Daphne watches them, thoughtfully, and the story comes to her on its own: she sees its basic outline, knows how it will start, already knows the ending. She has no need to dig deeper or reflect. It’s simply there. Leaning over her notebook, she doesn’t notice that Fernande has slipped into the chair next to hers, so occupied is she with her writing; she no longer hears anything, she is caught up in her own momentum, whisked into a world that is not hers. When at last she glances up, Fernande is looking at her, warmly, tenderly. Daphne hugs her tightly—she is so happy to see her—then shows her the notebook with its pages full of words and whispers that she was inspired by the English couple next to them. She tells Fernande the story, and when her friend says, smiling, that it is a horrible story, Daphne bursts out laughing and nods, overexcitedly, yes, yes, it’s a very dark tale, just awful.
Fernande has reserved a room in a hotel on one of the little streets off Boulevard du Montparnasse. She warns Daphne smilingly: It’s not the Crillon, or even the Hotel du Rond Point, but everything else was full; she had no choice. On the doorstep, the manageress of the hotel looks them up and down with a contemptuous, mocking expression, as if she knew all about them, as if she didn’t approve but had seen others just like them, and Daphne notes her white, puffed-up face, her dull red-dyed hair, just as she notes the shabby décor of the seedy hotel—a real hôtel de passe, she breathes to Fernande, who laughs loudly—and the murmurs behind the doors, the stained carpet on the stairs, the hideous wallpaper, the smell of something foul in the air, the chipped pitcher, the view over a dark courtyard with wet rags hanging from a clothesline. In the oppressive heat, undimmed by the fall of night, Daphne weaves her story, thinking about it constantly as she and Fernande have dinner in a brasserie on the boulevard. She listens patiently as her friend complains about the heat wave, her exhaustion, the difficulties she is having setting up her school, and the story continues to construct itself inside Daphne’s mind, until late at night, in the stifling humidity of the little room on the top floor.
The next day, on the train, while Fernande dozes, Daphne continues writing, rereading, scratching words out, correcting them. She gently wakes Fernande, hands her the notebook. Fernande deciphers the determined, resolute handwriting, taking a little longer because the story is in English, then, at the end, smiles, patting Daphne’s wrist: but how on earth did she think of all this, what an amazing imagination she must have, and that ending … it’s so dreadfully macabre! Daphne nods: she’s not interested in romances or happy endings; she wants to grab her readers by the throat, never to leave them indifferent. That English couple, things were not looking good for them; you could see it on their faces, they were going to have a terrible night. Daphne takes back the notebook and, in a firm hand at the top of the page, writes a single word, the title of the short story.
“Panic.”
* * *
What a relief to leave the sweltering sauna of Paris for the coastal breezes of Trébeurden, to breathe its scents of seaweed and salt. The Hotel de la Plage is situated almost on the sand, next to the little port of Trozoul. Although “port” is something of an overstatement: there are only about thirty fisherman’s dinghies here, and a few yachts. Daphne likes the sounds of the Breton names when she hears the locals pronounce them and repeats them herself, laughing as she rolls her r’s: Pleumeur-Bodou, Lan Kerellec, Goas-Treiz, Trémeur. Fernande seems less preoccupied, more relaxed, happy to lie in the sun and smile. Daphne goes swimming every morning, discovering deserted coves where she can bathe nude, unobserved, in a turquoise sea. She likes to gaze at Le Castel, a rocky promontory that encroaches on the sea with a large rock that looks like a man’s head in profile, and to admire the island of Milliau, which is sometimes accessible by foot at low tide. What a delight it is to walk on the still-wet sand, to discover, in the puddles that remain, what the sea has left behind it: the seaweed, the clams, the crabs that are a source of joy to fishermen.
In the afternoon, the two women go out near Perros-Guirec in a charabanc and return tired but happy, their blood stirred by the sea air. While Fernande takes a nap during the hottest part of the day, Daphne roams in the hills of the little town, admiring the Gothic architecture of the Ker Nelly château, walking past an abandoned manor house and pausing there for a while, enchanted by the ruins of the high walls, the remains of the square tower, starting to daydream about what might have happened here, hundreds of years before. On Rue de Bonne-Nouvelle, the highest in the town, she notices the rectangular bell tower of an old granite chapel, by the side of the road. There aren’t many people around as she slips inside, sits on a wooden bench, and admires the inner framework, in the form of an upturned ship’s hull. Above the altar, she sees a retable representing the Virgin Mary in front of a maritime landscape, carved models of ships, inscriptions on the walls: Pray for my son, out on the sea. Suddenly everything snaps into place, just like it did on the terrace of Le Dôme Café. She leaves the chapel with the beginning of a story brewing in her head. She already has the first line: It was hot and sultry, that oppressive kind of heat where there is no air, no life. A sad tale about a naïve young woman, engaged to an unfaithful sailor, who comes to pray in this church.
