by Anne Edwards
The weeks progressed and John’s condition did not improve. Finally, his brother Henry came down from Wilmington to see what he could do. Peggy met him at the railroad station. Henry was an intelligent, solid man who greatly resembled John, and Peggy was much relieved by his arrival. At the time, John’s was the only case of this kind on record in which a patient hiccoughed thirty-one days and didn’t die.
“I wish he had not picked such an elusive disease that doctor[s] know nothing about it,” Peggy wrote to Frances. “It would have been much easier to treat if he had gotten delirium tremens.”
A few days later, John had grown so weak that he had to be kept in an oxygen tent. Frantic about this turn, Peggy went directly from work to the hospital and remained by his bedside with Henry until midnight, when she called a taxi and went home. Her father and brother had already gone to bed and she went directly to her room, where she curled up on the bed and cried herself to sleep. When she woke, it was the middle of the night, and all she could manage was to kick off her shoes, set the alarm clock, and crawl under the covers, “clothes, stockings, hairpins and all.” She awoke the next morning to find the downstairs lights on, as they always were when she was out. “They probably thought I was just being modern and leading my own life like the girls in the magazines that father continues to read while he condemns them,” she wrote to Frances that morning. “I’ll have to do some tall explaining tonight.”
On the forty-second day, when the hiccoughs finally showed signs of abating, John spoke to Peggy of his deep love for her. But then, when the doctors reported that not only had his heart been weakened by the lengthy seizure, but that they had, in the course of their extensive tests, discovered that he suffered from petit mal, a form of epilepsy, he insisted they wait to talk about anything as serious as getting married until he was fully recovered and had had further tests.
He was dangerously thin and unable to eat without pain. The doctors diagnosed an infected gallbladder and removed the organ.
John spent all of March and April recuperating at home, and during this time he took an even greater interest in Peggy’s work, penciling in his corrections on her copy as he had done before, but now adding comments that had whiffs of his school-teacher’s background. “Good!” he wrote on the margin of a story she did on One-Eye Connelly, one of the world’s most famous gate-crashers. “Inconsistent,” he chastised on a paragraph of an interview in which there were three different colloquial spellings of one word.
By May, John’s health had improved. He’d gained weight, his skin looked less pasty, and he was able to work full-time at the office. Still, he was quite nervous. The long siege of illness had been costly and he was heavily in debt to the hospital and doctors. Perhaps even more disconcerting was the confirmation that he had epilepsy, that it could have been the prime cause of his hiccoughs, and that he had to be prepared for the possibility of another seizure — either hiccoughs or an epileptic fit. He was taught what to do in case of an attack and he gave Peggy instructions for handling the situation if she should be with him at the time. He asked that they wait to set a date to be married. To Stephens and her father’s suggestions that John might be right, Peggy replied, “John and I are going to live poor as hell and get out of this jam.”
But Marsh did not want Peggy to work after they were married, despite her claims that not only did she not mind working, she preferred it. Using Frances as an intermediary, she pointed out that her paycheck would help out on the expenses and, besides, it was more fun to work than to keep house. Furthermore, her best friends worked and she thought a mug of coffee at the Roachery far more interesting than a bridge or Mahjongg tea. John was not easily convinced. A few months later, Peggy was to write her only published magazine piece, “Matrimonial Bonds,” for the Open Door, a local publication. Using the fictional names Nancy and Bill, she recreated the series of arguments she and John had had over whether they should wait to be married until she could be a “married lady of leisure.”
Bill has a sneaking, old-fashioned suspicion under his modern double-breasted coat, that Nancy’s having held a job before her marriage had somehow unfitted her for wifehood.... He doesn’t take into consideration that Nancy is a wise young person and will make a wise young wife. The reason for this is that Nancy has been through it all — been through the long hours of office work when employers were grouchy and she was tired, been through the long strap hangings on smelly homebound cars. She’s learned how much a dollar means. A dollar is not just a shining silver disk or a crackling bit of paper. It’s so many hours’ wait when you want to be out swimming, so many hours of making tired fingers fly. And she won’t be quite so eager to say airily, “Charge it!” After she is married, she’ll think three times about buying chiffon stockings by the dozen. For if she loves Bill she can’t help thinking how much of his sweat went into those dollars.
