Road to Tara

by Anne Edwards

  She did not give Latham an unqualified acceptance. “Coming of a legal family,” she explained, “I do not like to accept any contract no matter how nice without seeing it, so please send it to me and I will give you an answer just as soon as I can look it over.”

  Peggy concluded her letter with a statement which, true or not, she was to make over and over again in the years to come: “I never expected to get an offer for the book because it was written just to please my husband and myself and to keep me occupied during the months I was lame.”

  Latham instantly sent Peggy C. W. Everett’s enthusiastic report. Everett had managed to condense her 600,000-word story into five typewritten pages, and he ended his synopsis with the following critique:

  This book is really magnificent. Its human qualities would make it good against any background, and when they are shown on the stage of the Civil War and reconstruction the effect is breathtaking. Furthermore, it has a high degree of literary finish. Take for instance, in the evacuation of Atlanta, the ridiculous appearance made by the aristocratic Mrs. Elsing in the morning as she drives furiously out of town with her carriage bulging with flour and beans and bacon. Then see Pansy leaving that night — with a worn-out horse and broken down wagon, and those literally beyond price so that only a strong man like Rhett could have secured them. And at Tara Pansy faces starvation. Yet there is no reference made by the author to the previous scene; it simply marks an increase in the tempo. It is perhaps in this control of tempo that the book is most impressive. When the writer wants things to seem slow, timeless, eternal, that is the way they move. But her prestissimo is prestissimo and her fortissimo is FFF. For like King Lear, Pansy learns “There is no worst as long as we can say ‘this is the worst.’”

  By all means take the book. It can’t possibly turn out badly. With a clean copy made of what we have, a dozen lines could bridge the existing gaps.... There really are surprisingly few loose ends, and the number of times one’s emotions are stirred one way or another is surprising. I am sure that it is not only a good book, but a best seller. It’s much better than Stark Young [author of the recently published Civil War book So Red the Rose] and the literary device of using an unsympathetic character to arouse sympathetic emotions seems to me admirable.

  The end is slightly disappointing, as there may be a bit too much finality about Rhett’s refusing to go on.... Take the book at once. Tell the author not to do anything to it but bridge the gaps and strengthen the last page.

  Peggy responded to Latham by special delivery two days later, on July 27, that she had not expected “so swell a report” and that it was only by “bearing up sturdily” that she kept from going to bed again with “Luminal and ice packs.” Professor Everett did have some reservations about the author’s use of certain words and phrases and, to Everett’s suggestion that “the author should keep out her own feelings in one or two places where she talked about the negroes,” Peggy agreed that he was absolutely right, and said she had tried to keep out venom, bias, and bitterness as much as possible. All “V, band b in the book” were to come not from the author, she explained, but “through the eyes and heads and tongues of the characters, as reactions from what they saw and heard and felt.” Everett had called her on her references to “Mammy’s ape face” and “black paws,” descriptions she was willing to change, although, she said, she had “meant no disrespect to Mammy for I have heard so many negroes refer to their hands as ‘black paws’ and when an old and wrinkled negro woman is sad there is nothing else in the world she looks like except a large ape. But I had not realized how differently this sounded in type.”

  She agreed with Everett at this time that there might be a bit too much finality in Rhett’s departure, but added, “I think she gets him in the end.” This seems to be the only time she ever made such a statement in a letter or interview. She conceded that it “might not hurt to hint as much a little more strongly,” adding, “My own intention when I wrote it was to leave the end open to the reader. (Yes, I know that’s not a satisfactory way to do!)” She had not read that section of the manuscript for two years and did not even have a copy. Her “vague memory” was that she had done no more than synopsize that chapter and she suggested to Latham that perhaps a rewrite would bring it closer to the more definite ending that Everett wanted.

  At this time, she stated that she preferred the version where Frank Kennedy died of illness to the Ku Klux Klan one, exciting though that was, because “the Ku Klux Klan material has been worked pretty hard by others.” She had written the Ku Klux Klan version when, in rereading that part of the book, she had felt that there was a “very definite sag of interest over a range of 6 chapters.” The inclusion of the Klan was an attempt to strengthen that section without “a lot of melodramatic incident.” She asked Latham to let her complete the book without the Ku Klux Klan version and if he did not like it and Macmillan’s advisors did not like it then she would gladly go back to the first version. And, she went on, “The same applies to remarks written about the ending. If you don’t like the way it looks when you get the final copy, tell me and I’ll change it. I’ll change it any way you want, except to make it a happy ending.”

  No one at Macmillan liked the name Pansy for the central character. In the North, the word was used to refer to effeminate men. But Southerners, Peggy explained to Latham, referred “to Pansies as Fairies or by another less euphemistic but far more descriptive term.” She agreed, however, that if the name was offensive in the North, then she would have to try “to think of another name equally inappropriate.”

