Victor Gollancz takes Daphne and her agent out for a drink at Claridge’s to celebrate the contract they sign in May 1934. This is the first time Daphne has spent time in the presence of a publisher, apart from her brief meeting with her American editor, Nelson Doubleday. She knows that it is not out of vanity or a lust for fame that she wants her books on the bestseller lists, but purely to preserve her independence, so she can live by her pen. Victor rubs his hands, certain that he has found his flagship author: she has everything she needs to appeal to a wide readership, her name, her beauty, her youth, those first three novels, the latter two with their whiff of sulfur, and of course the highly promising biography on the life of her celebrated father. In the hushed surroundings of Claridge’s, while they toast their agreement, Daphne wonders if this portly editor, with his little glasses and his shaven head, who looks at her both greedily and respectfully, will be the architect of her first major success. She wants to trust him. After all, isn’t Victor a charmed name, the herald of future greatness?
Daphne writes this book in four months, at home in the Old Rectory, while Margaret looks after Tessa and Tommy devotes himself to his battalion. It is not a classic biography, with dates and a chronology of events and a catalog of places. In her words, Gerald comes back to life, along with his unique sense of humor, his prowess as an actor, his imitations, and his sometimes infantile jokes. It is all described clear-sightedly: his pampered childhood, his first loves, his meeting with Muriel Beaumont, his famous “stable” of actress-fillies, his peculiar relationships with his daughters, his unhappiness when they turned from children to women. With great empathy, Daphne exposes her father’s faults and contradictions, his selfishness, his most intimate doubts, his fear of germs, even a simple cold.
Gerald: A Portrait is published in October 1934 by Victor Gollancz. Gerald’s actor friends and members of the Garrick Club are, once again, shocked by Daphne’s frankness. How can a girl depict her own father with such realism? Daphne’s friends and family fully approve the book, however, and congratulate her. The Morning Post expresses a few reservations but praises the young writer’s “staggeringly candid” approach, while the Times salutes this “portrait seeing deeply into his nature, written without a trace of malice.” The book sells well as soon as it comes out, and the royalty checks start to mount up. Daphne received an advance of a thousand pounds and will receive 20 percent on the first ten thousand copies sold. But the absence of Gerald, and the first Christmas without him, diminish her feelings of happiness. Cannon Hall has been put up for sale, and her mother and sisters have moved into the cottage on Well Road where she lived until Tessa’s birth.
It is painful, bidding farewell to this childhood home. She remembers hurtling down the stairs with Jeanne, recalls the games of cricket with Gerald on the lawn. She even finds herself missing his “Borgia” face. Her youth is fading. She is the wife of a highly respected soldier, mother of a little girl who will soon be two years old. Sadness overwhelms her. It is the end of an era, a new path in her life, which she embarks upon with a feeling of bitterness.
She must start writing again. What else can she do? In the summer of 1935, the tireless Victor encourages her, asking her to think about a novel; she should strike while the iron is hot from the success of her biography. Daphne divides her time between Surrey and Fowey, escaping the tedious small talk of army life whenever she can, to her husband’s displeasure. Her mother needs her, too, because she is suffering without Gerald. How can Daphne make them all understand, without hurting them, without creating conflict, that her priority is not her child or her marriage or her mother or her sisters, but her writing?
* * *
Gone is the time when Daphne could just dash off to France and spend a week with Ferdie in Paris or shut herself away in Ferryside. She no longer has any freedom in her daily life, but she preserves it in her head. Victor is curious to learn more about her new novel: Couldn’t she tell him a little more? Daphne reveals that her heroine is Mary Yellan, twenty-three years old, and that the story takes place at the beginning of the nineteenth century, in Cornwall, at Bodmin Moor. Daphne is inspired to write this book by memories of her childhood reading, the fantastic atmosphere of novels that held her spellbound such as Treasure Island, but also by that disastrous outing with Foy Quiller-Couch, five years earlier, when the two of them got lost on the moors. Victor asks excitedly what the title is. Daphne’s reply: Jamaica Inn. That is all she will tell her editor.
