The Great Gatsby - Chapter Two | 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 1, welcome back. The story is just getting started. 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 2. Midway between West Egg and New York, the highway abruptly converges, with the railroad running parallel for a short stretch before veering away from a bleak expanse of land.

This is the Valley of Ashes, A surreal landscape where ashes rise like crops into ridges and mounds, forming grotesque gardens where they shape themselves into houses, chimneys, and spiraling smoke, and ultimately, with an extraordinary exertion, into ash Gray figures of men who shuffle dimly and already disintegrating through the dusty air. Occasionally a line of Gray cars creeps along an unseen track, emitting A ghostly Creek before halting, prompting the ash Gray men to swarm with heavy spades, stirring up an impenetrable cloud that conceals their shadowy labor.

Yet above this Gray wasteland and the relentless drift of desolate dust, you eventually notice, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor TJ Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor TJ Eckelberg loom large and blue, their retinas towering a full yard in height. They peer out not from a face, but from a pair of massive yellow spectacles that rest upon an imaginary nose. It seems some eccentric optometrist erected them here to boost his business in Queens, only to later vanish into obscurity or simply abandoned them as he moved on.

Yet these eyes, slightly doled by countless days exposed to the elements, continue to gaze solemnly over the desolate wasteland. This valley of ashes is bordered by a small polluted river and when the drawbridge rises to let barges pass, passengers on the waiting trains are left to contemplate the bleak landscape for up to half an hour. There's always a pause of at least a minute, and it was during one such pause that I first encountered Tom Buchanan's mistress. The fact that Tom had a mistress was common knowledge wherever he went.

His friends were irked by his habit of appearing with her in well known cafes, only to leave her at a table while he wandered around chatting with acquaintances. Although I was intrigued to see her, I had no real wish to meet her. Yet meet her I did. One afternoon I traveled to New York with Tom, and when our train halted by the ash heaps, he sprang up, grabbed my elbow and practically dragged me from the car. We're getting off, he insisted. I want you to meet my girl. I suspect he had indulged quite a bit at lunch, and his insistence on my company was almost aggressive.

He seemed to assume, with a touch of arrogance, that I had nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon. We climbed over a low, whitewashed railroad fence and walked about 100 yards back along the road, all the while under the unyielding gaze of Doctor Eckleburg's eyes. The only structure insight was a small block of yellow brick perched on the edge of the desolate landscape, resembling A compact Main Street that served no one and stood isolated. Of the three shops it housed, one was available for rent, another was an all night diner accessible via a path of ashes, and the third was a garage repairs.

George B Wilson cars bought and sold and I trailed Tom inside. The interior was bleak and uninviting. The only vehicle insight was a dust covered wreck of a Ford huddled in a dim corner. I briefly entertained the notion that this unimpressive garage might be a front concealing luxurious and romantic apartments above when the owner appeared in the doorway of a small office wiping his hands on a rag. He was a blonde, lifeless man, pale and somewhat handsome in a whan way. Upon seeing us, a faint spark of hope flickered in his light blue eyes.

Hello, Wilson, old man. Tom greeted him, giving him a hearty slap on the shoulder. How's business? Tom asked. Wilson replied. I can't complain, though his tone suggested otherwise. When are you going to sell me that car? Next week. I've got my guy working on it now. Seems like he's taking his time, doesn't he? Tom's voice turned cold. No, he's not, and if that's how you feel, maybe I should sell it to someone else. Wilson quickly backtracked. I didn't mean it like that, I just meant. His words trailed off as Tom impatiently surveyed the garage.

Footsteps echoed from the stairs, and soon a woman filled the doorway, blocking the light. She was in her mid 30s, slightly plump, yet she carried herself with a sensual confidence that some women possess. Her face above a dark blow crepe de chine dress lacked traditional beauty, but she exuded A palpable vitality, as if her very nerves were alive with a slow burn. She smiled languidly and without turning, addressed her husband in a voice that was soft and rough. Why don't you get some chairs so people can sit down?

