WITH Gable her relations were polite but formal. He was Fleming's friend, and therefore on the opposite side; also, the two men had much in common. One of the great screen personalities of his time, Gable never lost a fear that his private self might be revealed. Cast as the male conqueror, adored for it, he was in life sexually cautious, and, until he met Carole Lombard, drawn to older women. In his early career as an actor in touring companies, he played with several distinguished, middle-aged, and lecherous ladies of the theater. Both Alice Brady and Jane Cowl tried unsuccessfully to seduce him; Pauline Frederick got as far as persuading him to rub her back after the performance. Even though he complained that she looked at him as if she never expected to see another man in her life, his first two marriages were to women considerably older than himself. "You know I love Pappy," Lombard once remarked after their marriage," even though he's not the greatest lay." And for years it was a closely guarded studio secret that he wore false teeth.
Anxious to improve himself as an actor, Gable was equally anxious that no one should know that he needed to improve. Self-consciousness haunted him, diffidence held him back. If a director stopped him in the middle of a take, he had to go back to the beginning and get into the scene all over again. Over the years he struggled to acquire technique. At MGM this was well known, and his screen personality would be carefully built up to exploit all that was appealing in him, roles chosen that gave him the fewest problems, directors found who knew how to relax him best. He was happiest in scenes of action and wisecracking, when he had to threaten sexuality rather than demonstrate it, and the part of Rhett Butler was the first in which he knew he'd have to explore himself. Vivien quickly sensed his nervousness, and ironically the newcomer found herself reassuring the famous star. Impressed but wary, he withdrew to the camaraderie of Fleming. There was no one else in the company that he really trusted. He was tense when he began the picture -- the role intimidated him and his divorce case was coming to court in a few weeks' time -- and he was also a naturally suspicious man. Selznick noted that on several occasions the actor had accused him of trying to "do him in."
It seems likely that the relationship of Vivien and Gable outside the film contributed something important to their scenes together. In the novel, Rhett is amused by Scarlett because he knows that her airs and graces conceal a very hard, level head; he is physically attracted to her, and he knows that in spite of her denials she feels the same way toward him. In the film, something more happens. For the first time, Rhett is confronted by a woman as strong as himself, and there are moments when you detect a guarded, almost rueful quality beneath the swagger. (It was there in all of Gable's performances.) Each has called the other's bluff, and the marriage develops into a fluctuating struggle for power. When Rhett walks out, he is confessing in a way that he has lost. The resonance comes from their personal chemistry as performers.
The most difficult scene for Gable to play, in the picture and in his whole career, was when Melanie breaks the news to Rhett of Scarlett's miscarriage. The facade of the man dissolves. "Melanie had never seen a man cry and of all men, Rhett, so suave, so mocking, so eternally sure of himself." The idea seemed as chilling to Gable as it did to Melanie. He pleaded with Fleming to have the scene rewritten, or to cheat it, not to make him play it, even threatening to walk off the picture and give up his career. One of the reasons that Gable liked Fleming was that he always seemed to defer to the star; to the others he would give orders, but to Gable he would say, "Do you think we can try it this way?" Fleming discussed the problem with Selznick first, and the producer partially relieved Gable by promising to shoot the scene two ways: with tears, and with an eloquently turned back. Then, privately, Fleming suggested to Gable that the tears would be much better; they would not destroy his image, as he feared, but would increase the audience's sympathy for the character. He shot the dry-eyed version first, and then -- after a last protest from the star -- the weeping. The weeping was used, of course, and on the screen shows no strain or hesitation. Even though he never attempted anything as complex before or afterwards, Rhett remains the part with which Gable is most identified. Fleming's most important contribution to Gone With the Wind was his personal knowledge of the actor, and his ability to release him from his fears.
THREE weeks after shooting was resumed, another important head fell. Lee Garmes was conferring with William Cameron Menzies on an elaborate scene in which Scarlett makes her way through the hundreds of Confederate wounded at the Atlanta railroad station. Like many other spectacular moments, it was to be executed under Selznick's close supervision. He had demanded 2500 extras for the soldiers, an unheard-of number in those days, and the Screen Extras Guild had only 1500 available. Seizing the opportunity to save money, Selznick ordered 1000 dummies to swell the crowd, insisting that the trick be kept a secret. He also wanted the camera placed on a high crane able to rise a hundred feet above the ground to follow Scarlett. No studio had a crane large enough, and the shot was postponed until Ray Klune had the idea of borrowing one from a construction company, and then of building a concrete ramp so that the camera's smoothness of movement when mounted was assured. Rehearsals for this took several days, with a specially detailed additional crew. By the time everything was ready, Garmes had been taken off the picture, because Selznick had decided that his use of color was too "neutral."