Her arguments were persuasive and they set Independence Day, 1925, as the date of their wedding.
In May, Peggy covered a tea dance at the Biltmore and, according to Medora, “brightened the occasion considerably for dowagers at a nearby table.” She had attached brass bells to her garters and, as the photographer who accompanied her whirled her past the dowagers’ table, “there was a flash of garter and bells tinkled from under her short skirt.” It was Peggy’s last lark as a single woman.
On June 15, John Marsh and Peggy Mitchell applied for their marriage license. Peggy lied about her age, listing it as twenty-two (she was twenty-four), said she had been divorced on grounds of cruel treatment in October, 1924, and then did not sign the document. John, however, did.
This time, Peggy’s family was enthusiastic about the match. It was decided that the announcement and the wedding itself would be handled as a first marriage, and no mention of the earlier one was made in the newspaper accounts of either the engagement or the ceremony. Grandmother Stephens put aside her religious reservations for a second time to help with the plans.
Peggy’s Sunday feature stories for July 5 and 12 were written between fittings and wedding preparations. For the story on the latter date, “Atlanta Boys Don’t Want Rich Wives,” she asked some seniors from the University of Georgia what they looked for in a wife. One of them, Sam Tupper, who was to become a close friend of Peggy and John, put “a civilized mind” at the top of his list; then, in descending order of importance, disposition, love of home and children, social position, personal appearance, health, religion, wealth, artistic talents, independence of spirit.
Mr. Tupper’s peers agreed almost unanimously with these qualifications. One College senior said, “A girl who is successful as a homemaker is more of a genius than one who paints a beautiful picture or writes a best-seller.” Peggy withheld editorial comment, though she slyly concluded her article with a quote from another student who thought “the clinging-vine type of woman” was “detestable” and was in favor of a woman “who does not follow a career, who is dedicated to her home and family, and yet is not above the necessity for honest, respectable toil, if need arise.”
To understand Peggy Mitchell’s future attitudes toward herself, it is important to consider the climate in which she lived. Maybelle was no longer at her shoulder encouraging her to be a free-thinking, independent woman, and Peggy did not have the self-confidence to do more than flout convention. The bells on her garters, the gift of a purple nightie, the boyish clothes she had once worn were gestures of independence, but she was never able or inclined to follow them up. Since her drastic misjudgment of Red Upshaw’s character and the humiliation this had caused, her father’s, Stephens’s, and now John’s approval had become most important to her. She harbored innumerable insecurities and feelings of inadequacy. If Maybelle had lived, she would have been disappointed in her only daughter; of that, Peggy was sure. She had not carried out her early dream of being a woman of medicine; she had not even graduated from college. Society had snubbed her. She had betrayed her first romantic, ideal love with a marriage to a scoundrel, a dr
unk, a pervert who had abused her physically, and she was certain that if the story got out, it would expose her weakness in allowing flesh to rule mind. She was also aware that she had chosen to go to work as an out and not as a means. In light of her future behavior, it seems obvious that Peggy thought the young gentlemen she had interviewed at the University of Georgia about prospective wives were probably right. All the things she was not and could not be were highly valued, and the things she esteemed — artistic talent and independence of spirit — were at the bottom of the list.
From the moment she and John decided to marry, certain things were tacitly accepted by each of them. Because of John’s illness and the fear that the epilepsy could be passed on, there would be no children, a decision that seemed to relieve rather than disturb Peggy. She would work only until John was out of debt and they were able to sustain themselves on his salary; and they would not live in the house on Peachtree Street.
