Vignette 13
"That era has passed. Nothing that belonged to it exists any more." -Wong Kar-wai, In the Mood for Love
It was 1871 and Rufus Bullock, shamed and scorned, fled the heart of Georgia. Briefly came Conley, but the Republican Party was bleeding out—a decrepit, invalid mule. And alas, on the eve of 1872, the scallywags and the carpetbaggers would be licked once and for all. Redemption, they called it, redemption for the South. It was the twelfth of January when James M. Smith was sworn in as the Democratic governor of Georgia. Thus marked the end of an era.
When she penned her letter, she did not know that there would be no big stowaway, no scandalous elopement, no entwinement of lovers. The hotel room was empty, except for the remnants of a lonely Cuban cigar and the pungent smell of smoke—the recipient aboard a ship headed straight for European waters.
The baby was born many months later, a girl of blue eyes and black hair, and while Scarlett's indiscretions were far from forgotten, Frank was far too proud a father to even question the child's paternity. A child she was sure she would hate, being the catalyst in her misery, yet the girl had been a pleasant surprise, filling a lonely corner in her heart. Soon, Captain Butler, who had been such an entertaining commodity, became a passing fancy in Old Guard homes and Atlanta poker tables—a name to be brought up when all other topics were exhausted.
It made Scarlett question whether that brief, yet thrilling time of her life had really existed.
Frank would prove to be rather fickle, later confessing to being rash in his talk of divorce, that it had simply been the alcohol talking, though Scarlett knew Rhett Butler's departure and the birth of their daughter had much to do with his recanting. In the parlor, he often said how he hoped for a son.
"We have Wade," she would reply, though her husband paid little mind.
Much to her dismay, Scarlett's waist now measured a dreadful twenty inches.
And life would go on.
Fall of 1873
He had been heavily drunk when the letter first arrived. It was in his mother's penmanship, which he had become accustomed to reading, for she sent many frequent letters, informing him of all the dull and mundane happenings in Charleston. Yet, he did not mind and knew it was her way of comfort, of bridging the wide gap that years of separation had done to mother and son. In his rare moments of sobriety, he wrote back, leaving out all the debauched details of his attempts of forgetting Scarlett, though he found it was no use. His head turned at shuffling skirts and lilting laughter. He was drawn to fabrics and trinkets that she would adore, always carrying the color of her eyes. He could try to bury the memories with rouged faces and purchased embraces, but his heart ached for her innocent touches and the gentle aroma of lemon verbena. The charm and grace long forsaken and abandoned with his banishment were now rekindled in him, and the life that had seemed so plentiful and carefree had been dashed of its appeal—akin to discovering that glister did not in fact equal gold.
When he returned to his hotel room, in whatever part of the continent he was, he sat by the fire and let the thoughts that had been kept at bay by his restlessness fester in his mind. The whole game was a fool's endeavor—bound to end in ruin. Why had he partaken in it? Was it his desperation for her, his denial? And he who took without care, acting like a king with the world as his dinner table—he left, ran, fled. His father would be infuriatingly pleased to know that there was some honor left in him after all. Alas, he couldn't bring himself to ruin her. As long as Kennedy lived, he couldn't. So, he could only imagine, as he had been doing for the last decade.
The idea of his inevitable return to the South had crossed his mind many times, though no plans were made, no tickets were booked. Though, now it seems he would have to go sooner than he liked. Sooner than he was ready.
He took another generous swig of his drink and stood, slipping on his frock coat as the letter fell from his lap.
Dear Rhett,
I was not sure whether to inform you, but I know you regarded Mrs. Wilkes highly and it only seems right that you know. I am sad to say that yesterday Eulalie told me that Mrs. Wilkes passed away, and her child with her. I don't think you will make the funeral, but she will be buried at the location below and I also think a visit home is long overdue.
I hope you are healthy and are taking care of yourself. I worry about you every day and I wish to see you again.
Love, Mother
In the movie, after an hour or so of beautiful visuals and palpable longing, as the end of the relationship is marked, the vivid color is abruptly cut off by a black and white reel of Charles de Gaulle and a very brief account of history, which is a drastic change from the emotions being shared in earlier scenes. It is preceded by a freeze-frame of the quote used above: "That era has passed. Nothing that belonged to it exists anymore," not only referring to the relationship but creating historical parallels as well, which I tried to recreate here.