"We were using a new type of film," Garmes has explained, "with softer tones, softer quality, but David had been accustomed to working with picture-postcard colors. He tried to blame me because the picture was looking too quiet in texture. I liked the look; I thought it was wonderful.... " According to the Technicolor adviser, Ray Rennahan, Garmes's lighting was "softer" and "flatter" than the style Selznick wanted; Rennahan's own preference was for more sharpness, and he recommended a cameraman, Ernest Haller, who fortunately was ready to take over at a day's notice; so this changeover was made without any loss of time. Haller had never done a color film before, but with Rennahan's guidance he achieved a greater "definition," and Selznick was pleased with the result. But the difference in style was far less than might have been expected.
The next major crisis occurred a month later. By the middle of April, Selznick was worried by what he described as Victor Fleming's physical and mental exhaustion. Fleming's doctor had assured him there was no cause for alarm, and until April 26 the director continued to work efficiently on the film, though his moods alternated between an almost despairing energy and violent explosions of rage. After another disagreement with Vivien while rehearsing, he threw down his script, walked out of the studio, and drove home to Malibu. Next day it was reported that he had had a nervous collapse and had told his wife he'd contemplated suicide, wanting to plunge his car over a cliff.
Selznick contacted his doctor and learned that the breakdown was feigned; Fleming was certainly tired and angry, but not in the least a hospital case. According to Klune, it was decided to withhold the information from the rest of the company. Fleming's sudden theatrical gesture was a protest against what he considered David's domination of the picture. From the time that he took over, the continuity girl was under orders from Selznick to report any deviation on the set from the shooting plan or the script. Fleming received constant memos about his use of color (comparing it unfavorably to the color in The Garden of Allah), about padding Vivien's bosom (referred to as "the breastwork situation"), and about the costumes. Fleming's request for the schedule to be rearranged so that he could shoot in continuity was refused; Selznick told him it was impossible to keep Gable on the payroll doing nothing. Probably the peak of his irritation was reached after Selznick had screened The Great Waltz, an MGM picture about Johann Strauss credited to Julien Duvivier, but for which Fleming had shot some major sequences. Highly impressed with its technique, Selznick asked the director why his work on Gone With the Wind was so much less remarkable. Fleming blamed the cumbersome Technicolor equipment, explaining that on a black-and-white movie he had far more flexibility with camera angles. In all these confrontations Fleming was the loser; he finally threw a tantrum and converted it into a breakdown, under the false impression that Selznick would promise to reduce the pressure if he came back.
Discussing the situation with Klune, the producer said that the best way to get Fleming back would be to replace him. A feigned breakdown made the crisis no less severe, and it was imperative that shooting should not be closed down again. Klune suggested Sam Wood, who had just finished Goodbye, Mr. Chips in England and was now in New York. Over the long-distance phone he accepted the assignment, and began working three days later.
Perhaps the fact that Wood had once worked as assistant to Cecil B. De Mille led Selznick to believe that he could tackle a story of this size. Up to this time, all of Sam Wood's movies had been remarkable for their complete lack of visual appeal. No doubt Selznick relied on Menzies to take care of this, and an interesting minor footnote to film history follows. Wood came under the spell of Menzies, and a year later they worked together on Our Town, then on two very stylish period pieces, Kings Row and Ivy. Throughout the forties, in fact, the movies directed by Sam Wood acquired an elaborate visual surface. Before Gone With the Wind his work had no personality, though his direction of actors was competent; but afterwards it at least had some visual distinction.