Oh, sure. Wilson agreed hastily, disappearing into the small office blending with the cement colored walls. A fine layer of ash and dust covered his dark suit and pale hair, as did everything except his wife, who moved closer to Tom. I want to see you. Tom said with intensity. Catch the next train. OK, I'll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level. She nodded and moved away just as George Wilson appeared, carrying two chairs from his office. We waited for her down the road, hidden from view.

It was a few days before the 4th of July and a thin, scrappy Italian child was lining up firecrackers along the railroad track. Terrible place, isn't it? Tom said, sharing a grimace with Doctor Eckleburg. Awful. It's good for her to get away. Doesn't her husband mind Wilson? He thinks she's visiting her sister in New York. He's so clueless he doesn't even know he's alive. So Tom Buchanan, his girl, and I headed to New York together. Or not quite together. Since Missus Wilson sat discreetly in another car, Tom respected the sensibilities of any E Eggers who might be on the train.

She had changed into a brown patterned muslin dress, which clung tightly over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her onto the platform. In New York. At the newsstand, she picked up a copy of Town Tattle and a movie magazine, and at the Station drugstore she bought some cold cream and a small bottle of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn, echoing Dr. she let 4 taxis pass before choosing a new one, lavender with Gray upholstery, and in this we slipped out from the station's throng into the bright sunshine.

But then she abruptly turned away from the window, leaned forward and tapped on the front glass with intent. I want to get one of those dogs, she said with genuine enthusiasm. I want one for the apartment. It's nice to have a dog around. We reversed towards an elderly man who bore A striking resemblance to John D Rockefeller. Hanging from his neck was a basket filled with a dozen very young puppies of uncertain lineage. What kind are they, Missus? Wilson asked eagerly as he approached the taxi window.

All sorts. What kind are you looking for, ma'am? I'd like to get a police dog. You don't happen to have one of those, do you? The man squinted into the basket, reached in, and pulled out a squirming puppy by the scruff of its neck. That's not a police dog, Tom remarked. No, it's not exactly a police dog, the man admitted, his voice tinged with disappointment. It's more of an Airedale. He ran his hand over the puppy's soft brown fur. Look at that coat. That's quite the coat on that dog. You'll never have to worry about it catching a cold.

I think it's adorable. Missus Wilson exclaimed with enthusiasm. How much does it cost that dog? He admired it. It'll be $10. The Airedale, though clearly mixed with its surprisingly white paws, was transferred to Missus Wilson, who cradled it in her lap, delighting in its sturdy, weatherproof coat. Is it a boy or a girl? She asked with a touch of delicacy. That dog, It's a boy. It's a girl, Tom asserted firmly. Here's your money, go buy 10 more dogs with it. We drove over to 5th Ave. which felt warm and gentle, almost pastoral on that summer Sunday afternoon.

I have expected a flock of white sheep to round the corner. Hold on, I said. I need to leave you here. No, you don't, Tom interjected quickly. Myrtle will be upset if you don't come up to the apartment, won't you, Myrtle? Come on, she insisted. I'll call my sister Catherine. People who know say she's very beautiful. Well, I'd like to. But we continued looping back through the park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th St. the cab halted in front of a segment of a long white row of apartment buildings with a regal air.

Missus Wilson gathered her dog and her other purchases, casting a queenly glance around the neighborhood before entering with an air of haughty ownership. I'm going to have the Mckees come up, she declared as we ascended in the elevator. And of course, I need to call my sister, too. The apartment occupied the top floor, a compact living room, dining room, bed and bath. The living room was crammed with a set of tapestry furniture far too large for the space, making it impossible to move without tripping over scenes of ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles.

The soul artwork was an over enlarged photograph that at first glance appeared to be a hen perched on a blurred rock. From a distance, however, the hen transformed into a bonnet and the face of a stout old lady smiled down into the room. Several old issues of Town Tattle were scattered on the table alongside a copy of Simon Called Peter and some small scandal magazines from Broadway. Misses Wilson's first concern was the dog. A reluctant elevator attendant fetched a box filled with straw and some milk, adding on his own initiative a tin of large hard dog biscuits, one of which languidly dissolved in the saucer of milk throughout the afternoon.

