Chapter - 48 | Gone with the Wind

-eight
SHE DID HAVE FUN, more fun than she had had since the spring before the
war. New Orleans was such a strange, glamorous place and Scarlett enjoyed
it with the headlong pleasure of a pardoned life prisoner. The
Carpetbaggers were looting the town, many honest folk were driven from
their homes and did not know where to look for their next meal, and a
negro sat in the lieutenant governor’s chair. But the New Orleans Rhett
showed her was the gayest place she had ever seen. The people she met
seemed to have all the money they wanted and no cares at all. Rhett
introduced her to dozens of women, pretty women in bright gowns, women
who had soft hands that showed no signs of hard work, women who
laughed at everything and never talked of stupid serious things or hard
times. And the men she met—how thrilling they were! And how different
from Atlanta men—and how they fought to dance with her, and paid her
the most extravagant compliments as though she were a young belle.
These men had the same hard reckless look Rhett wore. Their eyes were
always alert, like men who have lived too long with danger to be ever quite
careless. They seemed to have no pasts or futures, and they politely
discouraged Scarlett when, to make conversation, she asked what or where
they were before they came to New Orleans. That, in itself, was strange, for
in Atlanta every respectable newcomer hastened to present his credentials,
to tell proudly of his home and family, to trace the tortuous mazes of
relationship that stretched over the entire South.
But these men were a taciturn lot, picking their words carefully.
Sometimes when Rhett was alone with them and Scarlett in the next
room, she heard laughter and caught fragments of conversation that meant
nothing to her, scraps of words, puzzling names—Cuba and Nassau in the
blockade days, the gold rush and claim jumping, gun running and
ﬁlibustering, Nicaragua and William Walker and how he died against a wall

at Truxillo. Once her sudden entrance abruptly terminated a conversation
about what had happened to the members of Quantrill’s band of guerrillas,
and she caught the names of Frank and Jesse James.
But they were all well mannered, beautifully tailored, and they evidently
admired her, so it mattered little to Scarlett that they chose to live utterly
in the present. What really mattered was that they were Rhett’s friends and
had large houses and ﬁne carriages, and they took her and Rhett driving,
invited them to suppers, gave parties in their honor. And Scarlett liked
them very well. Rhett was amused when she told him so.
“I thought you would,” he said and laughed.
“Why not?” her suspicions aroused as always by his laughter.
“They’re all second-raters, black sheep, rascals. They’re all adventurers
or Carpetbag aristocrats. They all made their money speculating in food
like your loving husband or out of dubious government contracts or in
shady ways that won’t bear investigation.”
“I don’t believe it. You’re teasing. They’re the nicest people…”
“The nicest people in town are starving,” said Rhett. “And living
politely in hovels, and I doubt if I’d be received in those hovels. You see,
my dear, I was engaged in some of my nefarious schemes here during the
war and these people have devilish long memories! Scarlett, you are a
constant joy to me. You unerringly manage to pick the wrong people and
the wrong things.”
“But they are your friends!”
“Oh, but I like rascals. My early youth was spent as a gambler on a river
boat and I can understand people like that. But I’m not blind to what they
are. Whereas you”—he laughed again—“you have no instinct about
people, no discrimination between the cheap and the great. Sometimes, I
think that the only great ladies you’ve ever associated with were your
mother and Miss Melly and neither seems to have made any impression on
you.”
“Melly! Why she’s as plain as an old shoe and her clothes always look
tacky and she never has two words to say for herself!”
“Spare me your jealousy, Madam. Beauty doesn’t make a lady, nor
clothes a great lady!”
“Oh, don’t they! Just you wait, Rhett Butler, and I’ll show you. Now
that I’ve—we’ve got money, I’m going to be the greatest lady you ever

