by Anne Edwards
Peggy was known by almost everyone in Atlanta, and old friends felt honored that they had once been a part of her circle. Many had a favorite Margaret Mitchell story that they relished and told and retold. Those fortunate enough to have a signed book displayed it prominently in their living rooms or libraries, but few of them still felt that they could telephone Peggy just to chat or ask to visit with her on the spur of the moment. Peggy was seen in public now - she gave a party for Medora when her mystery book, Who Killed Aunt Maggie?, was made into a film and previewed in Atlanta, and she attended, for the first time in several years, a Georgia Press Association meeting with John. She was coming out of her shell, but no one’s attitude toward her was the same. The wasp waist was gone; the bright blue eyes, heavy-lidded; and years of indulging her taste for “corn likker” had made her face puffy. A small, select coterie of young men — admirers of Gone With the Wind who were somewhat awed at being acknowledged by its famous author — came often for tea or drinks, and to them Peggy was her “charming, funny self.” In essence, she was being treated like an aging film star whose glories were behind her but who had become “a legend in her own time.” There was always talk around her of “the Gone With the Wind years”; it was as though she had created an era — and had then outlived it.
A new cruiser, the U.S.S. Atlanta, was to be launched on August 9, 1941, at the Navy shipyards at Kearny, New Jersey, and Lieutenant Commander E. John Long, U.S.N., invited Peggy to come North to christen the ship. She swiftly accepted and, in an eight-page letter, asked the Lieutenant Commander all kinds of questions, with what she should wear topping the list. If a bouquet was to be presented to her, she requested that it not be large, explaining, “I am small, not quite five feet tall. On several dreadful occasions in the past I have found myself presented with arm bouquets made of flowers with stems a yard long.” She wondered if it would be “violating one of the Navy’s sacred traditions” if she had no flowers at all, or if she could lay them down someplace when it came time for the launching for, because of her smallness, she preferred to have both arms free so she “could take a good two-handed swing with the bottle.”
She also inquired of Lieutenant Commander Long whether it was customary for a sponsor to present a gift to the ship she christens. And if so, would “some after-dinner coffee cups which our Atlanta Historical Society had made by Wedgwood in England” be suitable? Each cup featured a small scene from old Atlanta, but they were small and delicate, and she realized that probably “Navy officers like cups which hold a quart. Please tell me,” she went on, “if you think the gift of the after-dinner cups would be inappropriate to such a highly masculine set of people as Naval officers.”
Frankly, the Lieutenant Commander did not think the demitasse set appropriate, but he simply replied that although her gesture was greatly appreciated, her presence at the launching would be gift enough to the U.S. Navy. He also provided her with the specifics she had requested and sent along a photograph of Eleanor Roosevelt swinging a large bottle against the side of a ship, in the hope that this would give Peggy some idea of what ladies usually wear to a christening. This did not satisfy her, however, and she wondered whether different attire would be required for a morning launching than for an afternoon one. Then, too, Mrs. Roosevelt’s heavy coat led her to believe that that launching was in the fall or winter, and August was dreadfully hot in places like New York and New Jersey.
Next to the honorary degree from Smith College, the invitation to christen the U.S.S. Atlanta was one of the most meaningful honors in Peggy’s life, and she was determined to do the correct thing by it. Shipyard strikes delayed the occasion and finally September 6, a Saturday, was set. She arrived on the Thursday before and, with a great deal of secrecy, reminiscent of her days at the Northwood, sneaked out of the Waldorf Astoria where she was staying, to see the Dowdeys in their new apartment on East Eighty-second Street. She had agreed with Macmillan that on the next morning, September 5, she would hold a large press interview in her suite. A table was set up along one wall, where she and the Macmillan publicity director were seated; extra chairs had been brought in to accommodate hosts of newspapermen and press photographers. Pinned to Peggy’s pale blue dress was a large white orchid sent to her by Mr. George Brett who, she remarked, “most probably doesn’t know I’m not the orchid type.”
Laughter.
Reporter: “Miss Mitchell have you ever christened a battleship before?”
MM: “Battleships are named after states, cruisers after cities. But no, I never have christened either one and I’m sure the news-reel will probably show me swinging one minute and dripping the next. Everyone in Atlanta has been thinking of everything that could possibly happen. I will hit it so hard I will knock a hole in it [the ship] and they will arrest me for sabotage. I am an old baseball player. I swing from my right. I was pitcher until I was fourteen but I was never good at hitting a ball so perhaps if I bunt it I won’t have to worry.”
Laughter again.
Reporter: “We were given photographs of you in a Red Cross uniform. Are you active in the Atlanta chapter?”
MM: “Oh yes. I’m the smallest in the class and the one always being demonstrated on. Classes are held in one of our very swanky clubs in the ballroom and the colored attendants were outraged at seeing me used for the fireman’s drag!”
With that, she stood up and to her audience’s delight, walked around the table, fell to the floor and demonstrated, while members of the press stood up on their chairs to get a good View.
