She picks up her notebook. A beautiful home … A first wife … A wreck, perhaps at sea … A terrible secret … Jealousy … 28
Daphne concentrates, closes her eyes, forgets Egypt, projects herself into the misty coolness of Fowey, and she thinks of Milton, the immense house that had so enchanted her as a child, with its impressive balcony, the servants lined up in front of the majestic staircase, the housekeeper, Mrs. Parker. She should use that tall, black silhouette. She should use the shipwreck she saw, and which left such an impression on her, in Pridmouth, in January 1930, that smashed ship, the Romanie, at the mercy of the waves. She sees herself again, rummaging through the drawers in the Old Rectory, finding those love letters that Tommy had received from his previous fiancée, Jeannette Ricardo, whom he was supposed to marry on March 25, 1929. The engagement had been broken off. Why? Daphne didn’t know. The feminine handwriting, sloping and determined, traced in black ink, haunts her still. Why did Tommy keep those letters? Perhaps he had never been able to forget the woman who signed those letters Jan, with an outsized capital J that eclipsed all the other letters. Daphne had found a few photographs of the young woman, a sophisticated beauty with black hair, looking sublime in her sheath dress. She must have been a perfect hostess, one of those women who know how to receive guests, arrange flowers, make conversation with anyone, be elegant and composed in all circumstances. Daphne had tidied away those letters and photographs, with jealousy pinching her heart. She should use that jealousy, now, excavate it, fictionalize it, exploit it. Find a name for this sumptuous mansion … M like “Milton,” M like “Menabilly” … Manderley, the name comes to her, Manderley, an immense old building, its noble splendor slightly worn away by the years, the twin of Milton Hall, with clock towers and parapets, like the Villa Camposenea.
In the silence of her stuffy room, Daphne repeats the name out loud—Manderley, Manderley—and a sentence fills her mind with a sort of sober grace, the feeling, or rather the instinct, that she is not mistaken, that she has found, unhesitatingly, the right words, like a bolt of cloth that falls perfectly. Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. The novel’s title, she already knows, will be Rebecca. The same name she used for her evil heroine in the strange short story “The Doll,” written ten years earlier and never published. Rebecca, the first wife … Dark haired, stunningly beautiful, talented. A perfect creature with a boyish figure, capable of taming a stallion and raising a sail in a raging storm, who writes in an elegant, sloping hand and signs her name with a huge capital R. Dead in tragic circumstances, at sea. That same roaring sea that can be heard from the large house hidden behind trees, up on a hill, sheltered from prying eyes. The high gates, the long, winding driveway, the rhododendrons, the azaleas, the hyacinths, the little granite cottage on the beach at Pridmouth, all the magic, all the mystery, of Menabilly … Daphne sucks it all up greedily and breathes it out onto her imaginary Manderley.
She abandons her typewriter for the moment, writing directly into the black notebook. Chapter after chapter, she builds the novel. It will begin with an epilogue, something new for her, a way of accentuating the tension: the suspense that already existed in Jamaica Inn, and which she wants to emphasize even more here, so that the reader is compelled to continue reading, unable to put the book down. Rebecca’s husband, a widower, is Henry de Winter. Daphne is not sure that Henry is the right name for him, it’s a little dull for her tastes, but she keeps it for the moment. He’s in his fifties, an attractive but gloomy-looking man, very reserved. It is de Winter whom the female narrator meets in Monte Carlo, when she is merely a traveling companion to the vile, rich American lady Mrs. Van Hopper. The narrator has no name: Daphne can’t think of one for her and decides she doesn’t need one, because she likes the idea of this very young woman—a shy orphan, badly dressed, with her bitten-down nails, lank hair, and flat feet—remaining in the shadows. And yet she becomes the second Mrs. de Winter, to the stupefaction of Mrs. Van Hopper, who makes it clear to her, with a loathsome laugh, that she will never be able to replace Rebecca, that she will never be the true mistress of Manderley. As soon as she arrives in this vast house, described by Daphne as a character in its own right, the young Mrs. de Winter realizes, with a sinking heart, that the old American lady was right. At the foot of the great staircase, the servants stand motionless, awaiting the new wife of Henry de Winter. A tall, black figure stands out, with a horrifyingly white face, unsmiling, unwelcoming. This is Mrs. Danvers, the housekeeper, with her ever-clinking bunch of keys. She it is who looks after Manderley. She it was who looked after the first Mrs. de Winter. She has never gotten over the death of Rebecca. Rebecca. The novel resonates with those three ghostly syllables, signifier of the first Mrs. de Winter, who died a year ago and has left behind a vertiginous void filled with secrets, doubts, dread, and nightmares.