saw!”
“I shall wait with interest,” he said.
More exciting than the people she met were the frocks Rhett bought
her, superintending the choice of colors, materials and designs himself.
Hoops were out now, and the new styles were charming with the skirts
pulled back from the front and draped over bustles, and on the bustles were
wreaths of ﬂowers and bows and cascades of lace. She thought of the
modest hoops of the war years and she felt a little embarrassed at these new
skirts which undeniably outlined her abdomen. And the darling little
bonnets that were not really bonnets at all, but ﬂat little affairs worn over
one eye and laden with fruits and ﬂowers, dancing plumes and ﬂuttering
ribbons! (If only Rhett had not been so silly and burned the false curls she
bought to augment her knot of Indian-straight hair that peeked from the
rear of these little hats!) And the delicate convent-made underwear! How
lovely it was and how many sets she had! Chemises and nightgowns and
petticoats of the ﬁnest linen trimmed with dainty embroidery and
inﬁnitesimal tucks. And the satin slippers Rhett bought her! They had
heels three inches high and huge glittering paste buckles on them. And silk
stockings, a dozen pairs and not a one had cotton tops! What riches!
She recklessly bought gifts for the family. A furry St. Bernard puppy for
Wade, who had always longed for one, a Persian kitten for Beau, a coral
bracelet for little Ella, a heavy necklace with moonstone pendants for Aunt
Pitty, a complete set of Shakespeare for Melanie and Ashley, an elaborate
livery for Uncle Peter, including a high silk coachman’s hat with a brush
upon it, dress lengths for Dilcey and Cookie, expensive gifts for everyone at
Tara.
“But what have you bought for Mammy?” questioned Rhett, looking
over the pile of gifts spread out on the bed in their hotel room, and
removing the puppy and kitten to the dressing room.
“Not a thing. She was hateful. Why should I bring her a present when
she called us mules?”
“Why should you so resent hearing the truth, my pet? You must bring
Mammy a present. It would break her heart if you didn’t—and hearts like
hers are too valuable to be broken.”
“I won’t take her a thing. She doesn’t deserve it.”

“Then I’ll buy her one. I remember my mammy always said that when
she went to Heaven she wanted a taffeta petticoat so stiff that it would
stand by itself and so rustly that the Lord God would think it was made of
angels’ wings. I’ll buy Mammy some red taffeta and have an elegant
petticoat made.”
“She won’t take it from you. She’d die rather than wear it.”
“I don’t doubt it. But I’ll make the gesture just the same.”
The shops of New Orleans were so rich and exciting and shopping with
Rhett was an adventure. Dining with him was an adventure too, and one
more thrilling than shopping, for he knew what to order and how it should
be cooked. The wines and liqueurs and champagnes of New Orleans were
new and exhilarating to her, acquainted with only homemade blackberry
and scuppernong vintages and Aunt Pitty’s “swoon” brandy; but oh, the
food Rhett ordered! Best of all things in New Orleans was the food.
Remembering the bitter hungry days at Tara and her more recent penury,
Scarlett felt that she could never eat enough of these rich dishes. Gumboes
and shrimp Creole, doves in wine and oysters in crumbly patties full of
creamy sauce, mushrooms and sweetbreads and turkey livers, ﬁsh baked
cunningly in oiled paper and limes. Her appetite never dulled, for
whenever she remembered the everlasting goobers and dried peas and
sweet potatoes at Tara, she felt an urge to gorge herself anew on Creole
dishes.
“You eat as though each meal were your last,” said Rhett. “Don’t scrape
the plate, Scarlett. I’m sure there’s more in the kitchen. You have only to
ask the waiter. If you don’t stop being such a glutton, you’ll be as fat as the
Cuban ladies and then I shall divorce you.”
But she only put out her tongue at him and ordered another pastry,
thick with chocolate and stuffed with meringue.
What fun it was to be able to spend as much money as you liked and not
count pennies and feel that you should save them to pay taxes or buy
mules. What fun to be with people who were gay and rich and not
genteelly poor like Atlanta people. What fun to wear rustling brocade
dresses that showed your waist and all your neck and arms and more than a
little of your breast and know that men were admiring you. And what fun
to eat all you wanted without having censorious people say you weren’t
ladylike. And what fun to drink all the champagne you pleased. The ﬁrst