In relation to Gone With the Wind, the minor footnote clinches a major point. From the time that Sam Wood took over, Selznick became explicitly the creator of the film, in all but name its director and writer as well as producer. The machine he had built for this purpose now operated for him alone. Actors excepted, it had no irreplaceable parts. If a cameraman failed to deliver the hoped-for images, if a director temporarily threw up the sponge, it became simply a matter of calling for a new component. For the rest of his life Selznick was to approach film-making in this way, and his later projects were notorious for the clashes with directors and technicians, the numbers of scenes rewritten and reshot. It explains Cukor's remark that Gone With the Wind, in spite of its success, contained the seeds of Selznick's destruction. Creating it, he was at the same time taking the first steps toward destroying himself. Convinced that his talents were protean, he was able on this one occasion to stretch them to extraordinary limits; but he drew the wrong conclusion when he believed it could happen again.
FLEMING "recovered" after two weeks, and it is characteristic that Selznick brought him back while still retaining Sam Wood. He had devised an elaborate system to make up for lost time: he placated Gable by promising him that none of his scenes would be directed by Wood; he persuaded Vivien and the other principals to work for both directors as the schedule demanded; he stepped up the number of second units for incidental shots to five, and entrusted Menzies with two major sequences as well as several linking passages. Amazingly, there is no disparity in styles in the resulting scenes. Not only were Fleming and Wood in effect working as megaphones for Selznick, but Menzies now coordinated the visual aspects of every sequence even more closely, and the memos continued to arrive whenever Selznick heard that one of his directors had changed a camera setup. In this way, displacements of personnel could not affect the look and construction of the whole. The only variable could have been the actors, frequently informed what age they would be playing only twenty-four hours beforehand; but they not only survived, they never lost faith. The greatest burden fell on Vivien Leigh and Olivia de Havilland, who would find themselves week after week shooting a scene for Sam Wood in the morning, then moving to Fleming's set for an episode several years later (or earlier) in the afternoon. Vivien said later that she had "no time to let worry get the upper hand. I lived Scarlett for almost six months from early morning till late at night." Olivia de Havilland has told me that she remembers "very little sense of dislocation, because of David Selznick's astonishingly unifying influence." She never doubted that they were making "something special, something which would last forever."
It could only have been Selznick who enabled Sam Wood to pass a difficult test, winning approval from the actors on the first scene he directed. This was at night, de Havilland recalls, on the back lot, after dinner, "the moment when Vivien and I come out of the church and are accosted on its steps by Belle Watling. I liked that scene, and thought it went well, and was relieved to see that the new hand would guide us wisely." There was also a debt of which Wood was probably unaware; both actresses had been fortified by discussing the scene beforehand with Cukor.
Leslie Howard was also to find himself under pressure. Contracted to star in Intermezzo as well as become its associate producer, he was now requested to play two roles simultaneously. The starting date of Intermezzo could not be delayed even though Gone With the Wind was behind schedule; having disagreed with the original director, William Wyler, over the script, Selznick had now lined up Gregory Ratoff to replace him. Howard accepted the situation with his usual detached whimsy, remarking to Klune that he didn't mind being given only fifteen minutes to switch roles, but would have liked more time for the costume change.
During all these months of tense and upstream work, Selznick the autocrat was not the only key figure. There was also Selznick the personal charmer and enthusiast, magnetic and, in spite of everything, irresistible. Even those upon whom the axe fell displayed surprisingly little bitterness -- Garmes worked for him again, and Cukor was to remain friends with him. "He treated us with such appreciation," de Havilland remembers. "At the end of every week you'd find a packet of eight-by-ten glossy stills of the scenes you'd worked on waiting in your dressing room. You'd do anything for a man like that.... " The six-foot-one figure with ponderous frame and rather clumsy movements was a genuine source of wonder. Whatever he did had an aura of such conviction that it seemed curiously innocent. In a sense it was, since all his actions were based on the very simple idea that any methods were justified to make Gone With the Wind come out the way he wanted. The hostility of the industry in general now worked in his favor. "Turkey" and "bust" and "white elephant" and "Selznick's folly" were the favorite epithets, and they had the effect of intensifying the loyalty of his actors and technicians. When he remarked, "There's only room for one prima donna on this lot, and that's me," they not only knew it to be true but savored the jovial confidence with which he said it. They also learned that the unceasing notes of complaints, the hesitations and endless rewriting, reflected a desire to extract the best from himself and others. According to Garmes, while David thought he knew what he wanted, he frequently had trouble recognizing it when brought to him; according to Klune, even when satisfied he wondered whether there might not be a better way of doing it. Taken together, these comments add up to a very workable definition of a perfectionist.