When Daphne leaves Alexandria in mid-December 1937, she has already written a third of the book. The family reunion worries her, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughters again. She fears that little Tessa will demand her presence, as will the eight-month-old baby. When Daphne informs her mother that she plans to meet her in Cornwall, so she can write, leaving her daughters for a few weeks longer with their nanny at her mother-in-law’s house, Mo is shocked and does not flinch from telling Daphne so. How can she make her mother, and all the others, understand that the book is more important than anything, that she lives only for Manderley, that place in her psyche that haunts her night and day? Like Peter Pan, she has created her own Neverland, and no one else can enter it. It upsets her, that her mother can think her cruel, so she attempts, rather clumsily, to explain herself and her feelings in a letter. I should get no work done. What a strain.29 Muriel gives in, and Daphne leaves for Ferryside, to work relentlessly on her novel.
At the beginning of 1938, the Brownings move again: Tommy is transferred to Hampshire, near Fleet. Daphne thinks herself lucky: She attaches so much importance to houses, and she takes an instant liking to the one they are to inhabit, Greyfriars, with its gabled roof and its large garden bordered with a forest. It is there, in the green-walled living room (because her bedroom is too small), that she makes progress on the book, sitting in front of the window with her typewriter, and whenever she looks up she can see the trees and little Tessa playing on the lawn, wrapped up against the cold. Never has she invested so much of herself in a novel; never has the writing of a book taken such possession of her. Her previous characters—Janet Coombe, Dick, Julius Lévy, Mary Yellan—were never given this psychological depth, this sensitivity to even the faintest emotion. Through the evocation of the innermost thoughts of her heroine, and a narrative that fluctuates between daydreams, past and present, Daphne knows just how much she owes to her grandfather Kicky and his “dreaming true.” The magnetic darkness of Svengali leaves its imprint on the pale features of Mrs. Danvers, who nurtured “Venetian”* feelings toward Rebecca. As for Manderley, the luxurious manor house could no longer be visited again, except in dreams.
Three months later, Daphne types the final period of the story. Now she must reread it, armed with the blue pencil she uses to remove long-winded sentences, repetitions. Her spelling is not the best—a childhood weakness that she never grew out of—but she knows that the text will be corrected before its publication by Norman Collins, one of the young editors at Victor Gollancz Ltd. She sits on the couch with her pen and reads every word of the thick manuscript out loud. This takes her several days. Henry de Winter … no, that name doesn’t suit him at all. This central character, so enigmatic and attractive and yet so cold, needs another first name. George? Paul? Maxim … Yes, that’s it, Maximilian de Winter. Elegant, cosmopolitan. His friends call him Maxim. There was only one person who called him Max, and that was Rebecca.
Before sending the corrected manuscript to Victor, Daphne hesitates. She dreads those uncomfortable moments, when the book no longer exists, lost in a no-man’s-land of waiting for her editor’s opinion, between the final corrections and publicati
on. The ending is left ambiguous: What will her readers think? Is there a risk they will feel lost? And that dull, nameless heroine, who exists in Rebecca’s shadow: Isn’t she just a bit too clumsy, too self-effacing? What will Daphne do if Victor thinks the book too sinister and macabre, or simply overdone, sliding into melodrama? In April 1938, Daphne finally writes to her editor: Here is the book. I’ve tried to get an atmosphere of suspense. It’s a bit on the gloomy side. The ending is a bit brief and a bit grim.30
Norman Collins is the first to read it, and he devours it in two days, then bursts ecstatically into Victor’s office. Victor reads it next, and when he calls Daphne his voice is excited, jubilant; she can hear it right away. At Victor Gollancz Ltd, they rush to prepare the ground for the novel’s publication in the first week of August. Victor has set an initial print run of twenty thousand copies, but he has a feeling he will need to reprint it very soon, certain that the book will double its sales within a month. He also feels sure that he will be able to sell foreign translation rights; up to now, Daphne has not been published in any other language. As for the cinema, he has no doubts: the movie rights will be snapped up in no time. Hitchcock has had a few problems with the shooting of Jamaica Inn, which is due for release the following year, 1939. Michael Joseph has already informed Daphne that her story has been radically transformed, and not in a good way. She expects the worst. But, for now, her mind is fully occupied by Rebecca.