time she drank too much, she was embarrassed when she awoke the next
morning with a splitting headache and an awful memory of singing
“Bonnie Blue Flag” all the way back to the hotel, through the streets of
New Orleans, in an open carriage. She had never seen a lady even tipsy,
and the only drunken woman she had ever seen had been that Watling
creature on the day when Atlanta fell. She hardly knew how to face Rhett,
so great was her humiliation, but the affair seemed only to amuse him.
Everything she did seemed to amuse him, as though she were a gamboling
kitten.
It was exciting to go out with him for he was so handsome. Somehow
she had never given his looks a thought before, and in Atlanta everyone
had been too preoccupied with his shortcomings ever to talk about his
appearance. But here in New Orleans she could see how the eyes of other
women followed him and how they ﬂuttered when he bent over their
hands. The realization that other women were attracted by her husband,
and perhaps envied her, made her suddenly proud to be seen by his side.
“Why, we’re a handsome couple,” thought Scarlett with pleasure.
Yes, as Rhett had prophesied, marriage could be a lot of fun. Not only
was it fun but she was learning many things. That was odd in itself, because
Scarlett had thought life could teach her no more. Now she felt like a
child, every day on the brink of a new discovery.
First, she learned that marriage with Rhett was a far different matter
from marriage with either Charles or Frank. They had respected her and
been afraid of her temper. They had begged her for favors and if it pleased
her, she had bestowed them. Rhett did not fear her and, she often thought,
did not respect her very much either. What he wanted to do, he did, and if
she did not like it, he laughed at her. She did not love him but he was
undoubtedly an exciting person to live with. The most exciting thing about
him was that even in his outbursts of passion which were ﬂavored
sometimes with cruelty, sometimes with irritating amusement, he seemed
always to be holding himself under restraint, always riding his emotions
with a curb bit.
“I guess that’s because he isn’t really in love with me,” she thought and
was content enough with the state of affairs. “I should hate for him to ever
turn completely loose in any way.” But still the thought of the possibility
teased her curiosity in an exciting way.

Living with Rhett, she learned many new things about him, and she had
thought she knew him so well. She learned that his voice could be as silky
as cat’s fur one moment and crisp and crackling with oaths the next. He
could tell, with apparent sincerity and approval, stories of courage and
honor and virtue and love in the odd places he had been, and follow them
with ribald stories of coldest cynicism. She knew no man should tell such
stories to his wife but they were entertaining and they appealed to
something coarse and earthy in her. He could be an ardent, almost a
tender, lover for a brief while, and almost immediately a mocking devil
who ripped the lid from her gunpowder temper, ﬁred it and enjoyed the
explosion. She learned that his compliments were always two edged and his
tenderest expressions open to suspicion. In fact, in those two weeks in New
Orleans, she learned everything about him except what he really was.
Some mornings he dismissed the maid and brought her the breakfast
tray himself and fed her as though she were a child, took the hairbrush
from her hand and brushed her long dark hair until it snapped and
crackled. Yet other mornings she was torn rudely out of deep slumber when
he snatched all the bed covers from her and tickled her bare feet.
Sometimes he listened with digniﬁed interest to details of her businesses,
nodding approval at her sagacity, and at other times he called her
somewhat dubious tradings scavenging, highway robbery and extortion. He
took her to plays and annoyed her by whispering that God probably didn’t
approve of such amusements, and to churches and, sotto voce, retailed
funny obscenities and then reproved her for laughing. He encouraged her
to speak her mind, to be ﬂippant and daring. She picked up from him the
gift of stinging words and sardonic phrases and learned to relish using them
for the power they gave her over other people. But she did not possess his
sense of humor which tempered his malice, nor his smile that jeered at
himself even while he was jeering others.
He made her play and she had almost forgotten how. Life had been so
serious and so bitter. He knew how to play and swept her along with him.
But he never played like a boy; he was a man and no matter what he did,
she could never forget it. She could not look down on him from the heights
of womanly superiority, smiling as women have always smiled at the antics
of men who are boys at heart.