A few months before the wedding, Marsh wrote a long letter to his old girlfriend, Kitty Mitchell, telling her about his plans and his love for Peggy and including a photograph of them together. As the weeks went by and Kitty did not reply, John became distressed and discussed his feelings frequently with Peggy, who, in turn, told Frances that she thought Kitty was being ungenerous and that she should be “sincerely glad in the happiness of her old flame.”
Actually, Kitty Mitchell had not had the depth of feeling for John that he had had for her, and now she was married and had a family and responsibilities of her own. However, just a few weeks before the wedding, a reply did arrive, congratulating him on his “good fortune at finding such a pretty and obviously clever young woman.” Peggy wasted no time in conveying to Frances how happy this made John. Kitty Mitchell, she explained, was a sort of beloved legend to him and, after all, men had so few really beautiful legends that it grieved her to see one ruined in any way “with a touch of reality and human nature creeping in.”
Though he might have harbored romantic fantasies of Kitty, there was no question that John Marsh was very much in love with Peggy. On her part, she respected John’s honor and felt grateful that, after her degrading marriage, he considered her worthy of his love. John had a spotless reputation, and his willingness to overlook Peggy’s past seemed to diminish its significance. He stood with her against Red Upshaw and acted as a buffer between herself and her father and brother. Too, he needed her and openly admired her.
Though Peggy gloried in feeling desirable and playing the Southern coquette, sex itself had been a painful, distressing experience for her. Marsh had made no demands upon her, and his nature was such that she felt confident he would never take advantage of his position as her husband if she did not want him to. Nor did he appear to be jealous, allowing her to bask in the flattery of the young men in her circle and those she encountered through the newspaper without censure. He even encouraged her to keep her relationship with Clifford Henry’s parents alive.
Peggy’s love for John Marsh was to grow with the years but, at the time, the marriage was undoubtedly a compromise for her, though one she felt was right and would bring no regrets. John Marsh was a perfect Southern gentleman, and with him Peggy felt safe for the first time in her mature life.
They were married at five o’clock on Saturday, July 4, 1925, at the Unitarian-Universalist Church on West Peachtree Street. Peggy wore a sleeveless chiffon afternoon dress in shades of pansy purple over orchid satin — the same color scheme she had chosen for her first wedding. Narrow silver and orchid ribbons, and tiny green and pink silk flowers adorned the waist-line of her dress. An orchid picture hat of hand-woven straw trimmed with a cluster of matching moire ribbons, and a corsage of orchids, lilies of the valley, and pink roses added a touch of glamour to the costume and, she told Medora, made her feel “very Bebe Daniels.” Her feminine sandals were responsible for some of her good feeling about her appearance. She had been adamant about this purchase, refusing to wear her heavy orthopedic shoes as a bride.
Being married on Independence Day struck both Peggy and John as a fine omen. The wedding was smaller and not nearly as lavish as her previous one and, perhaps out of deference to Eugene Mitchell’s financial state, the guests came back to the house for tea and cake. A high spirit prevailed, for the guest list included many of John and Peggy’s co-workers and a large quantity of alcohol was secretly consumed. When the bridal couple started for the car that was to take them to the mountains of North Carolina, they were “kidnapped” by a group of guests and taken down to the Peachtree Yacht Club, where everyone toasted the bride and groom again — and again. Peggy was later to confide to two close friends that a buddy of John’s, the burly writer Ward Greene, had accompanied them on their week-long honeymoon. Greene was a part of the wedding party and, as he had no doubt imbibed generously, he might well have driven off with the newlyweds; whether he remained with them on their honeymoon is not known.
John and Peggy agreed upon two luxuries in their first home together: the services of a part-time cook–housekeeper, Lula Tolbert, and no stinting on the heat in winter. Even their combined salaries just barely covered necessities as they struggled to repay John’s medical bills. So as not to add to these, John went to the Veterans’ Hospital for a free general examination a few weeks after the honeymoon. To his surprise, the doctors concluded that his series of bizarre illnesses were service-oriented and of psychosomatic origin. Though he had not been in the trenches himself, the shock of seeing so many mangled, dying men in his medical unit and of hearing the constant sound of explosives had resulted in a severe nervous condition, which had been recorded on his Army records at the time of his discharge. The doctors told him he was eligible for government compensation provided that he sign papers that would state for the record that he was receiving this monthly stipend because he suffered from a “service-oriented psychosomatic illness.”