In the photographs of Selznick from his youth to his early sixties, there is one constant: his smile. Lighted by pleasure, the face suddenly belongs to a small boy. The moment of triumph appears to astonish him. It is the mark of the true showman to be able to amaze himself, and the dismissals, frictions, and breakdowns all became unimportant when he viewed the footage that had been shot each day and, like God creating the world, finally saw that it was good.
ON June 27, Fleming shot the last scene of the picture, the first that Margaret Mitchell had actually written. It did not exist in script form until the day before. The problem of how to convey that Scarlett, after Rhett leaves her, still believes she can get him back and realizes that even if she doesn't, she can always return to Tara, had defeated every writer. Selznick came up at the last moment with the idea of Scarlett addressing another soliloquy to the camera, speaking lines selected from the novel's inner monologue, added to which would be the disembodied voices of her father and Ashley reminding her of "the red earth of Tara." The producer records that "it was pretty loudly jeered at on paper," but that preview audiences found it gave the ending "a tremendous lift." They missed, however, Rhett's final line, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," which was to become one of the most quoted in the film, like Scarlett's "I won't think about it today, I'll think about it tomorrow." It seems incredible now that the line was permitted only after months of negotiation with the Hays office, but at that time the word "damn" was completely taboo. In his original draft Sidney Howard changed the line, after consultation with Selznick, to "Frankly, my dear, I don't care." The scene was shot both ways, but it was not until the end of November -- after Selznick's repeated pleas that he'd be unmercifully mocked for omitting the famous phrase and that the dictionary definition of the terrible word was no worse than "a vulgarism" -- that the censors finally granted permission.
In the novel, Rhett's line is "My dear, I don't give a damn," but Howard's added "Frankly" was left in, a minor yet incalculable improvement that would probably never have occurred by design.
By July 1, some last scenes with bit players had been completed, and shooting was officially over. Vivien's departure for New York was delayed by Selznick, who wanted yet another retake on the opening porch scene. It still dissatisfied him, though he couldn't say why. Then, gazing at Vivien's face, he exclaimed, "My God, you look old!" "You'd look old, too," she answered, "if you'd been working eighteen hours a day for weeks on end." She was too indignant to notice that by the end of shooting Selznick's black curly had become faintly streaked with gray.
In the last week of August, Vivien returned for the retake. Seven months older, but looking sixteen again, Scarlett is back on the summery porch in innocent white. This time Sam Wood directed the scene on one of those perfect untroubled afternoons that ought to last forever, and Scarlett refused to believe the talk of war. Next day, the actress joined Olivier on Ronald Colman's yacht. Over the Labor Day weekend, time was suspended just as it was on the porch at Tara. Then they heard on the radio that England had declared war on Germany.
Shooting completed, Selznick moved on with his usual relentless energy. By early September, he had trimmed forty-five minutes from the first cut, and the film had found what was to be its final length. Max Steiner was already at work on the music.
Selznick liked to saturate his pictures with music and he liked the music sweepingly romantic. "If you will just go mad with schmaltz in the last three reels... " Selznick suggested -- but in fact the composer gave him incessant and richly textured sounds throughout. Following his usual practice of writing "themes" -- one for Scarlett, one for Rhett, one for Melanie and Ashley, and so on -- he came up with a notable winner in "Tara," a luxuriously orchestrated variation on the song, "My Own True Love." Much of the rest was skillfully compiled from Civil War songs, "Marching Through Georgia," "Dixie," "The Bonnie Blue Flag," and various Stephen Foster tunes. Quintessential Hollywood "prestige" music, the score fits Selznick's conception perfectly, narcotic, quivering, or rousing as occasion demands.
The first two previews were held in Santa Barbara and Riverside at the end of September, a few days apart. In both cases procedure was basically the same. The title of the movie, as usual, was not divulged in advance; at Santa Barbara, before the curtains parted, the theater manager told the audience it was about to see a "very special" picture, and that no one would be allowed to leave once it had started. Guards were posted in the lobby throughout the screening, for Selznick didn't wish any word of the preview to leak out to the press. The manager also informed the audience that the picture would run longer than usual, and proclaimed a delay of fifteen minutes before it started, so that his patrons could telephone families and baby-sitters from the guarded lobby, warning them of a late return home.
