Gone with the Wind. Volume 2 / Унесенные ветром. Том 2. Маргарет Митчелл

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      Remembering what Aunt Pitty had told her about the Elsing finances, she wondered where the money for the satin dress had been obtained and for the refreshments and decorations and musicians too. It must have cost a pretty penny. Borrowed money probably or else the whole Elsing clan had contributed to give Fanny this expensive wedding. Such a wedding in these hard times seemed to Scarlett an extravagance on a par with the tombstones of the Tarleton boys and she felt the same irritation and lack of sympathy she had felt as she stood in the Tarleton burying ground. The days when money could be thrown away carelessly had passed. Why did these people persist in making the gestures of the old days when the old days were gone?

      But she shrugged off her momentary annoyance. It wasn't her money and she didn't want her evening's pleasure spoiled by irritation at other people's foolishness.

      She discovered she knew the groom quite well, for he was Tommy Wellburn from Sparta and she had nursed him in 1863 when he had a wound in his shoulder. He had been a handsome young six-footer then and had given up his medical studies to go in the cavalry. Now he looked like a little old man, so bent was he by the wound in his hip. He walked with some difficulty and, as Aunt Pitty had remarked, spraddled in a very vulgar way. But he seemed totally unaware of his appearance, or unconcerned about it, and had the manner of one who asks no odds from any man. He had given up all hope of continuing his medical studies and was now a contractor, working a labor crew of Irishmen who were building the new hotel. Scarlett wondered how he managed so onerous a job in his condition but asked no questions, realizing wryly that almost anything was possible when necessity drove.

      Tommy and Hugh Elsing and the little monkey-like Rene Picard stood talking with her while the chairs and furniture were pushed back to the wall in preparation for the dancing. Hugh had not changed since Scarlett last saw him in 1862. He was still the thin sensitive boy with the same lock of pale brown hair hanging over his forehead and the same delicate useless-looking hands she remembered so well. But Rene had changed since that furlough when he married Maybelle Merriwether. He still had the Gallic twinkle in his black eyes and the Creole zest for living but, for all his easy laughter, there was something hard about his face which had not been there in the early days of the war. And the air of supercilious elegance which had clung about him in his striking Zouave uniform was completely gone.

      “Cheeks lak ze rose, eyes lak ze emerald!” he said, kissing Scarlett's hand and paying tribute to the rouge upon her face. “Pretty lak w'en I first see you at ze bazaar. You remembaire? Nevaire have I forgot how you toss your wedding ring in my basket. Ha, but zat was brave! But I should nevaire have zink you wait so long to get anothaire ring!”

      His eyes sparkled wickedly and he dug his elbow into Hugh's ribs.

      “And I never thought you'd be driving a pie wagon, Renny Picard,” she said. Instead of being ashamed at having his degrading occupation thrown in his face, he seemed pleased and laughed uproariously, slapping Hugh on the back.

      “Touche!” he cried. “Belle Mere, Madame Merriwether, she mek me do eet, ze first work I do en all my life, Rene Picard, who was to grow old breeding ze race horse, playing ze feedle! Now, I drive ze pie wagon and I lak eet! Madame Belle Mere, she can mek a man do annyzing. She should have been ze general and we win ze war, eh, Tommy?”

      Well! thought Scarlett. The idea of liking to drive a pie wagon when his people used to own ten miles along the Mississippi River and a big house in New Orleans, too!

      “If we'd had our mothers-in-law in the ranks, we'd have beat the Yankees in a week,” agreed Tommy, his eyes straying to the slender, indomitable form of his new mother-in-law. “The only reason we lasted as long as we did was because of the ladies behind us who wouldn't give up.”

      “Who'll never give up,” amended Hugh, and his smile was proud but a little wry. “There's not a lady here tonight who has surrendered, no matter what her men folks did at Appomattox. It's a lot worse on them than it ever was on us. At least, we took it out in fighting.”

      “And they in hating,” finished Tommy. “Eh, Scarlett? It bothers the ladies to see what their men folks have come down to lots more than it bothers us. Hugh was to be a judge, Rene was to play the fiddle before the crowned heads of Europe-” He ducked as Rene aimed a blow at him. “And I was to be a doctor and now-”

      “Geeve us ze time!” cried Rene. “Zen I become ze Pie Prince of ze South! And my good Hugh ze King of ze Kindling and you, my Tommy, you weel own ze Irish slaves instead of ze darky slaves. What changes-what fun! And what eet do for you, Mees Scarlett, and Mees Melly? You meelk ze cow, peek ze cotton?”

      “Indeed, no!” said Scarlett coolly, unable to understand Rene's gay acceptance of hardships. “Our darkies do that.”

      “Mees Melly, I hear she call her boy 'Beauregard.' You tell her I, Rene, approve and say that except for 'Jesus' there is no bettaire name.”

      And though he smiled, his eyes glowed proudly at the name of Louisiana's dashing hero.

      “Well, there's 'Robert Edward Lee,'“ observed Tommy. “And while I'm not trying to lessen Old Beau's reputation, my first son is going to be named 'Bob Lee Wellburn.'“

      Rene laughed and shrugged.

      “I recount to you a joke but eet eez a true story. And you see how Creoles zink of our brave Beauregard and of your General Lee. On ze train near New Orleans a man of Virginia, a man of General Lee, he meet wiz a Creole of ze troops of Beauregard. And ze man of Virginia, he talk, talk, talk how General Lee do zis, General Lee say zat. And ze Creole, he look polite and he wreenkle hees forehead lak he try to remembaire, and zen he smile and say: 'General Lee! Ah, oui! Now I know! General Lee! Ze man General Beauregard speak well of!'“

      Scarlett tried to join politely in the laughter but she did not see any point to the story except that Creoles were just as stuck up as Charleston and Savannah people. Moreover, she had always thought Ashley's son should have been named after him.

      The musicians after preliminary tunings and whangings broke into “Old Dan Tucker” and Tommy turned to her.

      “Will you dance, Scarlett? I can't favor you but Hugh or Rene-”

      “No, thank you. I'm still mourning my mother,” said Scarlett hastily. “I will sit them out.”

      Her eyes singled out Frank Kennedy and beckoned him from the side of Mrs. Elsing.

      “I'll sit in that alcove yonder if you'll bring me some refreshments and then we can have a nice chat,” she told Frank as the other three men moved off.

      When he had hurried away to bring her a glass of wine and a paper thin slice of cake, Scarlett sat down in the alcove at the end of the drawing room and carefully arranged her skirts so that the worst spots would not show. The humiliating events of the morning with Rhett were pushed from her mind by the excitement of seeing so many people and hearing music again. Tomorrow she would think of Rhett's conduct and her shame and they would make her writhe again. Tomorrow she would wonder if she had made any impression on Frank's hurt and bewildered heart. But not tonight. Tonight she was alive to her finger tips, every sense alert with hope, her eyes sparkling.

      She looked from the alcove into the huge drawing room and watched the dancers, remembering how beautiful this room had been when first she came to Atlanta during the war. Then the hardwood floors had shone like glass, and overhead the chandelier with its hundreds of tiny prisms had caught and reflected every ray of the dozens of candles it bore, flinging them, like gleams from diamonds, flame and sapphire about the room. The old portraits on the walls had been dignified and gracious СКАЧАТЬ