MM: “You enter a burning building, tie the hands like this [crossed] lay them on their back, then on all fours crawl and drag them between your legs. To tie the hands you take any piece or strip of clothing from your outfit. [And then, she popped up to her feet and made her way back to the table.] The air is better on the floor than higher up.”
Applause.
Reporter: “What was it like just after Gone With the Wind was published?”
MM: “The phone rang every three minutes for twenty-four hours and the doorbell every five minutes.”
Reporter: “And now?”
MM: “Well, there is still a lot of business connected with the book. It is published in nineteen foreign countries including Canada and England and that means working under nineteen different copyright laws, nineteen different financial setups, nineteen different sets of unwritten customs. It all takes a great deal of time.”
Reporter: “Do you have an agent?”
MM: “A foreign agent, but I have no American agent. My husband is my business manager. My father and my brother are lawyers.”
Reporter: “Why did you file a second suit against the Dutch for copyright infringement?”
MM: “So that American books would be safe anywhere.”
Reporter: “How many copies of Gone With the Wind have been sold to date in the United States?”
Grinell: “2,868,000 copies.”
Reporter: “Do you hope to get back into writing?”
MM: “All I need is paper and opportunity.”
Reporter: “Someone said writing was an application of seats, pants, and chair.”
MM: [laughing] “It means just that and ... well, I would rather do anything else than write and I never ran across that lady, inspiration.”
Reporter: “What were your most vivid memories of the pre film days?”
MM: “Girls who had run away from their homes to try out for Scarlett O’Hara came to my door. ‘No, sugar, I can’t help you get into pictures,’ I‘d tell them. Then they’d beg for me to ask their schools not to expell them and their mothers not to tell anybody [that they had tried for Scarlett O’Hara]. It all took a lot of time. Then, there were people posing as me. One even tried to collect my royalties.”
Reporter: “The premiere in Atlanta in December, 1939, must have been exciting for you.”
MM: “Yes, it was, but there was a lot of unpleasantness because of the tickets. I only had two, and those only five hours before the sh
ow was to begin. About 300,000 people wanted to go and there were only 2,000 tickets. Some Atlanta women could say they had been to the unveiling of the Jefferson Davis Monument in 1884, but their daughters — if they had been ‘privileged’ — can now say, ‘Mama was there when Jefferson Davis came, but I was at the premiere [of Gone With the Wind].”
Reporter: “If you write another book would it be of the South?” MM: “Sugar, I don’t know anything else.”
The reporters left the press conference in high spirits, won over by Peggy’s own good humor. Afterwards, a luncheon for Peggy and fourteen members of the Macmillan staff was held in a small private room at the Waldorf. Mint juleps were served first and then Peggy was seated, at her request, with her copy editor, Miss Prink, on one side and George Brett on the other.
At 10:20 the next morning, in a navy outfit trimmed in crisp white, and a hat that looked as if it just might take sail, Peggy stood on the dock surrounded by Naval officers and photographers. The sun blinded her vision and she swung and missed three times before the bottle hit the side of the ship. “In baseball I would have been out,” she told Admiral Bowen, who was beside her, as a cheer rose from the rest of the spectators.
Talk of war was in the air morning, noon, and night. Unlike her Scarlett, Peggy was not bored by it nor did she necessarily think it was “men’s business, not ladies.” Christening the Atlanta had kindled in her a new sense of patriotism, and she threw herself into the task of rolling bandages and putting together “care” packages to send overseas. She protested loudly that she could not see how the United States could stay out of the war or how they were to stand with any degree of pride if they did. She was never to become a Roosevelt supporter, but she felt — much like her own character Stuart Tarleton — that the country would “have to fight or stand branded as cowards before the whole world.” She said it came as no surprise to her when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7, because she had never trusted those “varmints worth a damn.” Just before Christmas, Peggy went back to the Brooklyn Navy Yard to attend the commissioning ceremony of the Atlanta and then had luncheon aboard the ship, where all the men from Georgia lined up to meet her. The day after Christmas she wrote the U.S.S. Atlanta’s captain and asked if she could contribute something to the ship’s seamen’s fund, but the cruiser had begun its wartime service and was already heading out for enemy waters.
The following November, Peggy received the sad news that the U.S.S. Atlanta had been sunk off Guadalcanal and all the men on board were missing in action. It was not an easy thing for her to accept, for she felt a great sense of personal loss. But more than that, the sinking of the U.S.S. Atlanta brought back her old nightmares and, with them, a terrible foreboding about her own violent death.
Chapter Twenty-five
THE WAR gave Peggy’s life a direction it had not had since the final manuscript of Gone With the Wind had been turned over to Macmillan. She did everything she could to aid in the war effort — the new Mercury sedan the Marshes had bought before Pearl Harbor remained garaged to conserve fuel; she continued to roll bandages; both she and John became street wardens; and they coped with the shortages of sugar and butter and meat. Still, they felt fortunate when they thought of the British.
Peggy read all the books about the war that she could lay her hands on, and all the war coverage in the local newspapers. Each month she purchased a sizable war bond, and she worked relentlessly on a bond-selling campaign to raise $35 million to buy another cruiser to replace the U.S.S. Atlanta. One windy, freezing day she stood outside selling bonds for five hours.
