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 and had looked down upon guests with an air of mellowed hospitality.The rosewood sofas had been soft and inviting and one of them,the largest,had stood in the place of honor in this same alcove where she now sat.It had been Scarlett's favorite seat at parties.From this point stretched the pleasant vista of drawing room and dining room beyond,the oval mahogany table which seated twenty and the twenty slim-legged chairs demurely against the walls,the massive sideboard and buffet weighed with heavy silver,with seven-branched candlesticks,goblets,cruets,decanters and shining little glasses.Scarlett had sat on that sofa so often in the first years of the war,always with some handsome officer beside her,and listened to violin and bull fiddle,accordion and banjo,and heard the exciting swishing noises which dancing feet made on the waxed and polished floor.
Now the chandelier hung dark.It was twisted askew and most of the prisms were broken,as if the Yankee occupants had made their beauty a target for their boots.Now an oil lamp and a few candles lighted the room and the roaring fire in the wide hearth gave most of the illumination.Its flickering light showed how irreparably scarred and splintered the dull old floor was.Squares on the faded paper on the wall gave evidence that once the portraits had hung there,and wide cracks in the plaster recalled the day during the siege when a shell had exploded on the house and torn off parts of the roof and second floor.The heavy old mahogany table,spread with cake and decanters,still presided in the empty-looking dining room but it was scratched and the broken legs showed signs of clumsy repair.The sideboard,the silver and the spindly chairs were gone.The dull-gold damask draperies which had covered the arching French windows at the back of the room were missing,and only the remnants of the lace curtains remained,clean but obviously mended.
In place of the curved sofa she had liked so much was a hard bench that was none too comfortable.She sat upon it with as good grace as possible,wishing her skirts were in such condition that she could dance.It would be so good to dance again.But,of course,she could do more with Frank in this sequestered alcove than in a breathless reel and she could listen fascinated to his talk and encourage him to greater flights of foolishness.
But the music certainly was inviting.Her slipper patted longingly in time with old Levi's large splayed foot as he twanged a strident banjo and called the figures of the reel.Feet swished and scraped and patted as the twin lines danced toward each other,retreated,whirled and made arches of their arms.
“‘Ole Dan Tucker he got drunk—’
(Swing yo'padners!)
‘Fell in de fiah an'he kick up a chunk!’
(Skip light,ladies!)”
After the dull and exhausting months at Tara it was good to hear music again and the sound of dancing feet,good to see familiar friendly faces laughing in the feeble light,calling old jokes and catchwords,bantering,rallying,coquetting.It was like coming to life again after being dead.It almost seemed that the bright days of five years ago had come back again.If she could close her eyes and not see the worn made-over dresses and the patched boots and mended slippers,if her mind did not call up the faces of boys missing from the reel,she might almost think that nothing had changed.But as she looked,watching the old men grouped about the decanter in the dining room,the matrons lining the walls,talking behind fanless hands,and the swaying,skipping young dancers,it came to her suddenly,coldly,frighteningly that it was all as greatly changed as if these familiar figures were ghosts.
They looked the same but they were different.What was it?Was it only that they were five years older?No,it was something more than the passing of time.Something had gone out of them,out of their world.Five years ago,a feeling of security had wrapped them all around so gently they were not even aware of it.In its shelter they had flowered.Now it was gone and with it had gone the old thrill,the old sense of something delightful and exciting just around the corner,the old glamor of their way of living.
She knew she had changed too,but not as they had changed,and it puzzled her.She sat and watched them and she felt herself an alien among them,as alien and lonely as if she had come from another world,speaking a language they did not understand and she not understanding theirs.Then she knew that this feeling was the same one she felt with Ashley.With him and with people of his kind—and they made up most of her world—she felt outside of something she could not understand.
Their faces were little changed and their manners not at all but it seemed to her that these two things were all that remained of her old friends.An ageless dignity,a timeless gallantry still clung about them and would cling until they died but they would carry undying bitterness to their graves,a bitterness too deep for words.They were a soft-spoken,fierce,tired people who were defeated and would not know defeat,broken yet standing determinedly erect.They were crushed and helpless,citizens of conquered provinces.They were looking on the state they loved,seeing it trampled by the enemy,rascals making a mock of the law,their former slaves a menace,their men disfranchised,their women insulted.And they were remembering graves.