Daphne writes on a typewriter, an Oliver No. 11 that she learns to use two fingered. The household becomes accustomed to the clattering noise that goes on for several hours a day. Tessa soon understands that her mother must not be disturbed when she can hear this noise. The first draft is completed within a few months, and Victor is the first to read it. From the opening pages, read in his office on Henrietta Street, he knows he has a hit on his hands. There is a captivating dramatic tension to the story, and a cast of characters some of whom are appealing, like Mary and her poor aunt Patience, and others terrifying, such as Joss Merlyn, Mary’s brutal, drunken uncle, and the disturbing vicar Davey, with his ivory mane and his white irises. Victor knows that readers will be fascinated by the poignant story of a young woman whose mother has just died, and who goes to live with her uncle and aunt, owners of an inn located on windswept marshland. From the moment she arrives at this sinister tavern, the young girl suspects the worst: that her relatives are involved with pirates, that ships are being deliberately wrecked in order to pillage their cargoes, and that her aunt and uncle are part of a shady trafficking operation to dispose of these stolen goods. Victor is aware that it’s not a light, simple novel: some scenes are difficult. Reading it again, however, he realizes that Daphne has forced herself not to sugarcoat the story. He congratulates his new author on her wild, fertile imagination. And to think she is only twenty-nine! He is convinced that moviemakers will show a keen interest in the rights and organizes an impressive publicity campaign.
The novel is published in January 1936, and Daphne receives the same advance and the same royalty percentage as for the biography of her father. The book is an instant hit, even before the first reviews appear, and within a few months Jamaica Inn has already sold more copies than Daphne’s first three novels put together. Despite the death of George V on January 20, 1936, which dominates the news agenda, the reviews salute the power of the young author’s prose and the descriptions of Cornwall. And yet—and this bothers her—almost all of them emphasize the debt she owes to the Brontë sisters: a house filled with mystery and dread, a Gothic atmosphere, heroes inspired by Heathcliff or Rochester. As if she hadn’t created anything new at all! Thankfully, the reviewer for the Spectator of January 24, 1936, writes: “I do not believe R.L. Stevenson would have been ashamed to have written Jamaica Inn,” praise that delights Daphne. It is her first bestseller, but despite her excitement, she senses that she can do even better, and Victor encourages her in this belief, persuaded as he is that the rise of Daphne du Maurier has only just begun. For the moment, she protects herself, refusing all interviews, all events where she might have to meet her readers. But the fan letters soon pile up, forwarded by her publishers, and she is astonished by these letters sent from all over the country—and then from the United States, too, when Doubleday publishes the novel. She replies conscientiously to all of them, using her typewriter.
Victor was right: a film production company wishes to buy the screen rights for the novel. The company in question is Mayflower Pictures, run by Erich Pommer, a German producer who has worked with Marlene Dietrich, and the British actor Charles Laughton. The director they have in mind is Alfred Hitchcock, who knew Gerald du Maurier well, having produced the 1930 film Lord Camber’s Ladies, directed by Ben Levy and starring the beautiful Gertrude Lawrence opposite Daphne’s father.
Rather than enjoying her newfound fame, Daphne concentrates on the next book; she explains to Victor that she does not yet have an idea for a new novel, but she would like
to write a history of the du Maurier family, going back to her great-grandfather’s time and ending with the births of Kicky’s five children. Her editor would have preferred another juicy novel in the same vein as Jamaica Inn, but he has no desire to clash with his young protégée.
While Daphne begins the book, using her father’s family archives, which Mo has kept, and researching birth and marriage certificates, she receives the news she has been dreading. One evening in March 1936, Tommy enters the Old Rectory with a strange expression on his face, and she guesses what he is about to tell her. For three years now, she has been able to merely play at being an army wife without really investing herself in the role. But now Tommy’s regiment has been sent to Egypt for an indefinite period, and he has been put in command. Daphne’s duty is to follow her husband.