Meanwhile, Tom retrieved a bottle of whiskey from a locked Bureau drawer. I've only been drunk twice in my life, and the second time was that afternoon, so everything that happened is shrouded in a dim, hazy fog, even though the apartment was bathed in cheerful sunlight until after 8:00. Perched on Tom's lap, Mrs. Wilson made several phone calls. Then, finding ourselves without cigarettes, I went out to buy some of the corner drugstore. When I returned, they had both vanished, so I discreetly settled into the living room and attempted to read a chapter of Simon Called Peter.

Either it was dreadful writing or the whiskey muddled my exception because it made no sense to me. Just as Tom and Myrtle after the first drink, Misses Wilson and I were on first name basis, reappeared, guests began to arrive at the apartment door. Catherine, the sister, was a slender, worldly woman around 30, with a solid, sticky Bob of red hair and a complexion powdered to a Milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and redrawn at a more daring angle, yet nature's attempts to restore their original alignment lent her face a blurred quality.

As she moved, there was a constant clicking from the numerous pottery bracelets jangling up and down her arms. She entered with such proprietary urgency, surveying the furniture with such possessiveness, that I wondered if she lived there. When I asked her, she burst into laughter almost uncontrollably, echoed my question with amusement, and mentioned she was staying at a hotel with a female friend. Mr. McKee, a pale, somewhat effeminate man from the apartment below, had just shaved, evidenced by a lingering spot of shaving cream on his cheekbone.

He greeted everyone in the room with utmost respect. He mentioned he was in the artistic game, and I later understood he was a photographer responsible for the dim enlargement of Mrs. Wilson's mother that loomed like a ghostly presence on the wall. His wife was a striking yet unsettling figure, both shrill and languid. She boasted that her husband had taken her photograph 127 times since their marriage. Mrs. Wilson had changed outfits earlier and was now wearing an elaborate cream colored chiffon afternoon dress which rustled continuously as she moved around the room.

The dress seemed to transform her personality. The vibrant energy she had displayed at the garage morphed into a commanding arrogance. Her laughter, gestures and declarations grew increasingly exaggerated with each passing moment, and as she asserted herself, the room seemed to shrink around her, making her seem as if she were spinning on a noisy, creaking axis through the smoky air. My dear to her sister in a high affected voice. Most of these guys will cheat you every time. All they care about is money.

I had a woman come by last week to check on my feet, and when she handed me the bill, you'd think she'd performed surgery on me. What was her name? Missus McKee inquired. Missus Eberhardt. She visits people at home to examine their feet. I love your dress, Missus McKee commented. It's absolutely charming. Missus Wilson dismissed the compliment with a disdainful lift of her eyebrow. Oh, it's just an old thing, she replied. I throw it on when I don't care how I look, but it really suits you, if you know what I mean, Missus McKee insisted.

If Chester could capture you in that pose, I think he could create something special. We all turned our attention to Missus Wilson, who brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and flashed us a dazzling smile. Mr. McKee studied her closely, tilting his head to one side, then slowly waved his hand in front of his face. I should adjust the lighting. He said after a pause. I'd like to really capture the contours of the face, and I'd make sure to gather all the hair at the back. I wouldn't dream of changing the lighting.

Exclaimed Mrs. McKee. I think it's just her husband interrupted with A and we all turned our attention back to the subject. At that moment, Tom Buchanan yawned loudly and stood up. You Mckees should have something to drink, he suggested. Myrtle, get some more ice in mineral water before everyone falls asleep. I already told that boy about the ice, Myrtle said, raising her eyebrows and exasperation at the unreliability of the lower classes. These people, you have to constantly supervise them. She glanced at me and laughed without reason, then dramatically moved over to the dog, kissed it with delight, and swept into the kitchen as if a team of chefs awaited her commands.