When the main title came on the screen there were excited gasps and cheers. Many people rose to their feet and applauded, as they did at the end, an uninterrupted three hours and forty-five minutes later. Selznick was moved to tears by the enthusiasm. At Riverside he took the stage personally to introduce the picture; and with the same procedure, on a sweltering night, there were no complaints about the length. Selznick described the reactions on the preview cards as "probably the most amazing any picture has ever had." It was here that he won his case for an intermission: he had a member of his staff check how many people, and how often, left during the movie for the patrolled rest rooms. Activity was intense enough for the point to be taken.
Now that the discarded footage of Gone With the Wind no longer exists, it is impossible to know exactly what was lost in the cutting room between the first MGM screening and the final version shown at the previews. The surviving script material provides no clue. Apart from Sidney Howard's first draft, too rough to be conclusive, and Fitzgerald's pages (discovered in the Princeton Library by Aaron Latham when he wrote Crazy Sundays, his book about Fitzgerald in Hollywood), there remains only the so-called "final" shooting script dated January 24, 1939.
It is said that an assistant editor, angered by the cuts, made off secretly with all the discarded scenes, which are preserved in a remote suburb of the San Fernando Valley. The quest for these promised riches has been no more successful than the search for the Maltese Falcon.
THE date of the Atlanta premiere was fixed for December 15, 1939. As usual, Selznick's preparations were fastidiously detailed. MGM, as the releasing company, was officially in charge of the ceremonies, but memos, often in cable form, would arrive at the house of their publicity director, Howard Dietz, day and night: I WANT YOU TO BE VERY CAREFUL OF THE PAPER YOU SELECT FOR THE PROGRAM -- STOP -- SOMETIMES THEIR CRACKLING NOISE MAKES IT DIFFICULT TO HEAR THE DIALOGUE -- STOP -- PROMISE YOU WILL ATTEND TO THIS.
Almost a million people poured into the city. They knew they had no hope of getting seats for the premiere, but were hungry for a glimpse of the stars. The Governor of Georgia proclaimed the day of the opening an official state holiday, and the Mayor of Atlanta arranged three days of parades and celebrations, urging his citizens to wear period costumes in the streets. Old hoopskirts and beaver hats were enthusiastically dusted off. The facade of the Grand Theater was fronted with false pillars, to resemble Twelve Oaks. Since it seated only 2500, tickets (at $10 a head) were at a premium. Besieged by important constituents who would be useful at the next election, the mayor begged MGM for help; he was luckier than the Daughters of the American Revolution, whose representative was turned down because the movie was about a different war. In the last hours before the opening, scalpers were demanding as much as $200 a ticket. Among those invited, apart from the governor and mayor and their entourages, were governors of seven other Southern states; Herbert Hoover; Elsa Maxwell; Thomas Mann; the Billy Roses; the Averell Harrimans; an impressive roster of East Coast wealth including Jock Whitney, family groups of Whitneys and Vanderbilts, Nelson Rockefeller, J. P. Morgan, and John Jacob Astor; and, of course, Margaret Mitchell.
The most notable absentees were Leslie Howard and Victor Fleming. Since the outbreak of war in Europe, Howard had been anxious to return to England; he left Hollywood at the end of August. Fleming had now been totally alienated by the advance publicity, in which Selznick was quoted as saying that all the directors on Gone With the Wind had been "supervised" by himself. The producer blamed this on the MGM publicity department, but Fleming declined even to discuss it. The breach between the two men became complete, one of the rare cases in which Selznick failed to heal a professional disagreement on the personal level. Not even Gable could persuade Fleming to go to Atlanta, or any of the other openings. The Hollywood celebrities traveled in separate planes. Selznick was accompanied by his wife, Myron, Vivien Leigh, Laurence Olivier, and Olivia de Havilland; Gable and Carole Lombard joined a group of MGM executives on a plane with GONE WITH THE WIND painted in huge letters on the side of its fuselage. A deputation and a forty-piece band greeted both contingents as they arrived within a few minutes of each other at the airfield, which, like the rest of the city, had been festooned with flags and bunting. A motorcade took them to the Georgian Terrace Hotel, streets and rooftops lined with people and the band playing "Dixie" over and over again. ("They're playing the song from the picture!" Vivien exclaimed. Fortunately none of the local journalists overheard.) At the hotel, the mayor officially greeted the stars and presented them with Wedgwood coffee and tea sets. That night the charity ball took place on the Atlanta Bazaar set, transported from Hollywood, with the stars in costume, and the next day there was a luncheon with all the Southern governors, followed by a tea party at the Governor's Mansion, followed by a cocktail party for the press, followed by the four-hour premiere itself.
