General John B.Gordon,Georgia's great hero,was frequently there with his family.Father Ryan,the poet-priest of the Confederacy,never failed to call when passing through Atlanta.He charmed gatherings there with his wit and seldom needed much urging to recite his “Sword of Lee”or his deathless “Conquered Banner,”which never failed to make the ladies cry.Alex Stephens,late Vice-President of the Confederacy,visited whenever in town and,when the word went about that he was at Melanie's,the house was filled and people sat for hours under the spell of the frail invalid with the ringing voice.Usually there were a dozen children present,nodding sleepily in their parents'arms,up hours after their normal bedtime.No family wanted its children to miss being able to say in after years that they had been kissed by the great Vice-President or had shaken the hand that helped to guide the Cause.Every person of importance who came to town found his way to the Wilkes home and often they spent the night there.It crowded the little flat-topped house,forced India to sleep on a pallet in the cubbyhole that was Beau's nursery and sent Dilcey speeding through the back hedge to borrow breakfast eggs from Aunt Pitty's Cookie,but Melanie entertained them as graciously as if hers was a mansion.
No,it did not occur to Melanie that people rallied round her as round a worn and loved standard.And so she was both astounded and embarrassed when Dr.Meade,after a pleasant evening at her house where he acquitted himself nobly in reading the part of Macbeth,kissed her hand and made observations in the voice he once used in speaking of Our Glorious Cause.
“My dear Miss Melly,it is always a privilege and a pleasure to be in your home,for you—and ladies like you—are the hearts of all of us,all that we have left.They have taken the flower of our manhood and the laughter of our young women.They have broken our health,uprooted our lives and unsettled our habits.They have ruined our prosperity,set us back fifty years and placed too heavy a burden on the shoulders of our boys who should be in school and our old men who should be sleeping in the sun.But we will build back,because we have hearts like yours to build upon.And as long as we have them,the Yankees can have the rest!”
Until Scarlett's figure reached such proportions that even Aunt Pitty's big black shawl did not conceal her condition,she and Frank frequently slipped through the back hedge to join the summer-night gatherings on Melanie's porch.Scarlett always sat well out of the light,hidden in the protecting shadows where she was not only inconspicuous but could,unobserved,watch Ashley's face to her heart's content.
It was only Ashley who drew her to the house,for conversations bored and saddened her.They always followed a set pattern—first,hard times;next,the political situation;and then,inevitably,the war.The ladies bewailed the high prices of everything and asked the gentlemen if they thought good times would ever come back.And the omniscient gentlemen always said,indeed they would.Merely a matter of time.Hard times were just temporary.The ladies knew the gentlemen were lying and the gentlemen knew the ladies knew they were lying.But they lied cheerfully just the same and the ladies pretended to believe them.Everyone knew hard times were here to stay.
Once the hard times were disposed of,the ladies spoke of the increasing impudence of the negroes and the outrages of the Carpetbaggers and the humiliation of having the Yankee soldiers loafing on every corner.Did the gentlemen think the Yankees would ever get through with reconstructing Georgia?The reassuring gentlemen thought Reconstruction would be over in no time—that is,just as soon as the Democrats could vote again.The ladies were considerate enough not to ask when this would be.And having finished with politics,the talk about the war began.
Whenever two former Confederates met anywhere,there was never but one topic of conversation,and where a dozen or more gathered together,it was a foregone conclusion that the war would be spiritedly refought.And always the word “if”had the most prominent part in the talk.
“If England had recognized us—”“If Jeff Davis had commandeered all the cotton and gotten it to England before the blockade tightened—”“If Longstreet had obeyed orders at Gettysburg—”“If Jeb Stuart hadn't been away on that raid when Marse Bob needed him—”“If we hadn't lost Stonewall Jackson—”“If Vicksburg hadn't fallen—”“If we could have held on another year—”And always:“If they hadn't replaced Johnston with Hood—”or “If they'd put Hood in command at Dalton instead of Johnston—”
If!If!The soft drawling voices quickened with an old excitement as they talked in the quiet darkness—infantryman,cavalryman,cannoneer,evoking memories of the days when life was ever at high tide,recalling the fierce heat of their midsummer in this forlorn sunset of their winter.
“They don't talk of anything else,”thought Scarlett.“Nothing but the war.Always the war.And they'll never talk of anything but the war.No,not until they die.”
She looked about,seeing little boys lying in the crooks of their fathers'arms,breath coming fast,eyes glowing,as they heard of midnight sorties and wild cavalry dashes and flags planted on enemy breastworks.They were hearing drums and bugles and the Rebel yell,seeing footsore men going by in the rain with torn flags slanting.
“And these children will never talk of anything else either.they'll think it was wonderful and glorious to fight the Yankees and come home blind and crippled—or not come home at all.They all like to remember the war,to talk about it.But I don't.I don't even like to think about it.I'd forget it all if I could—oh,if I only could!”