Later, in the silence of the hotel room, while Fernande is still asleep, Daphne writes, sitting in front of the window, looking out to sea. From time to time, she turns to glance at Fernande, her black hair spread over the pillow, one naked voluptuous shoulder revealed by the crumpled sheet. The title of Daphne’s short story: “La Sainte-Vierge.” During aperitifs on the terrace (both of them drink Dubonnet Rouge), Daphne hands the notebook to Fernande, hoping for her approval, watching every expression on her face. Why are the young woman’s writings so gloomy, so dark, when she herself is funny and cheerful? Better like that than the other way around, replies Daphne, her nose turned up in a comical grimace that makes Fernande laugh. The summer days stretch out between sea, swimming, walking, and reading—de Maupassant, D’Annunzio, Voltaire. Every morning, from her window, Daphne contemplates the rolling hills of the little island of Molène, feeling an instinctive attraction for its wild, uninhabited appearance. One day, they rent a fisherman’s boat to take a tour around it, admiring the fine sand that looks untouched, the white dunes. Daphne starts to daydream about living by the sea, as if Trébeurden’s motto, “Ar Mor Eo Ma Plijadur” (the sea is my pleasure), had been written especially for her.
When she gets home in late August, Daphne’s family is amazed by her radiance, her joie de vivre, even if none of them suspects how much she misses Fernande and France. In the dining room, after the evening meal one Sunday, Daphne asks her father to read the two stories and the handful of poems she wrote during her trip to Brittany. To her surprise, he seems proud of her, encourages her, is not put off by the darkness of the tales, even whispering to her tenderly that one day, he hopes, she will write novels even more famous than Trilby. You remind me so much of Papa, always have done. Same forehead, same eyes. If only you had known him.7 Will she ever have the courage to work as tenaciously as Kicky, to embark upon a novel? Well, doesn’t she already feel the same love her grandfather felt for Paris, the same curiosity toward the family’s noble glassblowing forebears?
Every week, she waits for Fernande’s letters. Her former headmistress has found a house in Boulogne-sur-Seine and already has two boarders with which to launch her finishing school. Daphne has only one desire: to go back to Paris, to see Fernande again.
Angela, in turn, reads her short stories and encourages her. Daphne decides to write in a more disciplined way in an unused room above the garage in Cannon Hall, but she lacks inspiration. One morning, at breakfast, as she is holding Ferdie’s latest letter in her hand, her mother announces in a casual voice: Your father and I have been thinking, that it would be a good idea if we could find somewhere, a house of our own, perhaps in Cornwall, where we could all go for holidays, instead of abroad. Edgar has been so generous over The Ringer that we could afford it. You’d like that, wouldn??
?t you? Lots of swimming and walking.8 Daphne is mistrustful, detecting a parental plot hatched with the aim of dissuading her from returning to France and seeing Fernande. Her parents must by now have guessed at the intensity of the connection she shares with her former headmistress.
Grudgingly, with a shrug, Daphne agrees to accompany her mother and her sisters to Cornwall on September 13, 1926, to look at houses.
Though she cannot know it yet, this journey will turn her life upside down.
PART THREE
CORNWALL, 1926
FERRYSIDE
Freedom to write, to walk, to wander, freedom to climb hills, to pull a boat, to be alone.
—DAPHNE DU MAURIER1
Fowey, Cornwall
November 2013
It takes nearly four hours by train to get from London to the small town of Fowey, in Cornwall, on the extreme southwest coast of England. This is a maritime region, with a wild, craggy coastline studded with coves and fishing ports. The wind blows hard; the sky is usually cloudy, the emerald sea is controlled by the swell.
Walking through the narrow backstreets of the town, as steep as those in Hampstead and Fleury, I understand why Daphne fell in love with this place. Even in November, the light is glorious. Comparing the current reality with photographs of Fowey dating from 1926, I notice that there are few modern constructions spoiling the beauty of the view. The façades of the old houses are white, pink, yellow, or pale blue, those of stores and pubs red or green. Here, the inhabitants smile, say hello, even to me, the stranger.
At sunset, I walk along the esplanade in the hills, toward St. Catherine’s Point, where there are the ruins of a castle. I pass Whitehouse Beach and the Fowey Hotel. I pass Readymoney Cove, an inlet amid this rocky coastline with its pebble beach. I climb up to the ruins. The sea stretches out into infinity.
