Back at Ferryside, Daphne can still hear Q’s voice resonating within her, explaining that, at its zenith, thirty years ago, Menabilly was a splendor—they used to go there for garden parties—but all that is over now; it’s like the house in Sleeping Beauty. While Angela talks in the kitchen with Mrs. Coombs, who is making their dinner, Daphne examines a map of the surrounding area in a guidebook bought by Muriel. She locates the spot, marks it with an X, and triumphantly announces during the meal that, tomorrow, they will go to Menabilly, they will find the famous house. Angela strokes her cheek, teasing her: What is her obsession with Menabilly? Why is she so interested in it? Daphne, wolfing down her food, shrugs: she doesn’t know how to explain it; all she knows is that she is attracted to the idea of this abandoned house. Later, when she goes to bed, her last thought is of that mysterious dwelling, buried deep in the woods.
The next day, in mid-afternoon, the sisters set out, with their dogs on leashes. It’s a sunny day—no rain or wind—and Daphne admires the autumnal colors, the golden leaves, the still-blue hydrangeas. At the Four Turnings crossroads, they have to pass a lodge to open a huge rusted gate. They hesitate. What if the guard comes out and asks what they’re doing? Daphne looks through the windows of the lodge. No one lives there anymore: the place is deserted. They are free to go on. Watched by the anxious Angela, Daphne manages to open the creaking gate. They enter a private driveway, pushing through thick undergrowth. As they advance, wide-eyed, the trees grow taller and the sky disappears behind their interlacing branches, like the vaulted ceiling of a cathedral. The sisters talk only in whispers now, even the dogs remain silent. The driveway meanders through deep greenery, and Daphne starts to daydream: she can almost hear the clatter of a horse’s hooves, the squeaking wheels of a horse-drawn carriage, can imagine the costumes of another age: doublets, capes, three-cornered hats, and powdered wigs.
They walk for a long time—the dogs’ tongues hang from their mouths; Angela’s feet ache—but still no manor house. Have they become lost in this labyrinth of brambles? They feel as if they are going around in circles, tripping in the same potholes, struggling past the same claw-like branches. Angela hates this ghostly atmosphere; when darkness falls, she firmly declares that she’s had enough, she wants to go back, she doesn’t care about finding the house. The owls hoot, and other birds make frightening cries. A fox noses around somewhere close and the dogs growl. A clinging damp rises from the mossy ground. It’s cold. Angela shivers. Finally, Daphne accepts defeat, for tonight. Reluctantly, she agrees to go home.
But how can they find their way back? A pale moon barely illuminates the shadowy path where evil-looking shapes seem to lurk, crouching in the blackness. Angela holds tight to her sister’s hand, and it is the brave Eric Avon who, step by step, guides her toward the safety and warmth of home. The forest grows lighter at last, and they find themselves on a hill that slopes gently down toward the sea and a cove. No manor house anywhere to be seen. They try to orient themselves: they are in Pridmouth, at least two miles from home. How could they have walked so far? It’s a long way to Bodinnick, and it’s the middle of the night. When they finally arrive at Ferryside, they are worn-out and the dogs are panting with thirst. Mrs. Coombs says she was beginning to worry. But a fine meal is waiting for them. Angela asks her sister if she really wants to go back there; Daphne, eating her soup, answers with a frown: Of course, what does she think? They will leave nice and early tomorrow morning, without the dogs. She spotted a road on the map that does not go through the forest. Angela sighs, rubbing her aching feet and wondering what on earth has gotten into her sister.
This time, they take Muriel’s car, driving on another road that goes around the forest, toward Par, and park outside West Lodge and another gate, just as rusted as the one they saw the day before. Daphne pushes it open without difficulty. They walk through woods, anxious at the thought of meeting a guard or watchdogs, but they don’t see a soul. Nor do they see a house. Have they gone the wrong way again? Perhaps Menabilly has no wish to be disturbed, perhaps she wants to remain a house of secrets,9 Daphne whispers, and her sister points out to her that she is speaking about this house as if it were alive.
