Gone With the Wind is a story about civil war, starvation, rape, murder, heartbreak and slavery. It is not necessarily a book one would associate with hope. And yet, at the novel’s heart lies Scarlett O’Hara, one of the most ruthlessly optimistic characters in literature.
No moment illustrates Scarlett better than her return to Tara – the family home – after the collapse of Atlanta. She allows herself one night of lamenting all that has been lost; the next morning, she marches blindly into the future. “Scarlett was never to look back,” as Margaret Mitchell puts it.
Scarlett maintains this headstrong hopefulness as society collapses around her. She has a one-track mind, to the point of selfishness – she barely manages to fake interest in “the Cause”, the southern US states’ doomed stand against the Yankees. Everything beyond her circle is essentially irrelevant.
Reading this novel in 2016, it is notable which characters survive and prosper in the new world. It is not the “good” characters who renew themselves from the disintegration of a civilisation; as Rhett Butler, Scarlett’s eternal sparring partner, points out: “The nicest people in town are starving.”
Instead, it is the carpetbaggers and the speculators who thrive in the collapse of the south; the people who seize their moment, abandoning the past for the possibilities of the future. “There’s good money in empire building,” Rhett notes. “But there’s more in empire wrecking.” This is hope, but not hope for all.
Mitchell carefully analyses the nature of human resilience, and holds up hopefulness as the critical tool for getting through the worst times. At one of the lowest points, Scarlett’s neighbour, the elderly Grandma Fontaine, insists that Scarlett continues to hope. “We bow to the inevitable,” she tells Scarlett. “We’re not wheat. We’re buckwheat. When a storm comes along it flattens ripe wheat because it’s dry and can’t bend with the wind. But ripe buckwheat’s got sap and it bends. And when the wind has passed, it springs up, almost as straight and strong as before.”
But never – never – can Scarlett pause in this battle for survival. “Don’t think you can lay down the load, ever,” says Grandma. “Because you can’t. I know.”
Paradoxically, hope is also Scarlett’s Achilles heel. She clings on to the dream of her great unfulfilled love, Ashley, for years – wilfully ignoring any other course to happiness. Her focus on tomorrow constantly pushes good deeds into an indeterminate future. One day, she’ll get around to teaching her son “his ABCs”. One day, she fully intends to be a “great lady”, mimicking the poise of her sainted mama. But she never quite gets round to it. Instead, Scarlett ensures that those close to her are dragged along in her wake. Even if the once-pampered beauty doesn’t like most of her family, they will not be permitted to fall through the cracks.
In my family, Gone With the Wind is handed down from mother to daughter in the way other families pass down heirlooms. It is our survival guide. My mother tackles most problems with a “what would Scarlett do?” mindset – and even if the answer is “rip down the curtains, knock together a dress and get the hell on with it”, that’ll be what she does. Scarlett wouldn’t bat an eyelash at anything from bad hair to bullying bosses – she would just calculate the best possible next move and go for it.
But most of all, in the bleak days of 2016, it is Scarlett’s belief that tomorrow will be better that feels endlessly and gleefully hopeful. After all, as she knows so well: “Tomorrow is another day.”