While she waits, Daphne spends several summer weeks in Hampshire, touched by the enthusiastic responses of booksellers who have read advance copies of the book. Sunbathing in a deck chair, she encourages Flavia, who is taking her first steps on the lawn while Tessa plays with her father. The sweetness of light-filled afternoons, evenings enjoyed as a family. From time to time, Daphne gets up to put a new record on the gramophone. The rousing voice of Charles Trenet, a young French singer she adores, rings out in the garden: Y a d’la joie!* She sings along with him, in her almost perfect French accent:
C’est l’amour qui vient avec je ne sais quoi
C’est l’amour bonjour bonjour les demoiselles§
Daphne closes her eyes, sips a vodka gimlet, sings some more, thinks about Paris, about Fernande, about Kicky, about Montparnasse, about that French blood she’s so proud of. She has the strange feeling that this is the calm before the storm. Could this novel change her life?
* * *
It is a hurricane. Hurricane Rebecca, sweeping everything before it. In a single month, the book sells forty thousand copies. The publishers order a reprint. And that is only the start. Daphne du Maurier is the name on everyone’s lips. Who is this woman, only thirty-one years old? For the first time, Victor pressures Daphne: she must agree to do interviews, events; she must speak on the radio. She is fiercely opposed to the idea, but Victor insists. Reluctantly, she gives in. Her first interview takes place in her own home, at Greyfriars, with the journalist Tom Driberg, an effeminate man in his thirties with slicked-back hair, a rising star at the Daily Express. With typical humor, she admits to him that she hates London, loves gardening, is uninterested in cooking, drinks very little, is utterly indifferent to fashion, adores her quiet life in the countryside, and loathes public speaking. What does she read? Nothing very contemporary: the Brontë sisters, Anthony Trollope, and the poems of William Somerville. Her working day? From 10:00 am to 1:00 pm, then from 3:00 pm to 5:00 pm, every day except Sunday. The journalist asks Colonel Browning, who is present during the interview, if he ever knew a “Rebecca.” The colonel’s reply is succinct. No. When the article is published, Daphne is described as “a successful novelist, wife of a colonel and daughter of an actor.” Further on, Driberg makes a misogynistic barb: “In her conventionally comfortable drawing room, Daphne du Maurier looks more like a subaltern’s pretty little wife than a colonel’s wife.”
In late August 1938, the important bookstore Foyles, on Charing Cross Road in London, invites Daphne to a prestigious literary lunch organized by Christina Foyles. Two other, less famous novelists will be present. Daphne is dragged there by her editor. She warned Victor beforehand: she will not speak; she has nothing to say. All those eyes on her, all those people wanting to ask her questions, shake her hand, get their books signed … it’s torture. Later, she writes angrily to Foy: Writers should be read, but neither seen nor heard.31 Daphne has no desire to be part of any literary circle, to meet other authors. All this to sell more books? It’s a waste of time. Victor takes all this on the chin. But the growing and spectacular success of Rebecca is more than enough consolation. It has sold one hundred thousand copies in Britain before the American edition, published by Doubleday, appears in late September 1938, with every sign that the book will replicate its UK success. The offers pour in for translation rights. The French rights are bought by the publishing house Albin Michel.
The British public falls for Daphne’s harmonious face, her intensely blue eyes, her elegance. She goes on the radio, for the BBC, and her voice seems made for the airwaves, soft but powerful, feminine. The spotlight is hers, just as Victor predicted. And the more she refuses interviews and media appearances, the more eager the press and public are to find out more about this young novelist. The more she hides, the harder they seek.