They come out on a wide lawn overgrown by weeds and bordered by trees, and Angela sees her sister’s face light up. Who can she be looking at with such fervor, such love? Curious, Angela follows Daphne’s gaze, and there is the manor house rising up in front of them: Menabilly, a large, two-story building, its shutters closed, its gray façade covered by thick ivy. They stand at a distance, listening out for any signs of life, but it is utterly silent, so they move toward it. One of the first-floor shutters is open, they notice. Through the dusty windows, they make out paintings on the walls, furniture covered with sheets, an old rocking horse with peeling paint. Angela finds the place gloomy, filled with sadness and solitude, but Daphne doesn’t feel that way at all. That evening, she writes in her journal until late at night. Menabilly has taken hold of me.10
* * *
Daphne’s short stories have not found a publisher. She is bitterly disappointed. To console her, Aunt Billy gives them to her brother to read: Willie Beaumont is the editor of The Bystander, a popular magazine with a large readership. Uncle Willie is enchanted by “And Now to God the Father,” a cruel tale featuring an odious parson, the Reverend James Hollaway, the heartthrob of London, but the story needs a little work, a prospect that does not enthuse Daphne. She prefers to leave for Caux in early 1929 with her friend Pat Wallace, Edgar’s daughter. She wants snow, sunlight, pure air. To leave behind her parents and their social whirl. To leave behind her literary disappointments. Daphne is intoxicated by skiing and by the flings she enjoys in the evenings. In a letter to Ferdie, she confides: I was kissed by two young men at the same time, and another man, married, kissed me outside in the snow.11 Dismayed, and certainly jealous, Fernande sends her in reply an angry, reproachful letter that makes her smile. Dear Fernande, so quick-tempered. But what Daphne doesn’t know is that Fernande has warned Aunt Billy (whom she met in London, two years before) about her niece’s “misconduct,” and when Daphne returns to Cannon Hall a few weeks later, she is greeted by a stern-faced welcoming committee, including a father who is more suspicious than ever and a disapproving mother.
There is one pleasant surprise, however, amid this oppressive atmosphere: one of the young men she met in Caux (but not one of those she kissed) gets back in touch with her. His name is Carol Reed, he is Daphne’s age, and she likes him. He is the illegitimate son of the actor Herbert Beerbohm Tree, the father of their friend Viola. Tall, dark, and slim, Carol is an actor and works at Edgar Wallace’s movie studio. With the movies causing devastation to the popularity of the theater, even the great Gerald du Maurier eventually finds himself obligated to move from the boards to the silver screen, a painful transition that is not particularly successful. Gerald is going through a rough time: his manager, Tom Vaughan, has just died, and the supervision of Wyndham’s Theatre is complex, as is the thorny issue of income tax, which Gerald has never dealt with, leaving all the paperwork to Tom. Gerald’s glory days are behind him, he has mountains of back tax to pay, no play to stage, fewer roles, and even the movies are giving him the cold shoulder. And he’s not getting any younger: what hurts most is seeing that face in the mirror each morning, bereft of its former charms. He becomes depressed, and that drives him to drink.
Two or three times a week, under Gerald’s glowering eyes, Carol comes to Hampstead to pick Daphne up in his dilapidated Morris. They spend hours in cafés, smoking and talking. They go out to dinner, go to the movie theater, then drive at top speed through London, kissing at every stoplight. They walk the streets, arms around each other’s necks, and laugh as they climb scaffolding, enjoying the danger, then kiss again. When Carol takes her back, late, to Cannon Hall, Daphne looks up at the third floor, and behind the twitching curtain she perceives the severe face of her father, cigarette drooping from his lips as he watches them. As soon as she crosses t
he threshold, the rebukes begin. The pages of her journal are filled with her protests: Honestly! They might have been born centuries ago. They treat me like a Victorian miss of 16, instead of being nearly 22.12 Angela agrees with her: you’d think their father wanted them to be nuns, locked up in a convent!