* * *
How will she be able to survive in this dusty, despised city of Alexandria, in this appalling heat, with these deadly dull people, these interminable expat dinners where the other guests look her up and down like some curious beast, where she can read on their lips: Mrs. Browning, that’s the writer Daphne du Maurier, didn’t you know? They must think her very shy, because she always keeps her distance. The house is pleasant, though: located at 13 Rue Jessop, it overlooks the beach at Ramleh, where Tessa and Margaret frolick. Tommy is gone all day with his troops in the desert. Daphne tries to make progress on her family biography but is bereft of energy and inspiration. Why did she ever start this book? She should have waited for an idea for a novel to come to her. From her window, she looks out at the smooth sea and feels sorry for herself. Her only pleasure is swimming. It had been easy to write the biography of her father, because she was simply remembering a man she had known closely all her life; she knew how to shine a light on his virtues, his faults, his obsessions. Her task on this new book is much harder, because she knows nothing about her ancestors, apart from what can be gleaned from their letters. She has to breathe life into them, add flesh and blood to the dates and places, treat them like characters from one of her novels. But this is not a novel, she reminds herself, as she sweats inside a sticky bedroom, behind closed shutters, in the slow, hot afternoon hours. She begins her account in 1810, in London, with little Ellen, who will later marry Louis-Mathurin Busson du Maurier, the son of emigrants from Angers, Kicky’s father. In September 1936, Daphne finally manages to finish the book, but she is not proud of it: Done about 100000 words, she writes to her editor, sending him the typescript via friends who are returning to London (lucky so-and-sos!). I feel it is something of a tour de force to have written it in an Egyptian summer.26 She suspects that her dialog is contrived, artificial, that her characters seem lifeless and unsympathetic. How she missed the freedom allowed by a novel as she wrote these pages.
Margaret, the nanny, is worried by Mrs. Browning’s paleness and weight loss, which she finds alarming. She remarks that her employer is eating less and less, that she spends her days locked up in her room, lying on her bed with a cool, damp cloth on her forehead. Even her deadpan sense of humor seems to have been dented. Tessa, who is nearly three, is growing ever livelier, despite the oppressive heat. She is an amusing, outgoing little girl, but her energy exhausts her mother. One morning, Margaret is so concerned by Mrs. Browning’s state of health that she calls the doctor.
She is expecting a child. Upon hearing these words, Daphne, overwhelmed, bursts into tears. But after the initial shock, she feels hopeful again, because she knows that she will finally be able to return to England, even if only for the birth of the child, due in the spring of 1937. She misses her homeland, her mother and sisters, and her faithful Tod, too, whom she has never lost touch with since 1922, and Foy Quiller-Couch. Nearly a year without all those people: it’s a long time. On December 11, 1936, Daphne listens attentively to the abdication speech of Edward VIII, who announces from Windsor Castle that he is giving up the crown to marry the woman he loves, the divorcée Wallis Simpson. How Daphne would have liked to listen to this speech in the company of Mo, Angela, and Jeanne, to share this historic moment with them. In the meantime, she finally receives a letter from her editor. Victor’s verdict is positive; he finds The Du Mauriers extremely well written and interesting, he believes in it. Daphne is reassured but already feels quite distant from the book. Alfred Hitchcock, meanwhile, has bought the movie rights to Jamaica Inn, and a screenplay is being written. She wonders if the film will be true to her book, if her characters will appear on-screen the way she imagined them.
Daphne leaves for England, at last, on January 16, 1937, aboard the Otranto, with her daughter and Margaret. As soon as she breathes the sea air of “her” Cornwall, she feels alive again. Her mother and her sisters now live in Ferryside, and she is overjoyed to see them again. She has to return to Alexandria after she gives birth, however; she cannot abandon Tommy, who will be there for a long time yet. But for now, she can look forward to a few months in England, and she is determined to enjoy them. She spends several weeks in Fowey, following the publication of The Du Mauriers from afar. The reviews are generally favorable—the Observer talks of the book’s “sheer entertainment value”—but sales are sluggish. Daphne was expecting this and is unfazed by this half failure. Q is highly appreciative of the book, as are Tod and Ferdie, and their compliments are significant to Daphne. So, what about a new novel? Yes, she has a vague idea in mind, something quite dark, macabre, but it’s too early to talk about it.
