As fall draws near, Daphne decides to act. No more hesitation, she wants to give herself a chance to strengthen their marriage. Despite her dislike of London, she goes there once a month on the train, dressed in her city clothes—suit, high heels, coat—to see Tommy. But only more disillusionment awaits her: her husband’s time is monopolized by his new job. Every time she visits him, she feels sidelined, unimportant, even if he does tell her in detail about his recent trip to bombed-out Berlin. All his conversations revolve around the devastation wreaked by the war. In the face of this relentless pessimism, Daphne feels powerless. What can she do in London? Visit Christopher Puxley? This makes her feel better, even if it’s not a very good idea. She also sees Carol Reed again: not only has he married since she last saw him, but he is now in the middle of a divorce. She bumps into her old friend Pat, Edgar Wallace’s daughter. Her past is all around her, bringing with it feelings of nostalgia, and she surprises herself with the bitter observation that she is coming to resemble her father. who, as he grew older, always looked backward, not forward. Her youth has slipped between her fingers. In the mirror is a woman with graying hair, whose assertive chin gives her an almost severe look. Daphne does not like what she sees.
There is always writing, but for the moment nothing comes; nothing is “brewing.”* No novel in sight. No short stories or plays either. The winter of 1946–47 that descends on Fowey is worthy of Siberia. At “Mena,” the water freezes in the pipes; the power goes out. The children have to sleep in their clothes and coats, under piles of blankets. Snow piles up in the garden and the forest, and the house is cut off from the rest of the world for a whole week. The children build enormous snowmen and sled down hills on metal trays. It is so cold that Tessa keeps the goats, Doris and Freddie, in her bedroom. This is a disaster, as they get into Tommy’s closet and eat his favorite coat, an heirloom from his father. When he sees what they have done, Tommy yells with rage and hunts the terrified goats through the house with his bow and arrow. His curses make the servants blush.
The cold spell lasts all winter, the temperature finally rising with the arrival of spring. But Daphne and Tommy’s marriage just seems to grow ever colder. Not that this is visible from the outside. For their children, their friends, and even Maureen—Tommy’s assistant, who is becoming increasingly close to the Brownings—they still appear the perfect couple: handsome, athletic, funny, complicit. No one suspects the invisible barrier that is rising between them. And still Daphne doesn’t write: the clatter of the Underwood has been silenced.
During the first sunny days of 1947, Daphne suggests to her husband that they go on vacation, to a neutral country unaffected by the ravages of war. She hasn’t been abroad for nearly ten years. She believes that this trip will provide them with the stimulation they need and convinces Tommy. They head for Switzerland, with its lakes, its pure air, its peaceful countryside. Two weeks of walking, resting, reading … and yet there is still no intimacy between them, physical or emotional. Saddened, Daphne does not talk about it. She suffers in silence, concealing her feelings from everyone. Her pain is doubled by her inability to write. No love, and no book. She misses writing as much as she misses those sensual moments with her husband. She has been seized by a sort of intellectual barrenness, making it impossible for her usually fertile imagination to rain down ideas. And this is compounded by the sensual aridity affecting her most intimate desires. Unlike many authors, Daphne has never lived in fear of writer’s block. She has never lacked inspiration before. All that remains to her now is the pleasure of living in Menabilly, with the coming summer, in the company of her friends, Maureen, Foy Quiller-Couch, Clara Vyvyan, Carol Reed, Mary Fox, her mother and her sisters, and her children: Tessa, gracious and perspicacious; Flavia, shy and dreamy; and Kits, the center of her universe, in all his perfection.
Daphne is forty years old, the age that her father so dreaded, but in the summer of 1947, playing and sunbathing on the beach at Pridmouth with her children, never writing a word, she is still as beautiful as ever. Her books continue to sell, all over the world, and in France, I’ll Never Be Young Again is being translated for Albin Michel. Michel Hoffman, her French agent, informs her that the novel will be translated by Mlle Van Moppès (who recently married and became Mme Butler), the same woman who translated Rebecca and Jamaica Inn. Daphne does not know this Mme Butler, but she places her trust in her. She is unaware that her translator is also a novelist, that her first novel, Dormeuse, was published by Grasset in 1932, when she was twenty-five. Daphne has been told by Michel Hoffman that Mme Butler was authorized to “modify” the text in order to adapt it for French readers. Daphne decides to trust her on this matter, too, and in September 1947 Mme Butler thanks her for her confidence in a letter.
