The Great Gatsby - Chapter Five | Full Audiobook - Chapter by Chapter

Welcome back to chapter by chapter, the audiobook experience. We're continuing The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald. If this is your first time here, start from the beginning of this season and follow Nick Carraway's story from the very start. And if you've been with us since Chapter 4, welcome back. Follow the show so you never miss a chapter and drop a comment with the classic you want us to read next. Now sit back and let's continue the story. Chapter 5. When I returned to West Egg that night, for a moment I feared my house was on fire.

It was 2:00, and the entire corner of the peninsula was ablaze with light, casting an unreal glow on the shrubbery and creating thin, elongated reflections on the roadside wires. As I turned a corner, I realized it was Gatsby's house, illuminated from tower to cellar. At first I thought it was another party, a wild gathering that had turned into a game of hide and seek or sardines in the box with the entire house open to the fun. But there wasn't a sound, only the wind in the trees, which swayed the wires and made the lights flicker on and off, as if the house had winked into the darkness.

As my taxi groaned away, I saw Gatsby walking toward me across his lawn. Your place looks like the World's Fair, I remarked. Does it? He glanced at it absent mindedly. I've been peeking into some of the rooms. Let's head to Coney Island, old sport. We can take my car, It's too late. Well, how about a dip in the pool? I haven't used it all summer. I need to get to bed, all right. He paused, watching me with a restrained eagerness. I spoke with Miss Baker. I'm planning to call Daisy tomorrow and invite her over for tea.

Oh, that's fine, he replied nonchalantly. I don't want to inconvenience you. What day works for you? What day works for you? He quickly corrected me. I don't want to inconvenience you, you see. How about the day after tomorrow? He thought for a moment, then somewhat reluctantly. I need to get the grass cut, he said. We both gazed down at the grass. A distinct line marked where my unkempt lawn ended and his darker, meticulously maintained stretch began. I had a feeling he was referring to my grass.

There's something else, he said, hesitantly, pausing. Would you prefer to discuss it in a few days? I suggested. Oh, it's not about that, at least. He stumbled over a series of false starts. Well, I thought, listen, old sport, you don't earn much, do you? Not really. This seemed to put him at ease, and he continued with more assurance. I figured you didn't. If you'll excuse my See, I run a little business on the side, a kind of side venture, you know? And I thought that since you don't make much, you're in the Bond business, right?

Old sport, trying to be. Well, this might interest you. It wouldn't take up much of your time, and you could make a nice sum. It's a rather confidential matter. Looking back, I realized that under different circumstances, that conversation could have been a pivotal moment in my life. But since the offer was clearly and awkwardly for a service to be provided, I had no choice but to cut him off there. I'm really swamped. I appreciate the offer, but I can't take on anymore work. You wouldn't have to deal with Wolfsheim.

He seemed to think I was avoiding the connection mentioned at lunch, but I assured him that wasn't the case. He lingered a moment, hoping I'd start a conversation, but I was too preoccupied to engage, so he reluctantly headed home. The evening had left me feeling giddy and content. I think I drifted into a deep sleep as soon as I stepped through my front door, so I have no idea whether Gatsby went to Coney Island or how long he wandered through rooms while his house shone brightly. The next morning, I called Daisy from the office and invited her over for tea.

Don't bring Tom, I cautioned her. What? Don't bring Tom. Who is Tom? She asked, feigning innocence. The day we planned was drenched in rain. At 11:00, a man in a raincoat pulling a lawn mower knocked on my door and said Mr. Gatsby had sent him to cut my grass. This reminded me that I had neglected to tell my Finn to return, so I drove into West Egg Village, navigating through damp, whitewashed alleys to find her and to pick up some cups, lemons and flowers. The flowers turned out to be unnecessary, as at 2:00, a delivery from Gatsby's greenhouse arrived, overflowing with countless arrangements.

An hour later, the front door opened with a nervous creak, and Gatsby entered hurriedly, dressed in a white flannel suit, a silver shirt, and a gold colored tie. His face was pale, with dark circles under his eyes, betraying a lack of sleep. Is everything all right? He asked immediately. The grass looks fine, if that's what you're asking. What grass? He asked, confused. Oh, the grass in the yard. He glanced out the window, but from his expression I doubted he saw anything at all. Looks very good, he commented absently.

