无关紧要的。我发现自己是站在盖茨比一边的，而且只有我一人。从我打电话到西卵镇报告惨案那一刻起，每一个关于他的揣测、每一个实际的问题，都提到我这里来。起初我感到又惊讶又迷惑；后来一小时又一小时过去，他还是躺在他的房子里，不动，不呼吸，也不说话，我才渐渐明白我在负责，因为除我以外没有任何人有兴趣——我的意思是说，那种每个人身后多少都有权利得到的强烈的个人兴趣。在我们发现他的尸体半小时之后我就打了电话给黛西，本能地、毫不迟疑地给她打了电话。但是她和汤姆那天下午很早就出门了，还随身带了行李。