This annoyed her a little, whenever she thought of it. It would be
pleasant to feel superior to Rhett. All the other men she had known she
could dismiss with a half-contemptuous “What a child!” Her father, the
Tarleton twins with their love of teasing and their elaborate practical jokes,
the hairy little Fontaines with their childish rages, Charles, Frank, all the
men who had paid court to her during the war—everyone, in fact, except
Ashley. Only Ashley and Rhett eluded her understanding and her control
for they were both adults, and the elements of boyishness were lacking in
them.
She did not understand Rhett, nor did she trouble to understand him,
though there were things about him which occasionally puzzled her. There
was the way he looked at her sometimes, when he thought she was
unaware. Turning quickly she frequently caught him watching her, an alert,
eager, waiting look in his eyes.
“Why do you look at me like that?” she once asked irritably. “Like a cat
at a mouse hole!”
But his face had changed swiftly and he only laughed. Soon she forgot it
and did not puzzle her head about it any more, or about anything
concerning Rhett. He was too unpredictable to bother about and life was
very pleasant—except when she thought of Ashley.
Rhett kept her too busy to think of Ashley often. Ashley was hardly
ever in her thoughts during the day but at night when she was tired from
dancing or her head was spinning from too much champagne—then she
thought of Ashley. Frequently when she lay drowsily in Rhett’s arms with
the moonlight streaming over the bed, she thought how perfect life would
be if it were only Ashley’s arms which held her so closely, if it were only
Ashley who drew her black hair across his face and wrapped it about his
throat.
Once when she was thinking this, she sighed and turned her head
toward the window, and after a moment she felt the heavy arm beneath her
neck become like iron, and Rhett’s voice spoke in the stillness: “May God
damn your cheating little soul to hell for all eternity!”
And, getting up, he put on his clothes and left the room despite her
startled protests and questions. He reappeared the next morning as she was
breakfasting in her room, disheveled, quite drunk and in his worst sarcastic
mood, and neither made excuses nor gave an account of his absence.

Scarlett asked no questions and was quite cool to him, as became an
injured wife, and when she had ﬁnished the meal, she dressed under his
bloodshot gaze and went shopping. He was gone when she returned and did
not appear again until time for supper.
It was a silent meal and Scarlett’s temper was straining because it was
her last supper in New Orleans and she wanted to do justice to the
crawﬁsh. And she could not enjoy it under his gaze. Nevertheless she ate a
large one, and drank a quantity of champagne. Perhaps it was this
combination that brought back her old nightmare that evening, for she
awoke, cold with sweat, sobbing brokenly. She was back at Tara again and
Tara was desolate. Mother was dead and with her all the strength and
wisdom of the world. Nowhere in the world was there anyone to turn to,
anyone to rely upon. And something terrifying was pursuing her and she
was running, running till her heart was bursting, running in a thick
swimming fog, crying out blindly seeking that nameless, unknown haven of
safety that was somewhere in the mist about her.
Rhett was leaning over her when she woke, and without a word he
picked her up in his arms like a child and held her close, his hard muscles
comforting, his wordless murmuring soothing, until her sobbing ceased.
“Oh, Rhett, I was so cold and so hungry and so tired and I couldn’t ﬁnd
it. I ran through the mist and I ran but I couldn’t ﬁnd it.”
“Find what, honey?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did know.”
“Is it your old dream?”
“Oh, yes!”
He gently placed her on the bed, fumbled in the darkness and lit a
candle. In the light his face with bloodshot eyes and harsh lines was as
unreadable as stone. His shirt, opened to the waist, showed a brown chest
covered with thick black hair. Scarlett, still shaking with fright, thought
how strong and unyielding that chest was, and she whispered: “Hold me,
Rhett.”
“Darling!” he said swiftly, and picking her up he sat down in a large
chair, cradling her body against him.
“Oh, Rhett, it’s awful to be hungry.”
“It must be awful to dream of starvation after a seven-course dinner
including that enormous crawﬁsh.” He smiled but his eyes were kind.