To coincide with the release of the movie version of her novel Hungry Hill—directed by Brian Desmond Hurst and starring Margaret Lockwood and Denis Price—a team of journalists arrives at Menabilly to film an interview with Daphne. She cowrote the screenplay for the movie with Terence Young. The reviews are bad, especially the one in the New Yorker: “The interminable British saga of several generations, which could only interest those mentioned in their will.” Daphne is disappointed, having enjoyed this first collaboration with Terence.
In the black-and-white images of the TV interview, the author emerges from the impressive manor house, followed by Kits and Flavia. Daphne wears a pantsuit, à la Marlene Dietrich, her hair flowing over her shoulders, and her stride is long and elastic, like an overgrown adolescent. She walks around, hands in pockets, the mistress of her kingdom, then—after pushing Kits on the swing—she sits nonchalantly on a stone bench, in a boyish pose, with one foot lifted up on the seat. Daphne looks radiant, at the zenith of her life and career, but what no one sees is the crisis that rages inside her. Menabilly remains her fortress, the guardian of all her secrets.
* * *
A telephone call fills her with dread, one evening in September 1947. She must go to New York. Her American editor, Nelson Doubleday himself, is the one who asks her. Daphne hangs up, feeling nervous and worried: another accusation of plagiarism against Rebecca! Six years earlier, the New York Times ran an unsettling article citing the numerous similarities between Rebecca and a novel published in 1934 that Daphne had never read—La Successora by Carolina Nabuco, a famous Brazilian novelist—which had a comparable narrative structure, a second wife, a large mansion. Daphne’s editor had vigorously defended her, rejecting all suggestions of plagiarism, and thankfully no one had followed the story up. Then another complaint hit Nelson Doubleday’s desk, almost at the same time, lodged by an unknown author, Edwina MacDonald, who was convinced that Daphne du Maurier had drawn inspiration from her earlier novel, Blind Windows, another story of remarriage that Daphne had never read. In 1942, Daphne published a cutting letter in the New York Times, in which she sarcastically asked Miss Nabuco and Mrs. MacDonald if they could work out which one of them had written her book. The case dragged on, before Doubleday’s legal team once again managed to quash it without any intervention from Daphne. And yet it was still not finished. With Mrs. MacDonald now dead and the war over, her son decided to take the matter to court. This time, Daphne has to appear in person, in New York, to explain to the judge how and why she wrote Rebecca in 1938. The thought terrifies her. Of course she did not plagiarize anyone—there is not the slightest doubt about that—but the idea of publicly describing the mechanics of writing, that very intimate, very particular process, makes her fearful, as does the prospect of facing the crowds, the press, the photographers, of answering indiscreet questions that expose the darkest secrets of her soul, as a writer and as a woman. Yes, she must go there; she must even stay a few weeks, possibly even a month, because such trials can be protracted. Resigned to this fate, she reserves two cabins on the Queen Mary: one for Kits and herself, the other for Flavia and Tod. Tessa will not come, as she is about to start boarding at her new school, St. Mary, in Oxfordshire, a prospect that excites her: she is
eager to make new friends and to get away from “Mena.” She is the only one of the three children not to like the old house’s peculiar atmosphere. As for Tommy, he will remain in London to work, and Maureen will look after him. Daphne and her family will stay with Nelson Doubleday and his wife, Ellen, in their house on Long Island.
The first thing she must attend to is her wardrobe. For more than a decade now, Daphne has been living in pants and sailor sweaters, her children wearing the same old rags. In the United States, she knows, she is a star author, and there is simply no way she can attend the trial dressed in her casual Menabilly clothes. She also suspects that Barberrys, the Doubledays’ luxurious Long Island home, is a society magnet, which only serves to increase her anxiety. She does not know Ellen Doubleday, but she has heard about her elegance, and imagines she must look like those bejeweled, emaciated American ladies she dislikes so much, such as Wallis Simpson. Miss Tryel, the local seamstress, works like a slave to produce clothing worthy of the occasion in time for the family’s departure: matching outfits in navy blue and red for Kits and Flavia, suits and evening dresses for Daphne. The next priority is a family visit to the hairdresser. A cut and a perm for Daphne—the cut a little too short, the curls a little too tight, perhaps, she thinks regretfully—but she refuses to dye her few gray strands. Tessa gives up her long braids, Flavia is given a new hairstyle with bangs, which suits her, and Kits is proud of his boy’s haircut.