Gerald Borgia is back. The Sunday chats between father and daughter in the dining room are tense now. Are you in love with Carol? Daphne’s reply: He’s a dear, I’m fond of him. Gerald pours himself a glass. Bad idea. Is he serious? Daphne: I don’t know what you mean by “serious.” Gerald downs his glass in a single gulp, pours himself another. Daphne looks away. Where do you go when the restaurants have closed? She sighs. We sort of drive around.13 How can she explain to him their walks by the Thames, all the way to Limehouse, the stories Carol tells, their complicity, their jokes, their kisses and caresses? Gerald wouldn’t understand any of it. And the next morning at breakfast, it’s Muriel’s turn, her voice cold, her gaze contemptuous. This coming home at one o’clock in the morning has got to stop. In future, you must be home by midnight. Really, it’s the thin end of the wedge.14 Why such drama? They should be happy to know that a young man is in love with her, given their deep suspicion of her relationship with Mlle Yvon. Will they never be content? Clearly, she can do nothing right in their eyes. How can she ever become a writer with parents like these on her back? It’s hardly surprising, she thinks, sniggering to herself as she strides determinedly over the Heath, that there is something diabolic about her stories born in such an atmosphere, sordid, disturbing, so far from the image of the pampered heiress. And yet that is exactly how she looks, on the front page of her uncle’s magazine, The Bystander, when it finally publishes “And Now to God the Father,” slightly changed and shortened, in the spring of 1929. For this she receives a fee of ten pounds, a decent start. Uncle Willie insisted that she pose for the cover, and she played along: went to the hairdresser, wore an elegant beige pantsuit, a gold necklace.
The magazine comes out while Daphne is alone in Fowey for a week. She makes a discreet visit to the local news vendor to buy a copy, somewhat embarrassed, her cap pulled down over her eyes, and can’t get over the experience of seeing her words in print for the first time. She thinks about all the people who will read her story. Her first readers. The cover itself has little effect on her: that sophisticated image has nothing to do with her, with the real Daphne, dressed like a sailor, but she is aware that her name is a springboard, understands why her pedigree is mentioned, her illustrious grandfather, her famous father … to her, this seems normal, even if she must now make a name for herself.
That evening, Carol calls her from London: how proud he was to see his “darling Daph” on the cover of a magazine. He offers her his warmest congratulations. Daphne smiles: he’s so sweet, this boy, she treasures their closeness, their giggling fits, the way they can tell each other everything or, equally, can stay silent but understand each other all the same. She adores his caresses, even if they do not possess the same forbidden passion as her secret affair with Ferdie. Carol’s absence weighs on Daphne—she won’t see him again for several weeks—but she has to face the truth: when she is here, she doesn’t really miss anyone or anything. She is at peace with herself, in her domain.
One morning, Daphne gets up at five o’ clock, crosses the river on her rowing boat, runs through the still-sleeping streets, and goes down to the beach at Pridmouth. The sun is rising; the sea is calm. The only other human being she sees is an old fisherman who waves to her from afar. The air is cool, colored with a milky mist that slowly dissipates as she walks up the long road to the peak of the hill, to the house that awaits her. She finds herself on a grassy footpath, lined with wild hyacinths. At the top of the hill, she turns around, her face caressed by the breeze and the rays of the rising sun, and looks out over the bay spread out below her, the point of Gribbin Head straight ahead. She is welcomed now not by owls but by the songs of thrushes and robins. Daphne walks to the end of the lawn, and the house appears, mysterious, surrounded by giant rhododendrons: she has never seen them grow so huge, so red. Daphne turns to the house of secrets and stares at it like a lover. She sits in the dew-wet grass and keeps staring and staring, enthralled. How much time does she stay there? Finally she gets up, her legs numb, and approaches the house, flattening her hands against its gray wall, under the ivy near the front door. A shiver runs down her spine and she closes her eyes, abandoning herself to this dizziness, more powerful than love, stronger than anything.
* * *
In late June 1929, as she prepares to spend the summer in Fowey, Daphne receives an unusual request from Rudolf Kommer, Viola Tree’s impresario friend, whom Daphne met in Berlin two years earlier. He is contacting her on behalf of the famous American investment banker Otto Kahn, who wishes to invite a group of favored people on a three-week cruise in the Norwegian fjords aboard his luxury steam yacht. The financier saw the cover of The Bystander and enjoyed reading Daphne’s story, and he would like her to be part of the voyage. Daphne’s first reaction is to refuse: she doesn’t know anyone on the ship apart from Kommer, she would undoubtedly be the youngest person on board and would probably be bored stiff, and besides, what about her clothes? She has no outfits chic enough for this kind of occasion. Her family is amazed: How can she turn down such an opportunity, she who adores the sea, ships, travel? And surely this trip would prove a great source of inspiration: it might make a novel one day. As for her wardrobe, all it would take is a few trips with Angela to Lillywhites in Piccadilly, and Muriel’s dressmaker could quickly make her several evening dresses. Daphne is not convinced.