THE acclaim was everything for which Selznick could have hoped. When the applause and weeping from deeply affected Southerners died down, general speechmaking and congratulations occurred at the microphone. For the first time, Margaret Mitchell expressed a public opinion. She had warned Selznick that she would say nothing until this moment, and then it would be the truth. As overwhelmed as everyone else, she praised the producer's courage and determination and thanked him "on behalf of me and my poor Scarlett.... It's not up to me to speak of the grand things these actors have done, for they've spoken so much more eloquently than I could ever do." The day had been too exhausting for further official celebrations. After a long night's sleep the visitors gathered next day for a last function, a luncheon given by the author at the Riding Club. Then everyone went home.
Local reviews and those in the Hollywood trade papers were equally gratifying. Declining to analyze the picture's greatness, the Motion Picture Herald concluded: "One does not ask what Rembrandt's paints were made of, or what quarry furnished Angelo his stone." Straight to the point as usual, Variety called it "a great picture... poised for grosses which may be second to none in the history of the business."
Poised it was. Gala New York and Los Angeles openings followed, the latter attended by several unsuccessful contenders for the role of Scarlett: Paulette Goddard, Norma Shearer, and Joan Crawford. The Los Angeles event was marred for Selznick by Gable's attitude toward him. The star had now openly taken Fleming's side, and decided to let it be known. Their encounter was "strained and peculiar." But the New York reviews might have been written by MGM's publicity department. Frank S. Nugent in the Times: "The greatest motion mural we have seen and the most ambitious film-making venture in Hollywood's spectacular history." Archer Winsten in the Post: "Just as Birth of a Nation was a milestone of movie history, Gone With the Wind represents a supreme effort.... " At prices of 75 cents for matinees and $1 for evenings, the picture began its extraordinary first run. By the end of it, in June, 1940, over 25 million people had paid admission.
Before this, at the Academy Award ceremonies on February 28, 1940, the industry had freighted Selznick with honors. Gone With the Wind won ten awards, more than any other picture before or since. Best picture; best actress, Vivien Leigh; best supporting actress, Hattie McDaniel (the first Oscar for a black performer, and the end of NAACP protests about the stereotyping of Negroes in the movie); best director, Victor Fleming, still angry and absent from the occasion; best screenplay, Sidney Howard; best photography, Ernest Haller and Ray Rennahan; a specially worded award to Cameron Menzies for his achievements in design and color; best art direction, Lyle Wheeler; best editing, Hal Kern and James Newcom; special effects, Jack Cosgrove; and the bonus of the Irving Thalberg Memorial Award "for the most consistent high level of production achievement by an individual producer" to Selznick himself. The neglect of Gable in favor of Robert Donat in Goodbye, Mr. Chips acknowledged a big sentimental success; but Selznick, probably because of Gable's coolness toward him now, was not too heady with triumph to complain. He reproached Russell Birdwell, convinced that the publicity campaign was at fault. Later, and characteristically, he apologized.
Selznick had reached the climax of his career; it left him elated but uncertain. The screenwriter Frances Marion records in her autobiography, Off With Their Heads!, a chance meeting with him at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, soon after the awards. He was by himself, and said he'd like to buy her a drink and talk about his father. "There are times when I feel his hand on my shoulder. It wasn't there after we opened the picture in Atlanta, and I knew it was a success, but later, when I relaxed, confident of clear sailing ahead, that was when I felt him close.... " If he'd succeeded, it was because of Lewis J. Selznick. Then he recalled that his father had often said, "No man can rest on his laurels," and began talking of his hopes for Rebecca His mood seemed to alternate between pride and a need for reassurance. "Once you're on top you're in the position of a circus performer walking the high wire with no net underneath to catch you if you fall.... "
Presumably because she thought it was what he wanted to hear, Miss Marion assured Selznick that he would never fall, not with his father's hand on his shoulder.
Copyright © 1973 by Gavin Lambert. All rights reserved.
The Atlantic Monthly; March 1973; The Making of Gone With The Wind, Part II; Volume 265, No. 6; pages 56 - 72.