Daphne travels to America for the first time in her life. Tommy and his assistant, Maureen, come to bid them good-bye, on this cold November day. The Queen Mary awaits them in Southampton. The children are so excited: never in their lives have they seen such a huge ship, over a thousand feet long and capable of carrying more than two thousand people. Their comfortable cabins are filled with flowers, and Flavia is thrilled by the small, mahogany-paneled bathrooms. The first night goes well: the sea is calm, no one gets seasick.
The next morning, while Daphne is with Tod and the children in her stateroom, there is a knock at the door. A slender, dark-haired lady in her early fifties stands there, holding a bouquet of white roses. Behind her is a steward carrying a basket full of gifts. The woman smiles and introduces herself: Ellen Doubleday. She has come in person to welcome the famous novelist published by her husband, to make sure she arrives safe and sound. The children and Tod are charmed by their new companion. But for Daphne, the feeling is more intense than that. She cannot take her eyes from this gorgeous vision; she is bewitched by the elegance of her publisher’s wife, her graceful movements, her hazel eyes, her velvet voice, her refinement, her distinction.
While she listens to Ellen Doubleday, while she accepts the roses, the gifts, her heart is pounding, and it is a boy’s voice that whispers in her ear—the voice of Eric Avon, whom she locked away in his box, so long ago, back when she first met Tommy. Eric Avon comes back to life, sparkling and resplendent, hammering with both fists against the lid of his box, shouting out that he is alive, he is here, real, now, just as he was at Camposenea, when he became intoxicated by the scent of Fernande Yvon’s handkerchief, and the feeling is so powerful, so feverish, that Daphne cannot speak; she can only observe Ellen Doubleday in silence, transfixed, her hands writhing, her breathing fast.
All the way through the crossing, Daphne remains dazzled by Ellen, admiring her clothes, soothed by her soft voice. There are rumors that Greta Garbo is on board the Queen Mary, but Daphne couldn’t care less: all she sees is Ellen, as if this woman’s presence has woken her from a hundred-year sleep. When they arrive in New York, there are a Buick and a Cadillac waiting to take them to Oyster Bay. Barberrys is only thirty years old, but looks more ancient, a lovely house with pale walls overlooking a yacht-speckled bay, with terraces and beautiful gardens. There are nineteen bedrooms, each one decorated with tasteful luxury; a swimming pool, tennis courts. After Menabilly, with its cold drafts and its rats and its green water, the Doubledays’ heated house is a wonder. The Brownings are welcomed as if they were part of the family. Ellen rules over her home and her servants like Rebecca de Winter, no detail escapes her. Nelson, tall, stout, and graying, is just as friendly as Daphne remembers him from their meeting in London in 1931, the one and only time she saw him before. But beneath the veneer of perfection, Daphne detects a discreet tension between the Doubledays, she notices Nelson’s mood swings, his fragile health, his tendency to drink one glass too many, his wife’s worried looks.
The trial begins, and it truly is a trial for Daphne. The prosecution lists forty-six parallels between Blind Windows and Rebecca. They seem determined to make Daphne confess, in spite of everything, that she read Mrs. MacDonald’s story before writing Rebecca and was inspired by it. They question her relentlessly. As she stands in the witness box, it requires a concerted effort from Daphne not to dissolve into panic. Miss du Maurier reads the Times Literary Supplement, does she not? So Miss du Maurier must have seen a review of Mrs. MacDonald’s story published on May 20, 1928? Daphne replies as calmly as possible, but her heart is pounding beneath her new suit. She feels intimidated by all the eyes in the courtroom trained on her. She was only twenty-one in 1928, she says; she was writing short stories, one of which was published in the Bystander magazine, but she had not begun a novel, and no, she never read that review in the TLS.