She meets Carol that evening at the Café Anglais in Leicester Square. She tells him she has no desire at all to bow and scrape to a bunch of toothless old farts, stuck on a boat. Carol listens, laughing: she’s so funny, his “Daph,” when she imitates other people, sarcastic and scathing, more than slightly provocative. Well, then, she should stay, he says, kissing the back of her hand, her palm. She should spend the summer with him in London and leave the old farts to their cruise. On the red backseat in the Café Anglais, while the band plays “You Were Meant for Me”—their favorite song—Daphne kisses her lover and doesn’t notice the time passing … My God, it’s one in the morning, what a nightmare; her parents must be waiting for her now, wild with rage, on the doorstep. She can already see Gerald’s “Borgia” face. They must go now, drive at full throttle to Hampstead, prepare for the worst. Strangely, not a single light shines at Cannon Hall. All is silence. Daphne stealthily emerges from the Morris, blows a few kisses to Carol, slips inside the house, and rushes up to her bedroom, relieved.
The next morning, war is declared in the du Maurier family. Muriel’s face is cold as stone. As she wrote to Carol this morning, this is the last warning she will give them: if the rules are not respected, if Daphne is not back before midnight, they will not be allowed to see each other again. Daphne is speechless. The crisis is unexpectedly diverted by poor Angela, who is suffering from acute appendicitis. Carol scrawls a letter of apology to Sir Gerald and Lady du Maurier. But the harm is done, on both sides. There is no way Daphne can endure the coming weeks in the company of her parents. So, what if she decided to accept Otto Kahn’s invitation?
On the platform at Victoria Station, in early July, Daphne gets to know her travel companions, not such old farts after all, even if she is the youngest person in the group. There’s Lieutenant Colonel George, with his pretty wife. Two married ladies, without their husbands. A big, strapping, funny man and a tall, shy, bearded man, both single. Their host, Otto Kahn, is waiting for them in Hamburg with his friend Rudolf Kommer to set sail on the Albion. They are accompanied by a ravishing blonde, Irene. But which one is her lover, Daphne wonders mischievously, Otto or Rudolf? Or maybe both? The steam yacht is incredibly luxurious: each cabin has its own bathroom, the living room and dining room are decorated with great pomp, and all the meals are prepared by a chef.
Destination Copenhagen, Stockho
lm, and Oslo. The farther north the yacht moves, the longer the opaline sun stays in the sky: here, in high summer, the sun never sets. During meals on board the ship, Daphne gets to know Otto Kahn better. He is an affable and distinguished man, in his sixties, with silver hair and moustache. She is flattered that this rich, world-famous financier, a great art collector and patron, is so interested in her and seems to enjoy their philosophical discussions. She, in turn, asks him about the construction of the immense Oheka Castle, his property on Long Island. He eagerly describes the building, which is every bit as grand as any French château, with more than a hundred bedrooms, its name a contraction of his own (Otto Hermann Kahn). He is the richest person she has ever met. His wealth does not impress her all that much, but her natural curiosity gets the better of her: she wants to know more about the spectacular rise of this Jewish millionaire, born in Germany.
The cruise continues and during the white nights on the bridge, as the guests sip champagne, Kahn seems to neglect Irene, the pretty blonde, and show more interest in Daphne. He is old enough to be her grandfather; she is not amused. How to discourage the gallant Mr. Kahn? She coaxes the shy, bearded man from his shell, and he in turn is besotted. Even the lieutenant colonel knocks on her door while his wife is napping to “have a chat”; Daphne gently sends him packing. The only one not to fall under her spell is Ralph, the big, burly man, whose nose is buried in a book with the surprising title The Sexual Life of Savages. In her journal, she describes the stopovers: Oslo made no great impression on me. The fjords were another matter. This beauty is too much. It’s defeating, utterly bewildering. Beauty most exquisite. Blue and ice-white, mountains high and aloof with green, thick trees, yet utterly desolate, no humanity. Somehow, profoundly unhappy. I thought of the boy who would run away to sea in the white twilight in the book I must write one day, but he wouldn’t be in a steam-yacht, he’d be sailing before the mast.15 Though she relates her onboard conquests in great detail in the journal, she takes care not to mention them in letters to her family, or to Carol.