“I should not write those words. I should not even think them. But you have asked me what was in my heart, and the
fear of defeat is there. Do you remember at the barbecue, the day our engagement was announced, that a man named Butler,
a Charlestonian by his accent, nearly caused a fight by his remarks about the ignorance of Southerners? Do you recall how
the twins wanted to shoot him because he said we had few foundries and factories, mills and ships, arsenals and machine
shops? Do you recall how he said the Yankee fleet could bottle us up so tightly we could not ship out our cotton? He was
right. We are fighting the Yankees’ new rifles with Revolutionary War muskets, and soon the blockade will be too tight
for even medical supplies to slip in. We should have paid heed to cynics like Butler who knew, instead of statesmen who
felt—and talked. He said, in effect, that the South had nothing with which to wage war but cotton and arrogance. Our
cotton is worthless and what he called arrogance is all that is left. But I call that arrogance matchless courage. If—”
But Scarlett carefully folded up the letter without finishing it and thrust it back into the envelope, too bored to
read further. Besides, the tone of the letter vaguely depressed her with its foolish talk of defeat. After all, she wasn
’t reading Melanie’s mail to learn Ashley’s puzzling and uninteresting ideas. She had had to listen to enough of them
when he sat on the porch at Tara in days gone by.
All she wanted to know was whether he wrote impassioned letters to his wife. So far he had not. She had read every
letter in the writing box and there was nothing in any one of them that a brother might not have written to a sister.
They were affectionate, humorous, discursive, but not the letters of a lover. Scarlett had received too many ardent love
letters herself not to recognize the authentic note of passion when she saw it. And that note was missing. As always
after her secret readings, a feeling of smug satisfaction enveloped her, for she felt certain that Ashley still loved
her. And always she wondered sneeringly why Melanie did not realize that Ashley only loved her as a friend. Melanie
evidently found nothing lacking in her husband’s messages but Melanie had had no other man’s love letters with which to
compare Ashley’s”
“He writes such crazy letters,” Scarlett thought “If ever any husband of mine wrote me such twaddle-twaddle, he’d
certainly hear from me! Why, even Charlie wrote better letters than these.”
She flipped back the edges of the letters, looking at the dates, remembering their contents. In them there were no fine
descriptive pages of bivouacs and charges such as Darcy Meade wrote his parents or poor Dallas McLure had written his
old-maid sisters, Misses Faith and Hope. The Meades and McLures proudly read these letters all over the neighborhood, and
Scarlett had frequently felt a secret shame that Melanie had no such letters from Ashley to read aloud at sewing circles.
It was as though when writing Melanie, Ashley tried to ignore the war altogether, and sought to draw about the two of
them a magic circle of timelessness, shutting out everything that had happened since Fort Sumter was the news of the day.
It was almost as if he were trying to believe there wasn’t any war. He wrote of books which he and Melanie had read and
songs they had sung, of old friends they knew and places he had visited on his Grand Tour. Through the letters ran a
wistful yearning to be back home at Twelve Oaks, and for pages he wrote of the hunting and the long rides through the
still forest paths under frosty autumn stars, the barbecues, the fish fries, the quiet of moonlight nights and the serene
charm of the old house.
