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Materials > Readings > Remembrance > Mitchell |
Gone With the Wind
"You are deserting me?"
"Don't be the neglected, dramatic wife, Scarlett. The role isn't
becoming. I take it, then, you do not want a divorce or even a
separation? Well, then, I'll come back often enough to keep gossip
down."
"Damn gossip!" she said fiercely. "It's you I want. Take me with
you!"
"No," he said, and there was finality in his voice. For a moment
she was on the verge of an outburst of childish wild tears. She
could have thrown herself on the floor, cursed and screamed and
drummed her heels. But some remnant of pride, of common sense
stiffened her. She thought, if I did, he'd only laugh, or just
look at me. I mustn't bawl; I mustn't beg. I mustn't do anything
to risk his contempt. He must respect me even--even if he doesn't
love me.
She lifted her chin and managed to ask quietly:
"Where will you go?"
There was a faint gleam of admiration in his eyes as he answered.
"Perhaps to England--or to Paris. Perhaps to Charleston to try to
make peace with my people."
"But you hate them! I've heard you laugh at them so often and--"
He shrugged.
"I still laugh--but I've reached the end of roaming, Scarlett. I'm
forty-five--the age when a man begins to value some of the things
he's thrown away so lightly in youth, the clannishness of families,
honor and security, roots that go deep-- Oh, no! I'm not recanting,
I'm not regretting anything I've ever done. I've had a hell of a
good time--such a hell of a good time that it's begun to pall and
now I want something different. No, I never intend to change more
than my spots. But I want the outer semblance of the things I used
to know, the utter boredom of respectability--other people's
respectability, my pet, not my own--the calm dignity life can have
when it's lived by gentle folks, the genial grace of days that are
gone. When I lived those days I didn't realize the slow charm of
them--"
Again Scarlett was back in the windy orchard of Tara and there was
the same look in Rhett's eyes that had been in Ashley's eyes that
day. Ashley's words were as clear in her ears as though he and not
Rhett were speaking. Fragments of words came back to her and she
quoted parrot-like: "A glamor to it--a perfection, a symmetry like
Grecian art."
Rhett said sharply: "Why did you say that? That's what I meant."
"It was something that--that Ashley said once, about the old days."
He shrugged and the light went out of his eyes.
"Always Ashley," he said and was silent for a moment.
"Scarlett, when you are forty-five, perhaps you will know what I'm
talking about and then perhaps you, too, will be tired of imitation
gentry and shoddy manners and cheap emotions. But I doubt it. I
think you'll always be more attracted by glister than by gold.
Anyway, I can't wait that long to see. And I have no desire to
wait. It just doesn't interest me. I'm going to hunt in old towns
and old countries where some of the old times must still linger.
I'm that sentimental. Atlanta's too raw for me, too new."
"Stop," she said suddenly. She had hardly heard anything he had
said. Certainly her mind had not taken it in. But she knew she
could no longer endure with any fortitude the sound of his voice
when there was no love in it.
He paused and looked at her quizzically.
"Well, you get my meaning, don't you?" he questioned, rising to his
feet.
She threw out her hands to him, palms up, in the age-old gesture of
appeal and her heart, again, was in her face.
"No," she cried. "All I know is that you do not love me and you
are going away! Oh, my darling, if you go, what shall I do?"
For a moment he hesitated as if debating whether a kind lie were
kinder in the long run than the truth. Then he shrugged.
"Scarlett, I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments
and glue them together and tell myself that the mended whole was as
good as new. What is broken is broken--and I'd rather remember it
as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken places as
long as I lived. Perhaps, if I were younger--" he sighed. "But
I'm too old to believe in such sentimentalities as clean slates and
starting all over. I'm too old to shoulder the burden of constant
lies that go with living in polite disillusionment. I couldn't
live with you and lie to you and I certainly couldn't lie to
myself. I can't even lie to you now. I wish I could care what you
do or where you go, but I can't."
He drew a short breath and said lightly but softly:
"My dear, I don't give a damn."
* * * * *
She silently watched him go up the stairs, feeling that she would
strangle at the pain in her throat. With the sound of his feet
dying away in the upper hall was dying the last thing in the world
that mattered. She knew now that there was no appeal of emotion or
reason which would turn that cool brain from its verdict. She knew
now that he had meant every word he said, lightly though some of
them had been spoken. She knew because she sensed in him something
strong, unyielding, implacable--all the qualities she had looked
for in Ashley and never found.
She had never understood either of the men she had loved and so she
had lost them both. Now, she had a fumbling knowledge that, had
she ever understood Ashley, she would never have loved him; had she
ever understood Rhett, she would never have lost him. She wondered
forlornly if she had ever really understood anyone in the world.
There was a merciful dullness in her mind now, a dullness that she
knew from long experience would soon give way to sharp pain, even
as severed tissues, shocked by the surgeon's knife, have a brief
instant of insensibility before their agony begins.
"I won't think of it now," she thought grimly, summoning up her old
charm. "I'll go crazy if I think about losing him now. I'll think
of it tomorrow."
"But," cried her heart, casting aside the charm and beginning to
ache, "I can't let him go! There must be some way!"
"I won't think of it now," she said again, aloud, trying to push
her misery to the back of her mind, trying to find some bulwark
against the rising tide of pain. "I'll--why, I'll go home to Tara
tomorrow," and her spirits lifted faintly.
She had gone back to Tara once in fear and defeat and she had
emerged from its sheltering walls strong and armed for victory.
What she had done once, somehow--please God, she could do again!
How, she did not know. She did not want to think of that now. All
she wanted was a breathing space in which to hurt, a quiet place to
lick her wounds, a haven in which to plan her campaign. She
thought of Tara and it was as if a gentle cool hand were stealing
over her heart. She could see the white house gleaming welcome to
her through the reddening autumn leaves, feel the quiet hush of the
country twilight coming down over her like a benediction, feel the
dews falling on the acres of green bushes starred with fleecy
white, see the raw color of the red earth and the dismal dark
beauty of the pines on the rolling hills.
She felt vaguely comforted, strengthened by the picture, and some
of her hurt and frantic regret was pushed from the top of her mind.
She stood for a moment remembering small things, the avenue of dark
cedars leading to Tara, the banks of cape jessamine bushes, vivid
green against the white walls, the fluttering white curtains. And
Mammy would be there. Suddenly she wanted Mammy desperately, as
she had wanted her when she was a little girl, wanted the broad
bosom on which to lay her head, the gnarled black hand on her hair.
Mammy, the last link with the old days.
With the spirit of her people who would not know defeat, even when
it stared them in the face, she raised her chin. She could get
Rhett back. She knew she could. There had never been a man she
couldn't get, once she set her mind upon him.
"I'll think of it all tomorrow, at Tara. I can stand it then.
Tomorrow, I'll think of some way to get him back. After all,
tomorrow is another day."
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