I've done some impressive work out on Long Island. Mr. McKee declared. Tom looked at him with a blank expression. We have two of them framed downstairs. Two what? Tom asked sharply. 2 paintings. One I call Montauk Point the Gulls, and the other Montauk Point the Sea. Catherine, the sister, settled beside me on the couch. Do you live on Long Island too? She asked. I live in West Egg. Really. I was at a party there about a month ago at a man named Gatsby's. Do you know him? I live next door to him.

Well, they say he's a nephew or cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm. That's where all his money comes from. Really. She nodded. I'm a bit afraid of him. I'd hate for him to have anything on me. Our conversation about my neighbor was cut short when Mrs. Mckees suddenly pointed at Catherine Chester. I think you could do something with her. She exclaimed, but Mr. McKee merely nodded with disinterest and turned his focus to Tom. I'd like to do more work on Long Island if I could get an opportunity. All I need is a start.

Ask Myrtle. Tom said, breaking into a sudden burst of laughter as Mrs. Wilson came in with a tray. You'll write him a letter of introduction, won't you, Myrtle? Do what? She asked, caught off guard. You'll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband so he can do some sketches of him. His lips moved silently for a moment as he concocted George B Wilson at the gas pump. Or something like that. Catherine leaned close and whispered to me. Neither of them can stand their spouses. Really can't stand them?

She glanced at Myrtle, then at Tom. I mean, why stay with them if they can't stand each other? If I were them, I'd get a divorce and marry each other right away. Doesn't she like Wilson either? The response was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it was harsh and vulgar, you see? Catherine exclaimed triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. It's really his wife that's keeping them apart. She's Catholic, and they don't believe in divorce. Daisy wasn't Catholic, and I was taken aback by the complexity of the lie.

When they do get married, Catherine continued. They're heading West to live for a while until things settle down. It would be more discreet to go to Europe. Oh, do you like Europe? She exclaimed unexpectedly. I just got back from Monte Carlo, Really. Just last year I went over there with another girl. Stay long. No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We traveled through Marseille. We had over $1200 when we started, but we got swindled out of it all in two days. In the private rooms. We had a terrible time getting back, I can tell you.

God, how I hated that town. The late afternoon sky blossomed in the window for a moment, like the blue honey of the Mediterranean. Then Mrs. Mckee's sharp voice pulled me back into the room. I almost made a mistake, too, she declared with vigor. I almost married a guy who'd been chasing me for years. I knew he wasn't on my level. Everyone kept telling me, Lucille, he's beneath you. But if I hadn't met Chester, he would have gotten me for sure. But yeah, but listen, said Myrtle Wilson, nodding emphatically.

At least you didn't marry him. I know I didn't. Well, I did, Myrtle said with a hint of irony. And that's the difference between your situation and mine. Why did you, Myrtle? Catherine asked. No one made you do it. Myrtle paused to think. I married him because I thought he was a gentleman, she finally said. I thought he had some class, but he wasn't worth the dirt on my shoes. You were crazy about him for a while, Katherine remarked. Crazy about him? Myrtle exclaimed incredulously. Who said I was crazy about him?

I was never any more crazy about him than I am about that man there. She suddenly pointed at me and everyone turned to look at me accusingly. I tried to convey through my expression that I wasn't expecting any affection. The only time I was truly out of my mind was when I married him. I realized immediately it was a mistake. He borrowed someone else's best suit for the wedding and never mentioned it to me. One day the owner came to collect it while he was out. Oh, is that your suit? I asked. This is the first I've heard of it, but I handed it over and then lay down and cried my heart out all afternoon.

She really should leave him. Catherine continued speaking to me. They've been living above that garage for 11 years, and Tom's the first real romance she's ever had. The bottle of whiskey, a second one, was now in constant demand by everyone except Catherine, who claimed she felt just as good without it. Tom called for the janitor and sent him to fetch some renowned sandwiches, which were practically a meal in their own. I wanted to escape and walk eastward toward the park through the gentle twilight, but each time I tried to leave I got caught up in some wild, loud argument that seemed to pull me back into my chair as if bound by ropes.