One of the papers mentioned they thought the rain would stop around 4. I think it was the journal. Do you have everything you need for the tea? I let him into the pantry, where he cast a slightly reproachful glance at the fin. Together we examined the dozen lemon cakes from the delicatessen. Will these work? I asked. Absolutely, absolutely. They're perfect, he replied, adding a hollow old sport. By 3:30, the rain had eased into a damp mist, with occasional thin drops drifting like dew. Gatsby stared vacantly at a copy of Clay's Economics, his attention divided between the finished footsteps shaking the kitchen floor and the blurred windows, as if unseen but unsettling events were unfolding outside.

Eventually he stood and in a wavering voice announced he was heading home. Why is that? No ones coming for tea. It's too late. He glanced at his watch as though there was an urgent call on his time elsewhere. I can't wait around all day. Don't be ridiculous, it's just two minutes to four. He sank back into his seat miserably, as if I had physically pushed him down, and at that moment the sound of a car turning into my lane reached us. We both. Sprang up and. Feeling a bit anxious myself, I stepped out into the yard under the dripping bare lilac trees.

A large open car rolled up the drive and came to a halt. Daisy's face emerged tilted beneath A3 cornered lavender hat. Her smile and ecstatic as she looked at me. Is this truly where you live, my dearest? Her voice was a wild, invigorating tonic in the rain, and I found myself following its melody up and down with my ear before her words fully registered. A damp strand of hair lay like a stroke of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I helped her out of the car.

Are you in love with me? She whispered close to my ear. Or why else did I have to come alone? That's the secret of Castle Rack Rent. Tell your chauffeur to disappear for an hour. Come back in an hour. Ferdie. Then with a serious murmur. His name is Ferdie. Does the gasoline bother his nose? I don't think so, she replied innocently. Why? We went inside. To my utter surprise, the living room was empty. Well, that's amusing, I said with a hint of surprise. What is? She turned her head just as a polite, measured knock sounded at the front door.

I went to open it. There stood Gatsby, as pale as a ghost, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets like anchors, staring at me with a tragic intensity. Without removing his hands from his pockets, he brushed past me into the hallway, pivoted sharply as if on a tightrope, and vanished into the living room. It was anything but amusing. My heart pounded loudly in my chest as I closed the door against the relentless rain. For a moment, silence reigned. Then from the living room came a sort of choked murmur and a half formed laugh, followed by Daisy's voice, bright and unnaturally clear.

I truly am delighted to see you again. A pause followed, stretching unbearably. With nothing to occupy me in the hall, I entered the room. Gatsby, hands still pocketed, leaned against the mantelpiece in a tense imitation of nonchalance, even indifference. His head was tilted so far back it rested against the face of an old Mantel clock, and from this awkward position his troubled eyes fixed on Daisy, who sat both frightened and poised on the edge of a rigid chair. We've met before. Gatsby muttered.

His eyes flicked briefly to me and his lips parted in a futile attempt at laughter. Fortunately, the clock chose that moment to lean precariously under the weight of his head. He turned quickly, catching it with shaky fingers, and carefully set it back in its place. Then he sat down stiffly, his elbow resting on the sofa's arm, his chin propped in his hand. I'm sorry about the clock, he said. My face had turned a deep shade of red, and I couldn't summon a single ordinary phrase from the countless ones swirling in my mind.

It's an old clock, I said, sounding foolish for a brief moment. We all seem to believe it had shattered on the floor. We haven't seen each other for many years, Daisy said, her voice as straightforward as ever. Five years this coming November. Gatsby's automatic response pushed us all back into an awkward silence. I hurriedly suggested they join me in the kitchen to make tea just as the demonic fin appeared with a tray. In the welcome chaos of cups and cakes, a certain physical decency took hold.

Gatsby retreated into the shadows, watching Daisy and me with tense, unhappy eyes as we talked. But since calmness wasn't the goal, I seized the first opportunity to make an excuse and stood up. Where are you headed? Gatsby asked, his voice tinged with immediate concern. I'll be back soon. I need to talk to you before you leave. He trailed me anxiously into the kitchen, shut the door, and whispered Oh God, with a deep sense of despair. What's wrong? This is a huge mistake, he said, shaking his head repeatedly.

