Gone with the Wind

“You did so, Miss Scarlett,” said Peter, pushing out his lip even farther. “De pint is, needer you nor me had no bizness bein’ wid Yankees, so dey could ’sult me. Ef you hadn’t talked wid dem, dey wouldn’ had no chance ter treat me lak a mule or a Affikun. An’ you din’ tek up fer me, needer.”

“I did, too!” said Scarlett, stung by the criticism. “Didn’t I tell them you were one of the family?”

“Dat ain’ tekkin’ up. Dat’s jes’ a fac’,” said Peter. “Miss Scarlett, you ain’ got no bizness havin’ no truck wid Yankees. Ain’ no other ladies doin’ it. You wouldn’ ketch Miss Pitty wipin’ her lil shoes on sech trash. An’ she ain’ gwine lake it w’en she hear ’bout whut dey said ’bout me.”

Peter’s criticism hurt worse than anything Frank or Aunt Pitty or the neighbors had said and it so annoyed her she longed to shake the old darky until his toothless gums clapped together. What Peter said was true but she hated to hear it from a negro and a family negro, too. Not to stand high in the opinion of one’s servants was as humiliating a thing as could happen to a Southerner.

“A ole pet!” Peter grumbled. “Ah specs Miss Pitty ain’t gwine want me ter drive you roun’ no mo’ after dat. No, Ma’m!”

“Aunt Pitty will want you to drive me as usual,” she said sternly, “so let’s hear no more about it.”

“Ah’ll git a mizry in mak back,” warned Peter darkly. “Mah back huttin’ me so bad dis minute Ah kain sceercely set up. Mah Miss ain’ gwine want me ter do no drivin’ w’en Ah got a mizry… Miss Scarlett, it ain’ gwine do you no good ter stan’ high wid de Yankees an’ de w’ite trash, ef yo’ own folks doan ‘prove of you.”

That was as accurate a summing up of the situation as could be made and Scarlett relapsed into infuriated silence. Yes, the conquerors did approve of her and her family and her neighbors did not. She knew all the things the town was saying about her. And now even Peter disapproved of her to the point of not caring to be seen in public with her. That was the last straw.

Heretofore she had been careless of public opinion, careless and a little contemptuous. But Peter’s words caused fierce resentment to burn in her breast, drove her to a defensive position, made her suddenly dislike her neighbors as much as she disliked the Yankees.

“Why should they care what I do?” she thought. “They must think I enjoy associating with Yankees and working like a field hand. They’re just making a hard job harder for me. But I don’t care what they think. I won’t let myself care. I can’t afford to care now. But some day-some day-”

Oh some day! When there was security in her world again, then she would sit back and fold her hands and be a great lady as Ellen had been. She would be helpless and sheltered, as a lady should be, and then everyone would approve of her. Oh, how grand she would be when she had money again! Then she could permit herself to be kind and gentle, as Ellen had been, and thoughtful of other people and of the proprieties, to. She would not be driven by fears, day and night, and life would be a placid, unhurried affair. She would have time to play with her children and listen to their lessons. There would be long warm afternoons when ladies would call and, amid the rustlings of taffeta petticoats and the rhythmic harsh cracklings of palmetto fans, she would serve tea and delicious sandwiches and cakes and leisurely gossip the hours away. And she would be so kind to those who were suffering misfortune, take baskets to the poor and soup and jelly to the sick and “air” those less fortunate in her fine carriage. She would be a lady in the true Southern manner, as her mother had been. And then, everyone would love her as they had loved Ellen and they would say how unselfish she was and call her “Lady Bountiful.”

Her pleasure in these thoughts of the future was undimmed by any realization that she had no real desire to be unselfish or charitable or kind. All she wanted was the reputation for possessing these qualities. But the meshes of her brain were too wide, too coarse, to filter such small differences. It was enough that some day, when she had money, everyone would approve of her.

Some day! But not now. Not now, in spite of what anyone might say of her. Now, there was no time to be a great lady.

Peter was as good as his word. Aunt Pitty did get into a state, and Peter’s misery developed overnight to such proportions that he never drove the buggy again. Thereafter Scarlett drove alone and the calluses which had begun to leave her palms came back again.