Yet high above the city, our row of yellow lit windows must have added their own layer of human mystery to the casual observer in the darkening streets below, and I imagined him looking up, wondering. I was both inside and outside, simultaneously captivated and repelled by life'll endless variety. Myrtle moved her chair closer to mine and suddenly her warm breath enveloped me as she began to recount the story of her first meeting with Tom. It was on those two little seats facing each other, the ones always left until last on the train.

I was heading up to New York to visit my sister and stay the night. He was dressed in a tuxedo with shiny patent leather shoes, and I couldn't take my eyes off him, but every time he glanced my way, I had to pretend I was interested in the advertisement above his head. As we pulled into the station, he stood right beside me, his crisp white shirt brushing against my arm. I jokingly said I'd call a policeman, but he saw through my bluff. I was so caught up in the moment that when I climbed into a taxi with him it I felt like I was stepping onto a subway train.

The only thought echoing in my mind was you can't live forever. You can't live forever. She turned to Missus McKee, her laughter filling the room with a hollow, practiced sound. My dear, I'm going to give you this dress as soon as I'm done with it. I need to get a new one tomorrow. I'm going to make a list of everything I need. A massage, a hair wave, a collar for the dog, one of those adorable ashtrays with the spring mechanism, and a teeth with a black silk bow for my mother's grave that will last all summer.

I have to write it all down so I don't forget everything I need to do. It was 9:00. Almost immediately after, I checked my watch and realized it was 10:00. Mr. McKee was slumped in a chair, fists clenched in his lap, resembling a photograph of a man poised for action. I took out my handkerchief and wiped away the dried lather from his cheek that had bothered me all afternoon. A small dog sat on the table, staring blankly through the haze of smoke, occasionally letting out a faint groan. People came and went, made plans to head somewhere, only to lose track of each other, search, and then find one another just a few steps away.

Around midnight, Tom Buchanan and Misses Wilson stood face to face, their voices heeded, arguing over whether Misses Wilson had the right to mention Daisy's name. Daisy. Daisy. Daisy, Misses Wilson shouted defiantly. I'll say it whenever I want to, Daisy Day. With a swift, practiced motion, Tom Buchanan struck her, breaking her nose with his open hand. After that, the bathroom floor was littered with bloody towels. Women's voices rose in scolding tones, and above the chaos, a long, broken wail of pain echoed.

Mr. McKee awoke from his nap, disoriented, and began to shuffle toward the door. Halfway there, he paused, taking in the chaotic scene. His wife and Catherine were bustling about, alternating between reprimanding and comforting as they navigated the cramped room, laden with items meant to help. On the couch lay a forlorn figure, bleeding profusely, attempting to shield the ornate Versailles tapestry with a copy of Town Tanel. After a moment, Mr. McKee turned and continued out the door. I retrieved my hat from the chandelier and followed him.

Join me for lunch sometime. He proposed as we descended in the elevator with a groan. Where? Anywhere. Keep your hands off the lever. The elevator boy barked. My apologies. Mr. McKee replied with composure. I didn't realize I was touching it. Sure, I said. I'd be happy to. I found myself beside his bed, where he sat up in his underwear, nestled between the sheets, holding a large portfolio. Beauty and the Beast, Loneliness. Old grocery horse. Brooklyn Bridge. Later, I was half asleep in the chilly lower level of Pennsylvania Station, gazing at the morning Tribune and waiting for the 4:00 train.

And that brings us to the close of this chapter of The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald. What began as a detour through the Gray wasteland of the Valley of Ashes ended in a smoky New York apartment, whiskey, strangers, and a night that spiraled out of control. We met Myrtle Wilson, vivid and restless, reaching for a life she believes she deserves. We watched Nick get pulled into a world he didn't ask to enter, and we saw exactly what Tom Buchanan is capable of. When someone steps out of line, the cracks beneath the glamour are widening.

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