  As most of the chapters had not been numbered, Latham and Professor Everett had had some difficulty with the chronology of the story, and two characters — Pansy’s first daughter, Ella; and Archie — appeared suddenly and without any introduction. To Peggy’s embarrassment, she realized that the chapters in which these characters made their first entrances had not been given to Latham. With Bessie, who kept track of Peggy’s papers, out ill, the search she made for them was not successful, although she did find the incomplete early drafts, and sent these on with the note: “The best way I can place these is to say that they come after the chapter on Gerald’s death.”

  She had not said a word about receiving the contract, and Macmillan was considerably disturbed by this fact. Actually, the document had not yet arrived in Atlanta when Peggy wrote to Latham on July 27. Someone in the legal department had forgotten to send it by special delivery. On July 30, Latham wrote her:

  My dear Mrs. Marsh,

  Your letter of July 27th has just reached me. I judge when you wrote it you had not received the contract as you made no mention of it. I hope by this time you have had it and found it satisfactory. If it isn’t and you want it changed in any part, let me know wherein and I will see what can be done about it. I shan’t be entirely happy until the contract is an accepted fact you see.

  I am glad you liked the report.... I think your suggestion to withhold criticism on the Pansy–Rhett outcome until the book is in final form is just the thing to do. In fact, I think that is what we want to do with everything. We have large faith in this book — very large faith, indeed. We want it to be the best possible book it can be. We shall spare no effort ourselves to bring that about and once we publish it we shall spare no effort to make it the success which we are confident it should be. So don’t think we’ll hesitate to work with you to the limit. We are out to do just that sort of thing.... I wish I could make you understand just how I feel about this book. I think I am as happy over it as though I had written it myself.

  Sincerely yours,

  H. S. Latham

  From the start, Latham felt certain that Peggy Mitchell Marsh had written a book that could give Lamb in His Bosom a run for its popularity. Mrs. Marsh had told a riveting story, managing to sustain suspense throughout over two thousand manuscript pages, and this despite the fact that the final resolutions of some chapters were still in question; the last chapter and the death of Frank Kennedy,
especially. The motivations of the characters, however, were never in doubt. For, whether — as in the case of Frank Kennedy — death was to come by violence or illness, Pansy’s responsibility for her husband’s premature death remained. And either way, Frank’s death reactivated the Pansy–Rhett relationship. And, by the end, Rhett had taken as much as a real man could from a castrating wife — he had to leave in the last chapter.

  Later, F. Scott Fitzgerald was to observe that the book had “none of the elements that make literature — especially no new examination into human emotions.” Latham felt much the same way. A fine and experienced editor, he did not think he had discovered a literary masterpiece. But he did believe the book was irresistible. Peggy Marsh possessed a natural narrative genius that gave an honesty and validity to her writing. And, more important, she was simply the best storyteller he had ever encountered in his job. She had managed to juggle hundreds of characters and incidents, never allowing the action to flag, and she had told a love story that sustained its passion to the very last page.

  It was amazing to him that, despite the extraordinary length of the book, even the most minor characters were easily identifiable, as well as absolutely indispensable to the plot.

  It was true that the main characters were not remarkably original. Pansy seemed to owe a lot to Thackeray’s Becky Sharp; and Rhett Butler, to St. Elmo. But there was an immediacy to Mrs. Marsh’s development of them, as if this was a firsthand account, not a story being retold, but one happening for the first time on the pages she had written. And not only was the book a page-turner, it was about the South and dealt fully with both the war and Reconstruction, something no other Southern novel had done. In 1935, it had a relevancy that was unique. The United States had not only survived a recent war, but it had also come through the worst of the Depression, in which people’s lives had again been upended, and only those hardy souls like Rhett and Pansy had managed to turn the situation around to their own advantage.

  Latham knew one thing; he was not going to let this book slip through his fingers. He was willing and ready to do everything he could to please this incredible Mrs. Marsh who, he was beginning to realize, was more naive than demanding.

  Peggy received her contract in the mail on the first of August and, after going over it with John and her father, she composed a letter to Latham in which she questioned several of its terms.

  For one thing, she wished to have the book identified more clearly, as her father, “a lawyer of the old school who can pursue a technicality to the bottom of the haystack,” had warned her that failure to identify the property could render the entire contract invalid. To avoid this, she suggested that Macmillan replace “A Novel” with “Novel of the South (exact title to be determined).”

  She asked for approval of the jacket design, to ensure that nothing unsouthern should appear “to arouse mirth and indignation.” And, in regard to the clause that stated, “Movie and dramatic rights shall remain author’s prior to publication,” she inquired, “How about after publication?” pointing out that they had worded serial rights in the same way. About the line, “Shall be apportioned as mutually arranged,” she wondered what would happen if she and the publisher did not mutually agree. “Couldn’t we arrange and agree now?” she asked, and then she considered another possibility: “What if Macmillan goes bankrupt?”