The compensation offered was not a fortune, but it would have considerably eased John’s financial pressures. Still, it seemed a serious move to sign a document that inferred he had an emotional or mental disturbance. Stephens was consulted and he advised his new brother-in-law to struggle on without the Army compensation, because one day it “might be misunderstood and embarrass you.” Peggy agreed, so John refused the pension. But lack of money did not seem to inhibit Peggy’s newfound happiness. She was finally mistress of her own home and could do whatever she wanted — keep the temperature up to a hundred degrees if she so wished, entertain anyone she liked, and leave stacks of dishes overnight and her bed unmade until Lula arrived.
The Marshes quickly named their small apartment at 17 Crescent Avenue the “Dump.” Throughout the bitterly cold winter of 1925 to 1926, the Dump was probably the warmest, liveliest small place in Atlanta. Peggy set to work painting it herself. Furnished in an off-beat style with family hand-medowns, the apartment could have been set in the heart of Greenwich Village. It consisted of two cramped rooms, a galley kitchen, and a bath on the ground floor of a three-story red brick building. Large, brightly patterned and tasseled silk scarves covered the faded, lumpy couch and the scratched surfaces of tables and chests. Makeshift shelves were jammed with Peggy’s prized historical volumes and her collection of contemporary poetry and fiction. Maybelle’s ancient sewing machine was pushed into the narrow hallway and covered with an old bedspread, with Peggy’s Remington typewriter stored beneath it, to be brought out to turn the crowded narrow entryway into an “office” when necessary.
The building that housed the Dump abutted a shoe-repair shop and was only a few steps away from the Tenth Street shopping section. The neighborhood was called “Tight Squeeze” and had a colorful history. Before the Civil War, when the suburbs of Atlanta were infested with criminals, it had been a hangout for robbers. The road at that time had been narrow and crooked, running along a steep ravine, and it became a common saying that it took “a mighty tight squeeze to get through with one’s life.” At the turn of the century, the road was straightened and the ravine, whi
ch in some places was thirty feet deep, was filled in. There was a story that a bank robber had once been killed on the exact spot where the Dump was located, and this rather lurid history amused Peggy.
Peggy was a superb raconteur and, unlike most Southern women, she enjoyed a “man’s” joke, was not embarrassed by strong language, and could hold her corn liquor. John was her best audience, prodding her to tell stories he had already heard several times, leading her into her punchlines. The Dump quickly became a gathering place for the Marshes’ newspaper friends, who came carrying their own bottles. They noted the unusual relationship between the Marshes, who seemed to them to be more like bosom buddies than a married couple. Tacked to the front door of the Dump were two cards, reading, “Miss Margaret Munnerlyn Mitchell” and “Mr. John R. Marsh.” The cards were indicative of the tone of their relationship and, to Peggy’s delight, pleased her friends and shocked her neighbors. Marriage and moving away from Peachtree Street had a temporarily liberating effect on Peggy and, in the first few months at the Dump, there was a kind of buoyant recklessness in her attitudes. Whereas later she was to guard her privacy with a waspish tenacity, as a newlywed she not only opened her home to friends, she made it the center of their social world.
Peggy no longer fretted about her exclusion from Atlanta society, for she had found her own social circle. Her friends were the many newspaper people and young writers in Atlanta, and in her constellation she was a star — a feature writer with a by-line. The fact that she was earning only thirty dollars a week did not diminish her shine; most of her friends earned less. Weekends usually found six or seven of them each night for dinner, everyone bringing contributions of food and booze. There weren’t chairs or space for more.