The prosecutor Charles S. Rosenschein is remorseless, and so is his colleague Arthur L. Ross. They take it in turns to grill the author with a barrage of questions. Miss du Maurier knew the author Edgar Wallace, did she not? Yes, Daphne replies, she was friends with his daughter Pat in the twenties and thirties. Smiling triumphantly, Ross holds up one of Edgar Wallace’s books, published by John Long Ltd. He opens the book and shows the court an advertisement for other novels published by John Long Ltd, one of them, Blind Windows by Edwina MacDonald. Miss du Maurier must certainly have seen this ad, he insists; she can’t possibly have missed it. The defense lawyers object and, when it is Daphne’s turn to speak again, she manages to say, in a phlegmatic voice that conceals her inner torment, that she never saw those advertisements.
Every afternoon, Daphne emerges from the courtroom drained of all energy. The trial seems interminable—there is no way it will be over in a few weeks—and she is already exhausted by it. At Barberrys, Ellen awaits her return and pampers her, making her Earl Grey tea, cinnamon toast, sitting next to her on the sofa in the magnificent living room with its view over the bay. Not a word, Daphne dear, until you have something warm inside you, no sir.10 She often ends her sentences with this peremptory no sir, which makes the children laugh. Later, the two women will share a light meal in Daphne’s room, because she feels too tired to dine with the others downstairs.
On the weekends, as Daphne feared, the Doubledays have guests over. But Ellen is so warmly welcoming and enthusiastic that Daphne ends up having fun at these spectacular parties. The mistress of the house insists on taking her shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue, so that her husband’s star author can shine during these dinners in her honor. Daphne does not object; how could she say no to Ellen? Mrs. Doubleday’s maid had thought that one of Lady Browning’s evening dresses, made by Miss Tryel, was a nightgown, a misunderstanding that sent Daphne and her children into hysterics. When Daphne descends the wide staircase to meet the guests, dressed in a new outfit, a gift from Ellen, her children admire her, dazzled by the transformation in their mother. All eyes on her, Daphne du Maurier shines.
As the end of the trial nears, in mid-December 1947, Daphne prepares like a boxer about to enter the ring for one last fight. She knows she must do everything she can to convince the judge she did not plagiarize anything. Her lawyers reassure her, but Daphne cannot help feeling afraid: if she loses this case, it will cost her a great deal of money and, even worse, be a blow to her reputation.
Daphne enters the witness box, hands trembling and mouth dry. But her voice is clear, assertive, melodious. Her voice is a powerful weapon. She explains that she began writing Rebecca in 1937, when she was in Alexandria with her h
usband. She describes the unbearable heat, her desire to go home to Cornwall, and in one hand she holds up her little black notebook, the one in which she wrote her first notes for the novel. She speaks for a long time, not rushing; she is the daughter of actors, capable of remaining on the stage for hours. Those anonymous faces, those eyes staring at her, all those people who have never written a novel in their lives … what can they understand of the writing process? What do they know of the doubts that assail novelists? Do they believe, these strangers listening to her now in the silence of this austere Federal Court in Foley Square, that a book is written just like that, built on a single idea? That all the author has to do is follow that idea, placidly, sheeplike? They could never imagine how nebulous and complex a novelist’s thoughts are, how filled with contradictions and subconscious impulses, nor how degrading it feels to stand there, facing them, to have to coolly analyze her inspiration as if it were merely a recipe for a meal, to have to expose the intricate mechanisms behind this intimate alchemy, the labyrinthine workings of her brain.
Why should writers be obligated to explain themselves, to reveal the secrets of their art? What would they make—all these lawyers and journalists, these ladies and gentlemen of the jury—of her secret jealousy toward beautiful, dark-haired Jan Ricardo, Tommy’s first fiancée, this woman who (as she read, perplexed, in the newspaper) had thrown herself under a train in August 1944, when she was married to Mr. Constable-Maxwell, when she was mother to a two-year-old girl? Must she confess that she searched through her husband’s desk drawer, that she read love letters to him sent by another woman? What would they make of Eric Avon, who has urged her to explore her masculine side since she was ten years old and who is now banging on the inside of his box as if he sensed the importance that Ellen Doubleday would have in Daphne’s life, a sudden, dizzying thunderbolt of love capable of ridding her of her writer’s block?