“Oh, Rhett, I just run and run and hunt and I can’t ever ﬁnd what it is
I’m hunting for. It’s always hidden in the mist. I know if I could ﬁnd it, I’d
be safe for ever and ever and never be cold or hungry again.”
“Is it a person or a thing you’re hunting?”
“I don’t know. I never thought about it. Rhett, do you think I’ll ever
dream that I get there to safety?”
“No,” he said, smoothing her hair, “I don’t. Dreams aren’t like that. But
I do think that if you get used to being safe and warm and well fed in your
everyday life, you’ll stop dreaming that dream. And, Scarlett, I’m going to
see that you are safe.”
“Rhett, you are so nice.”
“Thanks for the crumbs from your table, Mrs. Dives. Scarlett, I want you
to say to yourself every morning when you wake up: ‘I can’t ever be hungry
again and nothing can ever touch me so long as Rhett is here and the
United States government holds out.’”
“The United States government?” she questioned, sitting up, startled,
tears still on her cheeks.
“The ex-Confederate money has now become an honest woman. I
invested most of it in government bonds.”
“God’s nightgown!” cried Scarlett, sitting up in his lap, forgetful of her
recent terror. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve loaned your money to the
Yankees?”
“At a fair per cent.”
“I don’t care if it’s a hundred per cent! You must sell them immediately.
The idea of letting the Yankees have the use of your money!”
“And what must I do with it?” he questioned with a smile, noting that
her eyes were no longer wide with fright.
“Why—why buy property at Five Points. I’ll bet you could buy all of
Five Points with the money you have.”
“Thank you, but I wouldn’t have Five Points. Now that the
Carpetbagger government has really gotten control of Georgia, there’s no
telling what may happen. I wouldn’t put anything beyond the swarm of
buzzards that’s swooping down on Georgia now from north, east, south and
west. I’m playing along with them, you understand, as a good Scallawag
should do, but I don’t trust them. And I’m not putting my money in real

estate. I prefer bonds. You can hide them. You can’t hide real estate very
easily.”
“Do you think—” she began, paling as she thought of the mills and the
store.
“I don’t know. But don’t look so frightened, Scarlett. Our charming new
governor is a good friend of mine. It’s just that times are too uncertain now
and I don’t want much of my money tied up in real estate.”
He shifted her to one knee and, leaning back, reached for a cigar and lit
it. She sat with her bare feet dangling, watching the play of muscles on his
brown chest, her terrors forgotten.
“And while we are on the subject of real estate, Scarlett,” he said, “I am
going to build a house. You might have bullied Frank into living in Miss
Pitty’s house, but not me. I don’t believe I could bear her vaporings three
times a day and, moreover, I believe Uncle Peter would assassinate me
before he would let me live under the sacred Hamilton roof. Miss Pitty can
get Miss India Wilkes to stay with her and keep the bogyman away. When
we get back to Atlanta we are going to stay in the bridal suite of the
National Hotel until our house is ﬁnished. Before we left Atlanta I was
dickering for that big lot on Peachtree, the one near the Leyden house. You
know the one I mean?”
“Oh, Rhett, how lovely! I do so want a house of my own. A great big
one.”
“Then at last we are agreed on something. What about a white stucco
with wrought-iron work like these Creole houses here?”
“Oh, no, Rhett. Not anything old fashioned like these New Orleans
houses. I know just what I want. It’s the newest thing because I saw a
picture of it in—let me see—it was in that Harper’s Weekly I was looking at.
It was modeled after a Swiss chalet.”
“A Swiss what?”
“A chalet.”
“Spell it.”
She complied.
“Oh,” he said and stroked his mustache.
“It was lovely. It had a high mansard roof with a picket fence on the top
and a tower made of fancy shingles at each end. And the towers had
windows with red and blue glass in them. It was so stylish looking.”

