Margaret Munnerlyn Mitchell - Gone with the Wind / Унесённые ветром

“Gentlemen,” said Rhett Butler, not moving from his position against the tree or taking his hands from his pockets, “may I say a word?”

The group turned toward him.

“Has any one of you gentlemen ever thought that there’s not a cannon factory south of the Mason-Dixon Line? Or how few iron foundries there are in the South? Or woolen mills or cotton factories? Have you thought that we would not have a single warship and that the Yankee fleet could bottle up our harbors in a week, so that we could not sell our cotton abroad?”

“The trouble with most of us Southerners,” continued Rhett Butler, “is that we either don’t travel enough or we don’t profit enough by our travels. Now, of course, all you gentlemen are well traveled. But what have you seen? You’ve seen the hotels and the museums and the balls and the gambling houses. And you’ve come home believing that there’s no place like the South. As for me, I was Charleston born, but I have spent the last few years in the North. I have seen many things that you all have not seen. The thousands of immigrants who’d be glad to fight for the Yankees for food and a few dollars, the factories, the foundries, the shipyards, the iron and coal mines – all the things we haven’t got. Why, all we have is cotton and slaves and arrogance. They’d lick us in a month.”

For a tense moment, there was silence.

“Sir,” said Stuart Tarleton heavily, “what do you mean?”

Rhett looked at him with polite but mocking eyes.

“I mean,” he answered, “what Napoleon – perhaps you’ve heard of him? – remarked once, ‘God is on the side of the strongest battalion!’” and, turning to John Wilkes, he said with courtesy: “You promised to show me your library, sir. I fear I must go back to Jonesboro early this afternoon where a bit of business calls me.”

He faced the crowd, clicked his heels together and bowed like a dancing master. Then he walked across the lawn with John Wilkes, his black head in the air, and the sound of his laughter floated back to the group.

There was a startled silence and then the buzzing broke out again.

Ashley went over to where Scarlett and Charles sat, a thoughtful and amused smile on his face.

“Arrogant devil, isn’t he?” he observed, looking after Butler. “He looks like one of the Borgias [21] Борджиа, испано-итальянский дворянский род. Это имя стало синонимом распущенности и вероломства. .”

Scarlett thought quickly but could remember no family in the County or Atlanta or Savannah by that name.

“I don’t know them. Is he kin to them? Who are they?”

An odd look came over Charles’ face, shame struggling with love. Love triumphed as he realized that it was enough for a girl to be sweet and beautiful, without having an education and he made swift answer: “The Borgias were Italians.”

“Oh,” said Scarlett, losing interest, “foreigners.”

She turned her prettiest smile on Ashley, but for some reason he was not looking at her. He was looking at Charles, and there was understanding in his face and a little pity.

Scarlett stood on the landing and looked over the banisters into the hall below. It was empty. From the bedrooms on the floor above came low voices, laughter and, “Now, you didn’t, really!” and “What did he say then?” From the window on the landing, she could see the group of men, drinking from tall glasses, and she knew they would remain there until late afternoon. Ashley was not among them. Then she listened and heard his voice. He was still in the front driveway saying good-by to leaving matrons and children.

Her heart in her throat, she went swiftly down the stairs. What if she should meet Mr. Wilkes? What excuse could she give for walking about the house when all the other girls were getting their beauty naps? Well, that had to be risked.

Across the wide hall was the open door of the library and she entered it noiselessly. She could wait there until Ashley finished his adieux and then call to him when he came into the house.

The library was in semidarkness. Large numbers of books always depressed her, as did people who liked to read them. That is – all people except Ashley. She closed the door except for a crack and tried to make her heart beat more slowly. She tried to remember just exactly what she had planned last night to say to Ashley, but she couldn’t recall anything. All she could think of was that she loved him. Oh, if only he would walk in on her now and take her in his arms, so she wouldn’t have to say anything. He must love her – “Perhaps if I prayed —” She squeezed her eyes tightly [22] Она крепко зажмурила глаза and began saying to herself “Hail Mary, full of grace —”

“Why, Scarlett!” said Ashley’s voice. He stood in the hall looking at her through the partly opened door, a smile on his face.

“Who are you hiding from – Charles or the Tarletons?”

He entered, puzzled but interested. Automatically he closed the door behind him and took her hand.

“What is it?” he said, almost in a whisper.

At the touch of his hand, she began to tremble. It was going to happen now, just as she had dreamed it.

“What is it?” he repeated. “A secret to tell me?”

Suddenly she found her tongue and just as suddenly all the years of Ellen’s teachings fell away, and the Irish blood of Gerald spoke from his daughter’s lips.

“Yes – a secret. I love you.”

For an instance there was a silence. And then her eyes sought his.

There was a look of surprise in them and something more – what was it? Then something like a well-trained mask came down over his face and he smiled gallantly.

“Isn’t it enough that you’ve collected every other man’s heart here today?” he said, with the old, teasing note in his voice. “Well, you’ve always had my heart, you know.”

Something was wrong – all wrong! This was not the way she had planned it. For some reason, Ashley was acting as if he thought she was just flirting with him. But he knew differently. She knew he did.

“Ashley – Ashley – tell me – you must – oh, don’t tease me now! Have I your heart? Oh, my dear, I lo —”

His hand went across her lips, swiftly. The mask was gone.

“You must not say these things, Scarlett! You mustn’t. You don’t mean them. You’ll hate yourself for saying them, and you’ll hate me for hearing them!”

She jerked her head away. “I couldn’t ever hate you. I tell you I love you and I know you must care about me because —” She stopped. Never before had she seen so much misery in anyone’s face. “Ashley, do you care – you do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said dully. “I care.”

She plucked at his sleeve, speechless.

“Scarlett,” he said, “can’t we go away and forget that we have ever said these things?”

“No,” she whispered. “I can’t. What do you mean? Don’t you want to – to marry me?”

He replied, “I’m going to marry Melanie.”

Somehow she found that she was sitting on the low velvet chair and Ashley, at her feet, was holding both her hands in his, in a hard grip. He was saying things – things that made no sense. Her mind was quite blank, quite empty of all the thoughts. His words fell on unhearing ears, words that were tender and full of pity, like a father speaking to a hurt child.

“Father is to announce the engagement tonight. We are to be married soon. I should have told you, but I thought you knew. I never dreamed that you – You’ve so many beaux. I thought Stuart —”

“But you just said you cared for me.”

His warm hands hurt hers.