A huge, huge mistake. You're just feeling awkward, that's all, I reassured him, adding Daisy feels awkward too. She's embarrassed. He echoed, disbelief in his voice. Just as much as you are. Keep your voice down. You're. Behaving like a child, I snapped, losing patience. And you're being rude, Daisy, sitting in there all by herself. He lifted his hand to silence me, his eyes filled with unforgettable reproach, and cautiously opened the door to return to the other room. I exited through the back, just as Gatsby had done during his nervous pacing half an hour earlier, and dashed toward a massive black tree, it's dense leaves forming A canopy against the rain.

The downpour continued and my uneven lawn, meticulously trimmed by Gatsby's gardener, was dotted with small muddy patches and ancient marshes. There was nothing to see from beneath the tree except Gatsby's vast house, so I stared at it, much like Can't contemplating his church steeple for a full half hour. A Brewer had constructed it during the height of the period craze about 10 years prior, and there was a tale that he promised to cover five years worth of taxes for all the nearby cottages if the owners agreed to have their roofs thatched with straw.

Perhaps their refusal drained the enthusiasm from his ambition to establish a family legacy. He quickly fell into decline. His children sold the house with the black mourning wreath still hanging on the door. Americans, though willing, even eager to embrace a servile role, have always resisted being reduced to mere peasants. After half an hour the sun reemerged and the grocer's car pulled up, Gatsby's Dr. delivering the ingredients for his servants dinner. I was sure he wouldn't touch a bite. A maid began opening the upper windows of his house, appearing briefly in each one, and from the large central Bay she leaned out and spat thoughtfully into the garden.

It was time for me to return while the rain persisted. It had seemed like the murmur of their voices, occasionally rising and swelling with bursts of emotion, but in the newfound silence I sensed that quiet had settled inside the house as well. I entered after making every conceivable noise in the kitchen, stopping short of toppling the stove, but I doubt they heard a thing. They sat at opposite ends of the couch, gazing at each other as if a question had been posed or lingered in the air, with all traces of awkwardness vanished.

Daisy's face was streaked with tears, and when I walked in, she sprang up and began dabbing at it with her handkerchief in front of a mirror. But there was something about Gatsby that was utterly bewildering. He seemed to radiate light without uttering a word or making any triumphant gesture. A new found vitality emanated from him, filling the small room with its presence. Oh, hello, old sport. He greeted me as though we hadn't crossed paths in years. For a moment I thought he might reach out to shake my hand.

The rain stopped. Has it? When he grasped what I meant, noticing the playful glimmers of sunlight now dancing in the room, he smiled with the satisfaction of a weatherman, like a delighted admirer of the returning sun. And. Shared the news. With Daisy. What do you think of that? The rain stopped. I'm glad, Jay. Her voice. Rich, with a poignant, sorrowful beauty, conveyed only her unexpected happiness. I want you and Daisy to come over to my house. I'd like. To show her around. You're sure you want me to come?

Absolutely Old sport. Daisy went. Upstairs to freshen up Too late, I realized with embarrassment, thinking of my towels while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn. My house looks good, doesn't it? Look at how the entire facade catches the light. I agreed. It was magnificent, yes. His gaze swept over every arch and tower. It took me just three years to earn the money. To buy it. I thought you inherited your wealth. I did, old sport. But I lost most of it during the big panic, the war panic. He doubtless wasn't fully aware of his words, for when I asked about his line of work, he said that's my business, before realizing it wasn't the right response.

Oh, I've been involved in various ventures, he corrected himself. I was in pharmaceuticals, then oil, but I'm no longer in either. He looked at me more intently. Have you been considering what I suggested the other night? Before I could respond, Daisy emerged from the house, the brass buttons on her dress shining in the sunlight. That enormous place, she exclaimed, pointing. Do you like it? I love it, but I can't imagine how you live there all by yourself. I always fill it with fascinating people day and night, people who do remarkable things.

