minmarn/Gone_with_the_wind · Datasets at Hugging Face

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couldn't go. But how could she stop him? She was powerless
against his cool mind, his disinterested words.

"I am going away. I intended to tell you when you came home from
Marietta."

"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

couldn't go. But how could she stop him? She was powerless

against his cool mind, his disinterested words.

"I am going away. I intended to tell you when you came home from

Marietta."

"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