  Latham showed her letter to Lois Cole. A chilly undercurrent now became manifest in the relationship between the two women. Lois always had the feeling that she was responsible for the discovery of Peggy’s book, and she displayed great pride in this. Yet, a certain jealous competitiveness developed on her side of the friendship after Macmillan asked to publish the novel. Lois had written a nonfiction book herself, but she admired novelists and their books more than anything. On August 5, she wrote a rather snide letter to her old friend:

  My dear Child,

  May I take the liberty of pointing out that you are not dealing with a 5th rate ... publisher? If your contract had come from Greenberg ... your suspicions — in fact all suspicions — might have been easily understood. However, the contract came from us and it was the regular printed form which some 12,000 Macmillan authors have signed without a qualm! In fact, I signed one myself. The additional clauses are worded in the same way that thousands of similar clauses and similar contracts have been worded. If Macmillan goes bankrupt no one would be in any state to worry about what becomes of any novel. Gibraltar is no more firmly founded and we will go only with the last stage of the revolution.

  Love,

  Lois

  Peggy received this the next day and was horrified that she might have acted in an unprofessional and unappreciative manner, perhaps even angering Macmillan to the point where they would decide against publication. Without further legal consultation or the advice of someone who knew and understood publishing contracts, she signed the Macmillan contract, asking only for small adjustments in the wording and accepting the size of the advance without comment, and without any realization that Macmillan might be anxious enough to buy her book to make the terms more attractive to her. On August 6, 1935, she sent the contracts off with a letter assuring Latham that she never suspected him or Macmillan “of bad faith and double dealing” and begging them to put such an idea out of their minds. She explained that she had only thought that a contract ought to be binding and valid on her as well as on them, and that was why she had written about the “three swell loopholes through which I could have crawled out should I have lost my mind and taken a notion.” However, she had no idea of wanting to “crawl out,” nor did she “suspect Macmillan in any way.”

  Peggy’s only other request was that the contract be kept a “deep, dark secret.” She told Lois that no one except John and her father — not even Stephens — knew about the contract at this time, and Eugene Mitchell had been told only because he would have “skinned” her if he had ever discovered she had signed a contract without his checking it over first.

  Latham sent her back a confirming telegram as soon as he received the contract and her letter and, on the ninth of August, he wrote to contradict any unfavorable impression that Lois Cole might have made, assuring Peggy that he understood her questioning completely and would have done the same thing himself in her position. He also asked her for permission to tell Medora about the contract so he could write and thank her for bringing them together.

  The next day, Peggy’s manuscript came back to her by prepaid express. The receipt she signed for it said, “Manuscript of The Old South 27 sections.” Bessie, recuperated now from her bout with meningitis, helped her unwrap the familiar scruffy envelopes that had started on a journey north four months before, and stack them on the sewing table. On the tenth of August, Peggy received a signed copy of her contract and a check for $250. And on August 15, Latham wrote her:

  After I asked to have your manuscript returned to you I found I still had in my possession the novelette ’Ropa Carmagin which you gave me at the same time. I am returning this to you under separate cover. I have read this with a great deal of interest and very genuine admiration. It seems to me a splendid piece of work, expertly done. Its length is, of course, against it commercially speaking and of course it is too short for book form. I suggest that you hold it until after your novel is published. You may very easily be able to sell it to one of the better magazines after the appearance of your book. It confirms my very high opinion of you as a writer — if that needed confirmation — and shows you can handle more than one type of material and character. The novel is the big thing just now so don’t worry about this or any other short material you have. There will be plenty of time for that afterwards.

  Latham was right — the novel was the big thing now.

  Chapter Fifteen

  FOR THE FIRST TIME in nearly four months, Peggy was at work on her book. The yellow pages were now even more dog-eared than when Latham had stuffed them into his “please-don’t-rain” suitcase. She looked at her work with a different attitu
de. Professionals had found it good enough to publish. Lavish praise had been given it by men and women whom she could respect. Professor Everett’s accolades still rang in her ears. She set back to work with new enthusiasm.

  One Saturday morning in early September, John came to her with several pages that she had just rewritten and shook them violently in the hot, still air. “In the name of God, what are these?” he shouted, and then read, according to Peggy, “a double handful of dangling participial clauses and dubious subjunctives.”

  With all the dignity she could muster, Peggy replied, “Tempo,” the word that Professor Everett had used in referring to her marvelous sense of timing. After that, whenever she turned a couple of especially lousy pages over to John, he would say, “Some more of your goddamned Tempo, eh?”

  The word became a family joke, and even Bessie, when she made her one and only failure of a lemon pie, commented gloomily, “I guess somethin’ done gone wrong with my tempo!”

  At the beginning of September, Peggy wrote Harold Latham that she was hard at work and that, for the first time in her life, writing was comparatively easy. According to John, she said, there was nothing like signing a contract, having a conscience about delivering the goods and burning your bridges behind you, to put a writer to work.

  With John’s help, she was trying to catch grammatical errors and loose ends, to eliminate repetitions, and to condense. She had gone over one-third of the book and at this time — provided, she warned, she did not come down with her “annual September 15th case of Dengue Fever” — she thought she would be finished in six weeks, especially since John was to get his vacation at the end of September and had promised to take his two weeks off to help her.