By the year’s end, Victor has been proved right. The American edition has sold two hundred thousand copies. Nelson Doubleday is exultant. These figures make Daphne’s head spin—she finds them hard to believe—but the royalty checks that start flooding in make her proud. This is the independence she always dreamed of, as a teenager. The other side of the coin is the press reaction, which is often pitiless. The Times scornfully declares: “There is nothing in this book beyond the novelette.” The Christian Science Monitor judges the book “morbid” and predicts its author will be “here today, gone tomorrow.” The Canadian Forum deplores the novel’s “mediocrity” and labels its heroine “impossibly inept.”
It is painful to read these articles, like being stabbed in the chest. Daphne learns to put on her armor, to protect herself; she thinks of Kicky, who in difficult moments would repeat softly to his children, A quoi bon?* She takes great pleasure in the good reviews, though, and thankfully there is no shortage of them. The New York Times Book Review writes: “Daphne du Maurier’s gift is telling a story studded with shimmering truth.” The New York Herald Tribune is eulogistic: “Intense, dazzling … a credible and endearing heroine.” The Saturday Review salutes “a touching and moving story.” And the book continues to sell. And to sell.
During the 1938 family Christmas in Fowey, Daphne sees her old friend Arthur Quiller-Couch. He congratulates her on her success and seems sincere. But he utters a little phrase that will haunt her for a long time afterward: The critics will never forgive you for writing Rebecca.32 In early 1939, Daphne begins to sense that Q is right. Even while the sales figures mount, she feels her book is being misunderstood. No, it is not a Gothic romance; no, it is not a corny little love story; it is the tale of an all-consuming jealousy and its murderous consequences. Is it her publisher’s fault? Victor has hyped the novel up as something very romantic and commercial. Behind the story of a house, a man, and two women lurks a much darker and more disturbing truth, that of a psychological war disguised by muted violence and suppressed sexuality. The critics did not think it necessary to explore Maxim de Winter either: a complex personality, gnawed at from within, at once reserved and irascible, full of words left unsaid, whose very surname suggests cold, sterility, a burial under snow that has stunted the growth of everything. Why is Rebecca so quickly categorized as “mass-market fiction” intended for starry-eyed girls and romance-starved women? Why is the legacy of the Brontë sisters always raised, to the detriment of Daphne’s work, considered inferior and popular? Victor deplores this reaction but manages to console his author with the phenomenal sales that show no signs of abating, even amid the growing political tensions rocking Europe. Tommy warns his wife and their friends: war will be declared in a matter of months. It’s inevitab
le.
Despite these gloomy predictions, Angela’s first novel, The Perplexed Heart, is published in February 1939 by agent and editor Michael Joseph, and the du Mauriers toast the event together. For press and public, the novel may as well not exist, swallowed up in the path of Hurricane Rebecca. The few reviews it receives are negative, repeatedly comparing Angela to her sister. With guts and humor, Angela insists she will not change her name: she is proud of being a du Maurier, and she has just as much right to the moniker as her famous sister. And she continues to write. As does Daphne. Not a novel this time—she still doesn’t have an idea in mind—but she would like to bask a little longer in the ambience of Manderley, so she thinks about the possibility of adapting Rebecca for the stage. The idea excites her. After all, she is the daughter of actors; she has grown up in a theatrical atmosphere. Daphne sets to work with a pleasure she has never known before. How strange and enchanting it is to return to the imaginary world she created, one year later. First, she must construct a single setting: Manderley’s immense entrance hall, with a view over the magnificent garden. No descriptions here, of the kind that usually enliven her novels; she must limit herself to dialogs, give life to her characters purely through their voices, their mannerisms. Although Margaret, the nanny, is absent with a migraine, Daphne somehow manages to finish her adaptation while at the same time taking care of Tessa (six) and Flavia (nearly two), an achievement that leaves her exhausted. I must say, she admits wearily to Tod in a letter, I’m not one of those mothers who live for having their brats with them all the time.33 The play does not end in the same way as the novel; it is much more positive, a real happy ending. The curtain falls as Mr. and Mrs. de Winter embrace, at peace and in love. The ghost of Rebecca has been exorcised. Manderley is transformed from a temple of death into a bastion of love. Why? Because war is approaching, because Daphne has suffered so many reproaches for the ending of her novel, because she has the power to make that change, because writers can do whatever they like, because she is free.