Famous people. Instead of taking the shortcut along the sound, we went down to the road and entered through the grand side gate. With delightful murmurs. Daisy admired this or that feature of the castle like silhouette against the sky, praised the gardens, the sparkling scent of Junkwills, the frothy fragrance of Hawthorne and plum blossoms, and the pale gold aroma of Kiss Me at the Gate. It was odd to reach the marble steps and find no flurry of bright dresses moving in and out of the door and hear nothing but the voices of birds in the trees inside.

As we wandered through rooms styled after Marie Antoinette and Restoration salons, I felt as though guests were hidden behind every couch and table, instructed to remain breathlessly silent until we had passed. As Gatsby closed the door of the Merton College library, I could have sworn I heard the Allied man burst into ghostly laughter. We went upstairs through period bedrooms draped in rose and lavender silk and vibrant with fresh flowers, through dressing rooms, pool rooms and bathrooms with sunken baths intruding into one room where a disheveled man in pajamas was doing liver exercises on the floor.

It was Mr. Clipspringer, the border. I had seen him wandering hungrily along the beach that morning. Finally we reached Gatsby's own apt, a bedroom and a bath and an Adam's study, where we sat down and drank a glass of chartreuse he retrieved from a cupboard in the wall. He hadn't stopped gazing at Daisy, and I believe he reassessed everything in his home based on the reaction it elicited from her cherished eyes. At times, he looked around at his belongings with a bewildered expression, as if in her astonishing presence.

None of it felt real anymore. Once, he almost stumbled down a flight of stairs. His bedroom was the simplest of all the rooms except for the dresser, adorned with a set of toiletries made from pure, muted gold. Daisy picked up the brush with delight and smoothed her hair, prompting Gatsby to sit down, cover his eyes and start laughing. It's the funniest thing, old sport. He said with a burst of laughter. I can't when I try to. He had visibly transitioned through two emotional States and was entering 1/3.

After his initial embarrassment and irrational joy, he was now filled with awe at her presence. He had been consumed by the idea for so long, dreaming it through to the very end, waiting with a kind of fierce intensity. Now, in the aftermath, he was unwinding like an over wound clock, regaining his composure in a moment. He opened two large patent cabinets for us, revealing his collection of suits, dressing gowns and ties with shirts stacked like bricks a dozen high. I've got a man in England who buys my clothes.

He sends over a selection at the start of each season, spring and fall. He pulled out a stack of shirts and began tossing them before US1 by one. Shirts of delicate linen, luxurious silk, and fine flannel. As they fell, they lost their creases and spread across the table in a vibrant, chaotic array. While we admired them, he continued to bring more, and the soft, opulent pile grew higher. Shirts adorned with stripes, scrolls, and plaids, and shades of coral, apple green, lavender, and pale orange, each marked with monograms in deep indigo.

Suddenly, Daisy buried her face in the shirts and began to cry uncontrollably. There's such beautiful shirts, She sobbed, her voice muffled by the thick fabric. It makes me sad because I've never seen such such beautiful shirts before. After the house, we were supposed to explore the grounds, the swimming pool, the hydroplane and the Midsummer flowers. But outside Gatsby's window, the rain started again. So we stood in a line, gazing at the rippled surface of the sound. If it weren't for the mist, we could see your home across the Bay.

You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock. Suddenly, Daisy linked her arm with his, but he seemed lost in his own words. Perhaps, he realized, the immense significance of that light had now disappeared forever. Compared to the vast distance that had once separated him from Daisy, it had seemed so close to her, almost within reach. It had once seemed as close. As a *. To the moon. Now it was just a green light on a dock again. His collection of magical objects had dwindled by 1.

I began to wander around the room, inspecting various indistinct items in the dim light. A large photograph. Of an elderly man in a yachting outfit caught my attention hanging on the wall above his desk. Who's this, that that's? Mr. Dan Cody, Old. Sport the name Reyna Faint. Bell. He's. Passed away now. He was my. Closest friend years ago. There was a small. Picture of Gatsby, also in a yachting outfit on the Bureau. Gatsby with his head thrown. Back defiantly, apparently taken when he was about 18.