“I suppose it had jigsaw work on the porch banisters?”
“Yes.”
“And a fringe of wooden scrollwork hanging from the roof of the
porch?”
“Yes. You must have seen one like it.”
“I have—but not in Switzerland. The Swiss are a very intelligent race
and keenly alive to architectural beauty. Do you really want a house like
that?”
“Oh, yes!”
“I had hoped that association with me might improve your taste. Why
not a Creole house or a Colonial with six white columns?”
“I tell you I don’t want anything tacky and old-fashioned looking. And
inside let’s have red wall paper and red velvet portieres over all the folding
doors and oh, lots of expensive walnut furniture and grand thick carpets
and—oh, Rhett, everybody will be pea green when they see our house!”
“It is very necessary that everyone shall be envious? Well, if you like
they shall be green. But, Scarlett, has it occurred to you that it’s hardly in
good taste to furnish the house on so lavish a scale when everyone is so
poor?”
“I want it that way,” she said obstinately. “I want to make everybody
who’s been mean to me feel bad. And we’ll give big receptions that’ll make
the whole town wish they hadn’t said such nasty things.”
“But who will come to our receptions?”
“Why, everybody, of course.”
“I doubt it. The Old Guard dies but it never surrenders.”
“Oh, Rhett, how you run on! If you’ve got money, people always like
you.”
“Not Southerners. It’s harder for speculators’ money to get into the best
parlors than for the camel to go through the needle’s eye. And as for
Scallawags—that’s you and me, my pet—we’ll be lucky if we aren’t spit
upon. But if you’d like to try, I’ll back you, my dear, and I’m sure I shall
enjoy your campaign intensely. You can have all the cash you want for the
house and all you want for your fal-lals. And if you like jewelry, you can
have it but I’m going to pick it out. You have such execrable taste, my pet.
And anything you want for Wade or Ella. And if Will Benteen can’t make
a go of the cotton, I’m willing to chip in and help out on that white

elephant in Clayton County that you love so much. That’s fair enough,
isn’t it?”
“Of course. You’re very generous.”
“But listen closely. Not one cent for the store and not one cent for that
kindling factory of yours.”
“Oh,” said Scarlett, her face falling. All during the honeymoon she had
been thinking how she could bring up the subject of the thousand dollars
she needed to buy ﬁfty feet more of land to enlarge her lumber yard.
“I thought you always bragged about being broad minded and not caring
what people said about my running a business, and you’re just like every
other man—so afraid people will say I wear the pants in the family.”
“There’s never going to be any doubt in anybody’s mind about who
wears the pants in the Butler family,” drawled Rhett. “I don’t care what
fools say. In fact, I’m ill bred enough to be proud of having a smart wife. I
want you to keep on running the store and the mills. They are your
children’s. When Wade grows up he won’t feel right about being supported
by his stepfather, and then he can take over the management. But not one
cent of mine goes into either business.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t care to contribute to the support of Ashley Wilkes.”
“Are you going to begin that again?”
“No. But you asked my reasons and I have given them. And another
thing. Don’t think you can juggle books on me and lie about how much
your clothes cost and how much it takes to run the house, so that you can
use the money to buy more mules or another mill for Ashley. I intend to
look over and carefully check your expenditures and I know what things
cost. Oh, don’t get insulted. You’d do it. I wouldn’t put it beyond you. In
fact, I wouldn’t put anything beyond you where either Tara or Ashley is
concerned. I don’t mind Tara. But I must draw the line at Ashley. I’m
riding you with a slack rein, my pet, but don’t forget that I’m riding with
curb and spurs just the same.”