As her pregnancy nears its end, she resigns herself to having a second daughter, and her instinct is proved right this time: on April 2, 1937, a baby girl is born in the apartment of Queen Anne’s Mansions that the Brownings have rented in Westminster, not far from St. James’s Park. That very morning, Angela had taken her younger sister out for a ride in her new car, a Morris Eight, with minimal suspension. This must have had an effect on Daphne, because the baby was born two weeks early. The child literally whizzed out! she writes to Tod. And Aunt Angela says that the baby resembles a little red radish.27 Daphne so wanted a son, but she consoles herself with the thought of “third time lucky.” Tommy is back in England for a three-month leave, and it is he who chooses the name of their second daughter, Flavia.
The new king, George VI, the brother of Edward VIII, is crowned on May 12, 1937. The country is in a state of jubilation, and the next day Daphne’s thirtieth birthday is celebrated by her family. The young mother smiles, laughs, opens her presents, eats her cake, but secretly she is thinking about the novel that awaits her. She daydreams about it constantly. The ideas come together, slowly but surely. The crucial thing is finding the time to write. Not easy, with a husband and two children, even if she does have permanent help. How can she rediscover the solitude she so badly needs? Angela says she has made progress on her own novel, but clearly she does not need the same kind of isolation that Daphne does. Angela is thirty-three, still plump, still unmarried, but she doesn’t care; her joviality is infectious, and she clearly prefers the company of women, making endless trips all over Europe with her lady friends. Her greatest pleasure is a long train journey. She has the same love of extravagance as her father, always traveling first class, always staying in the most luxurious hotels, to Daphne’s amusement. Angela’s novel is centered on Verona, the disgraced heroine, who makes the wrong choice and pays the consequences. Daphne listens, nodding. She is not worried by having a novelist for a sister, she is proud of her, just as she is proud of Jeanne, who wants to go to art school and to make her living as a painter. Even though Daphne is married and has children, the bonds between her and her sisters are as strong as ever. Little Flavia seems more fragile than her sibling, so Daphne decides to leave the two children under the supervision of their grandmothers—Nancy Browning and Muriel du Maurier—as well as their nanny, Margaret. Daphne has no intention of taking a newborn and a three-year-old to the furnace of Alexandria, where Tommy must return from July to mid-December 1937.
Five months to get through. Resigned, Daphne follows her husband. But on the ship th
at takes them back to Egypt, while she stares out through the porthole at the sea, she is not thinking of the two children she has left behind, nor of her mother or sisters, and she forgets everything that surrounds her on board: her husband, the other passengers, their conversations. She goes to her cabin to retrieve her notebook and begins taking notes. Later, in the stifling humidity of her room on Rue Jessop, Daphne paces the floor and bites her fingernails as she did when she was young. There are ripped-up pages strewn over the floor. She has thrown away a whole first draft because she wasn’t satisfied; she is going to start again at the beginning. Over and over, she sits down, opens her notebook, rereads her words, stands up again. There is, ironically, a shrub named the daphne that flowers all year round and needs a little sunlight but must, above all, have its roots well planted in damp, fertile soil. Is it the heat that is making it so difficult for her to write? She has been here for more than a month now, and she is not getting anywhere. Daphne has the impression that her brain is turning soft. When she tries to type, her fingertips stick to the keys. She has been sleeping badly ever since Flavia’s birth and swallows a sleeping pill each night. Consequently, her slumber seems heavy and she is drained when she wakes up. She is still as uninterested as ever by the army-wife parties she is obligated to attend. Why does she feel so ill at ease in society, so desperate to escape other people’s eyes, just like she was as a child at Cannon Hall, hiding behind the flower beds during those hated Sunday lunches?
How she would love to be elsewhere, anywhere but here, close to the desert, how she would love to be under the rain; how divine it would be to stand in the light, scented drizzle in Fowey, now, to be cold, to shiver, to snuggle inside a thick coat, to walk in the wet, green grass, to breathe the pure air, to stroke the rough bark of a tree, the velvety, dew-speckled petals, to stare out to sea as the waves crash against the cliffs. To walk in the grounds of Menabilly, to put her hands on its gray walls, to feel again that shiver of intense pleasure.