“We had all the Atlanta Marines with us,” she wrote to a young Atlanta marine who had become a correspondent, “and they fired off a cannon every time anybody bought a thousand dollar bond. We were deafened and frozen but we had a wonderful time and raised $500,000.”
It is doubtful that any other woman in America could have raised the $65 million that Margaret Mitchell brought in in a matter of six weeks. It was enough money to replace the U.S.S. Atlanta and to pay for two destroyers as well. All of her fears of public speaking seemed to have been dispelled. In fact, there were vestiges of Maybelle in Peggy’s small person as she stood on boxes before microphones in factories and schools and city squares trying to shout her way into the hearts and pocketbooks of rich and poor.
The Gone With the Wind fan letters had all but stopped by this time, but Peggy’s postage expenses were larger than ever, as she carried on heavy correspondences with dozens of servicemen who hailed from Atlanta or from other Southern towns. Some she had known before the war; most, she had not, but often they were related to family or friends of hers. To Leodel Coleman of Statesboro, Georgia, after telling him all about civilian “hardships, shortages and the likes,” she explained, “I [want] you to know about the changes that are going on back here at home and the way civilians live. You and the other boys are so far away from us that if we do not tell you of the little things which make up the big changes in American wartime living, then you will never know about them.”
She griped quite a bit in these letters but thought griping was a “normal and healthy sign ... symptomatic of a free country where people can and do squawk and criticize the government. People of Germany can’t do this.”
The Marsh apartment on Piedmont Avenue had an open-door policy to servicemen, even those known only tangentially, and Peggy appeared to enjoy the informality of wartime life as she had never enjoyed the crush of fame. She behaved much in the way she had before Gone With the Wind, flirting harmlessly with the young men, who succumbed quickly to her warmth, good humor, and charm. Clifford Dowdey was amused by this when he and Helen came through Atlanta for a night, and he wrote Peggy later that she “must be having a return to her debutante days.”
In late March, just after her strenuous war-bond campaign, Peggy had an operation at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore to remove the cartilage between the lower lumbar vertebra and the vertebra above it, for the cartilage was pressing on the nerves that ran down her legs and into her feet. The doctor promised an end to her chronic backaches and the freedom to wear shoes of her choice, and she was in high spirits following the surgery, convinced that she owed her recovery to the Southern roots of the neurosurgeon. She wrote the Dowdeys that one day when this doctor and a group of interns were standing around her bed, she was moved to tell them about her Grandpa Mitchell back during the Civil War, and about “the gallantry, courage and the plain stupidity that made him stick his head up above the corn to lay his rifle across a splitrail fence. A minié ball went through the back of his head, fracturing it in two places.” At this point, she said, she put her best creative and reportorial efforts into the inspiring saga of her grandfather’s hitchhike to a Richmond hospital and his further travels on a flatcar to Atlanta, still without any medical attention. Then, to impress upon them how tough her grandfather was, she told them of his two marriages after the war, his begetting of twelve children, and his amassing of “a whacking amount” of Atlanta real estate and cash. Finished, she fell back “limply” on her pillows, ready for praise about her grandfather’s stamina.
The doctor considered her story in silence for a moment and then said, “How often did he have convulsions?”
“What do you mean, convulsions?” she asked. “Grandpa never had a convulsion in his life.”
“No convulsions? But he must have had convulsions with a brain injury at such a place,” the doctor countered.
“He never had any convulsions,” Peggy insisted, but, trying to be helpful, went on to admit that he had had the worst disposition and the shortest temper “of any good-looking man between the Potomac and the Rio Grande.” She thought she had impressed her surgeon, she wrote the Dowdeys, but he rose ponderously, summoning his entourage of white-coated interns.
“No convulsions,” he said, shaking his head indignantly. “I never heard the like.” And he took himself off, convinced, she was certain, that she was “several kinds of a liar.”
Peggy came home from the hospital on April 19, 1943, and was able to sit up half the day strapped up in a brace, which, she confided to Helen Dowdey, “improves my figure below but does nothing for my above, as thirty pounds below the waist have been displaced to the north. John says with the addition of a few medals I’d be a dead ringer for General Goering.”
To one of two brothers, former pressmen, who were both overseas during 1944, Peggy wrote that it was somehow difficult to think of them in uniform since, the last time she’d seen them both, at a Press Institute party, they had been in costume — dressed up like inhabitants of Dog Patch, with bare feet, torn clothes, a fishing pole, and a jug.
I enjoyed that tacky party enormously and my greatest enjoyment came from something you have probably forgotten. Do you remember how I knocked on your door to see if you were ready and you two came roaring out looking like Tabacco Road or something William Faulkner wrote about and chased me, screaming, down the hotel corridor, making gestures at me with jug and fishing pole? My own costume as you recall of hoop skirts and plumed hat and large doll was a bit strange to see. And just then those Yankee tourists got off on the wrong floor and caught a glimpse of us and decided that everything they had ever read about the South was true. I’ve often thought those poor tourists went back and lectured before culture clubs on their experiences in the South.