I love it, Daisy exclaimed. The pompadour. You never told me you had a pompadour or a. Yacht, look at this, Gatsby said quickly. Here's a bunch of. Clippings about you. They stood side by side, examining it. I was. About to ask to. See the rubies. When the phone rang and Gatsby. Picked up the receiver. Yes, well, I can't talk right now. I can't talk now, my friend. I mentioned a small town. Surely he knows what a small town is. Well, he's no help to us if he thinks Detroit qualifies as one. He hung up the phone.

Come here quickly. Daisy called from the window. The rain continued to fall, but the darkness had broken in the West, revealing a pink and golden. Swirl of clouds. Above the sea. Look at that, she whispered. And after a pause added, I'd love to take one of those pink clouds, put you in it and push you around. I attempted to leave then, but they wouldn't allow it. Perhaps my presence made them feel more contentedly alone. I know what we'll do. We'll have clips. Bringer play the piano. He left the room calling Ewing and returned shortly with an awkward, slightly disheveled young man wearing shell rimmed glasses and sparse blonde hair.

He was now dressed respectably in a sports shirt. Open. At the neck. Sneakers and duck trousers of an indeterminate color. Did we interrupt your workout? Daisy asked politely. I was asleep. Mr. Clipspringer exclaimed, caught in a wave of embarrassment. I had been asleep, but then I woke up. Clipspringer plays the piano? Gatsby interjected, cutting him off. Isn't that right, Ewing? Old sport. I'm not much of A player. I barely play at all. I'm really out of. We'll head downstairs, Gatsby interrupted again.

He flipped a switch and the Gray windows vanished as the house burst into light. In the music room, Gatsby turned on a single lamp beside the piano. He lit gazy cigarette with a trembling match and settled with her on a couch far across the room, where the only light came from the gleaming floor, reflecting the glow from the hall. After Clipspringer played the Love Nest, he turned on the bench, searching unhappily for Gatsby in the dimness. I'm really out of practice, you know. I told you I couldn't play.

I'm all out of practice. Don't talk so much old sport, Gatsby commanded. Just play in the morning. In the evening. Ain't we got fun? Outside, the wind howled and a faint rumble of Thunder echoed along the sound. Lights were flickering on throughout West Egg. Electric trains carrying men were rushing home through the rain from New York. It was a time of deep human transformation, and excitement was thick in the air. One thing is certain. And nothing is more. Certain the rich keep getting richer, while the poor keep having children.

Meanwhile, in the space between, as I approached to say goodbye, I noticed a look of confusion had returned to Gatsby's face, as if a subtle doubt had crept in about the nature of his current happiness. Almost five years had passed. Surely, even that afternoon, there were moments when Daisy fell short of his dreams, not by any fault of her own, but because of the immense vitality of his illusion. It had surpassed her. Surpassed. Everything he had invested himself with it a fervent creativity, constantly embellishing it with every bright detail that came his way.

No amount of reality or novelty can compete with what a man and can hoard in his ethereal heart. As I observed him, he seemed to adjust himself slightly, visibly. His hand clasped hers, and as she whispered something softly in his ear, he turned to her with a surge of emotion. I believe it was her voice that captivated him most with its shifting, feverish warmth. Because it was beyond the reach of dreams. That voice was an eternal melody. They had forgotten my presence. But Daisy glanced up and extended her hand.

Gatsby no longer recognized me at all. I looked at them once more and they returned, my gaze distantly consumed by an intense vitality. Then I left the room, descended the marble steps into the rain, leaving them there together. And that brings us to the close of Chapter 5 of The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald. Five years of longing and it came down to an awkward afternoon in a living room, a ticking clock nearly falling off a mantelpiece, and a man who couldn't stop shaking. We watched Gatsby fall apart and put himself back together in the span of an hour.

We saw the green light lose its magic the moment it was no longer something to reach for. And we watched Daisy bury her face in a pile of beautiful shirts and weep, not because she was sad, but because after all this time, it was real. But there's a line that stays with you. Gatsby had dreamed of this moment so completely for so long that the real thing could never quite match what he had built in his mind. The dream was always going to be more perfect than the woman. And somewhere in that gap between the dream and the reality, the tragedy of this story is already quietly beginning.

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