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= ROOT|In_Russian|Margaret_Mitchell|Gone_with_the_wind.txt =

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Margaret Mitchell
Gone with the wind
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TO J.R.M.
  
  Part One
  CHAPTER I

  SCARLETT O'HARA was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm 
as the Tarleton twins were. In her face were too sharply blended the delicate features of 
her mother, a Coast aristocrat of French descent, and the heavy ones of her florid Irish 
father. But it was an arresting face, pointed of chin, square of jaw. Her eyes were pale 
green without a touch of hazel, starred with bristly black lashes and slightly tilted at 
the ends. Above them, her thick black brows slanted upward, cutting a startling oblique 
line in her magnolia-white skin-that skin so prized by Southern women and so carefully 
guarded with bonnets, veils and mittens against hot Georgia suns.
  Seated with Stuart and Brent Tarleton in the cool shade of the porch of Tara, her 
father's plantation, that bright April afternoon of 1861, she made a pretty picture. Her 
new green flowered-muslin dress spread its twelve yards of billowing material over her 
hoops and exactly matched the flat-heeled green morocco slippers her father had recently 
brought her from Atlanta. The dress set off to perfection the seventeen-inch waist, the 
smallest in three counties, and the tightly fitting basque showed breasts well matured 
for her sixteen years. But for all the modesty of her spreading skirts, the demureness of 
hair netted smoothly into a chignon and the quietness of small white hands folded in her 
lap, her true self was poorly concealed. The green eyes in the carefully sweet face were 
turbulent, willful, lusty with life, distinctly at variance with her decorous demeanor. 
Her manners had been imposed upon her by her mother's gentle admonitions and the sterner 
discipline of her mammy; her eyes were her own.
  On either side of her, the twins lounged easily in their chairs, squinting at the 
sunlight through tall mint-garnished glasses as they laughed and talked, their long legs, 
booted to the knee and thick with saddle muscles, crossed negligently. Nineteen years 
old, six feet two inches tall, long of bone and hard of muscle, with sunburned faces and 
deep auburn hair, their eyes merry and arrogant, their bodies clothed in identical blue 
coats and mustard-colored breeches, they were as much alike as two bolls of cotton.
  Outside, the late afternoon sun slanted down in the yard, throwing into gleaming 
brightness the dogwood trees that were solid masses of white blossoms against the 
background of new green. The twins' horses were hitched in the driveway, big animals, red 
as their masters' hair; and around the horses' legs quarreled the pack of lean, nervous 
possum hounds that accompanied Stuart and Brent wherever they went. A little aloof, as 
became an aristocrat, lay a black-spotted carriage dog, muzzle on paws, patiently waiting 
for the boys to go home to supper.
  Between the hounds and the horses and the twins there was a kinship deeper than that of 
their constant companionship. They were all healthy, thoughtless young animals, sleek, 
graceful, high-spirited, the boys as mettlesome as the horses they rode, mettlesome and 
dangerous but, withal, sweet-tempered to those who knew how to handle them.
  Although born to the ease of plantation life, waited on hand and foot since infancy, 
the faces of the three on the porch were neither slack nor soft. They had the vigor and 
alertness of country people who have spent all their lives in the open and troubled their 
heads very little with dull things in books. Life in the north Georgia county of Clayton 
was still new and, according to the standards of Augusta, Savannah and Charleston, a 
little crude. The more sedate and older sections of the South looked down their noses at 
the up-country Georgians, but here in north Georgia, a lack of the niceties of classical 
education carried no shame, provided a man was smart in the things that mattered. And 
raising good cotton, riding well, shooting straight, dancing lightly, squiring the ladies 
with elegance and carrying one's liquor like a gentleman were the things that mattered.
  In these accomplishments the twins excelled, and they were equally outstanding in their 
notorious inability to learn anything contained between the covers of books. Their family 
had more money, more horses, more slaves than any one else in the County, but the boys 
had less grammar than most of their poor Cracker neighbors.
  It was for this precise reason that Stuart and Brent were idling on the porch of Tara 
this April afternoon. They had just been expelled from the University of Georgia, the 
fourth university that had thrown them out in two years; and their older brothers, Tom 
and Boyd, had come home with them, because they refused to remain at an institution where 
the twins were not welcome. Stuart and Brent considered their latest expulsion a fine 
joke, and Scarlett, who had not willingly opened a book since leaving the Fayetteville 
Female Academy the year before, thought it just as amusing as they did.
  "I know you two don't care about being expelled, or Tom either," she said. "But what 
about Boyd? He's kind of set on getting an education, and you two have pulled him out of 
the University of Virginia and Alabama and South Carolina and now Georgia. He'll never 
get finished at this rate."
  "Oh, he can read law in Judge Parmalee's office over in Fayetteville," answered Brent 
carelessly. "Besides, it don't matter much. We'd have had to come home before the term 
was out anyway."
  "Why?"
  "The war, goose! The war's going to start any day, and you don't suppose any of us 
would stay in college with a war going on, do you?"
  "You know there isn't going to be any war," said Scarlett, bored. "It's all just talk. 
Why, Ashley Wilkes and his father told Pa just last week that our commissioners in 
Washington would come to-to-an-amicable agreement with Mr. Lincoln about the Confederacy. 
And anyway, the Yankees are too scared of us to fight. There won't be any war, and I'm 
tired of hearing about it."
  "Not going to be any war!" cried the twins indignantly, as though they had been 
defrauded.
  "Why, honey, of course there's going to be a war," said Stuart. The Yankees may be 
scared of us, but after the way General Beauregard shelled them out of Fort Sumter day 
before yesterday, they'll have to fight or stand branded as cowards before the whole 
world. Why, the Confederacy-"
  Scarlett made a mouth of bored impatience.
  If you say 'war' just once more, I'll go in the house and shut the door. I've never 
gotten so tired of any one word in my life as 'war,' unless it's 'secession.' Pa talks 
war morning, noon and night, and all the gentlemen who come to see him shout about Fort 
Sumter and States' Rights and Abe Lincoln till I get so bored I could scream! And that's 
all the boys talk about, too, that and their old Troop. There hasn't been any fun at any 
party this spring because the boys can't talk about anything else. I'm mighty glad 
Georgia waited till after Christmas before it seceded or it would have ruined the 
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