I know that Daphne climbed up to this point, too, because she describes it in her memoirs. She stood where I stand now, she put her hands on this same balustrade, she looked out at the bay, where the River Fowey flows into the sea opposite the village of Polruan, which rises up on the hillside, its white and gray cottages standing out against the greenness. The sun disappears amid purple streaks, the seagulls screech above my head, and at the foot of the cliff, the backwash rumbles.
The next morning, under a clear sky, I go to the other side of town, out toward Bodinnick. Down by the estuary there is a white house, looking curiously like a Swiss chalet, with blue timbering. The figurehead of a woman is attached to the wall below the last window on the right, on the second floor. To cross the river, I have to take the little ferry that goes every fifteen minutes. As I approach the house, I make out the large white letters on the façade. Ferryside.
It was in this house that Daphne du Maurier wrote her first novel, at the age of twenty-two. Today, her son lives here.
* * *
Since their train left Paddington Station this morning, Daphne has been staring out the window, bored stiff. She doesn’t even feel like reading. Muriel, Angela, and Jeanne are excited by this trip and their mission: to find a house. But nothing seems to rouse Daphne from her torpor. She barely listens to her sisters or her mother, thinking, as always, about Fernande, about that magical summer that seems so far away at this moment, even though it is only two weeks since Daphne left Trébeurden. From time to time, she senses her mother’s eyes on her, examining her, judging her, and she sighs: how tiring they are, her parents, and how little they understand her!
She dozes, barely touches her plate at lunch, refuses to join the others in swooning as the train crosses the impressive iron bridge of Saltash, built by the famous civil engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel, which spans the River Tamar. They are in Cornwall now, her mother announces, and Daphne rolls her eyes, slumped in her seat. She could have stayed in peace at Cannon Hall, trying to write, tinkering with other short stories, other poems, instead of being dragged to the other end of the country against her will. Despite her bad mood, she cannot help noticing that the landscape has changed: luxuriant grass stretches out as far as she can see; the turquoise sea plays hide-and-seek with the train, the sky is streaked with beautiful shafts of light, as if the entire view had been painted with an infinite palette of greens, apart from the pink touches of spiked loosestrife, the scattered red of scarlet pimpernels.
The next morning, Muriel rents a car with a chauffeur to take them west toward St. Austell. The sun shines so warmly, it feels almost like summer. The car takes the seaside road and Daphne’s pulse accelerates. She didn’t sleep well, but she opens her eyes wide now, rendered speechless by the rocky coastline that spreads out to her left, and suddenly, at the top of the hill, as Fowey Bay opens up in all its splendor and she sees the immensity of the water, the jetties, the moored boats, the little houses clinging to the cliff side, her emotion grows so strong that she finds it hard to breathe. She feels as if she is coming home, to a land she loves, a place she belongs.
The car drops them at Bodinnick, at the bottom of the path, by the river. It is lunchtime; why not stop at the Ferry Inn, just next door? They could take the boat across the river after that. Daphne notices a large FOR SALE sign outside a house in poor condition, at the water’s edge, next to the landing stage. They are told by a passerby that yes, it is for sale, its name is Swiss Cottage, it was previously used for boatbuilding, and only the upstairs floor is habitable.
During lunch on the terrace of the Ferry Inn, Daphne and her sisters cannot stop admiring the unusual Swiss Cottage below. It has something, this house, a charm, potential, they are all agreed. After coffee, the girls leave their mother to have a chat with the restaurant manager and go back down the path toward the river, entering the muddy land that surrounds the curious dwelling. There, they discover that the house is a troglodyte, built into the cliff itself, a detail that only serves to increase their love for it. The large, open space at the first floor of the house, through which a little stream flows, was used to build the hulls of boats, while on the second floor they made and stored sails.
Daphne stands by the water and sniffs the air, the odors of tar, rigging, rust, mingled with the saltiness of the tide. Suddenly she understands, shaking her head incredulously: Fowey is just like Trébeurden, that little piece of Brittany where she had felt so happy, so free, far from everything, far from London. Trébeurden and her secret love with Ferdie, writing, inspiration, and, beyond all of this, the incantation of the sea. Fowey and Trébeurden are twin mirrors facing each others in the two countries she loves, the country of her ancestors and the country of her birth, sister towns filled with the same colors, scents, and sounds.
Jeanne stands next to her and, noticing her agitation, slips an arm around her neck. Angela joins her sisters and together they look out at the uninterrupted flow of maritime traffic: fishermen’s boats, sailboats, barges, large ships guided by tugs. The sailors notice the young women and blow their foghorn while waving to them. Later, they take the ferry with Muriel, walk through the streets of Fowey, then end up at the Fowey Hotel, where they stay for three nights, enough time to begin the process of buying the house, because yes, they have decided, all four of them equally enthusiastic, without even consulting Gerald, who gave them carte blanche, that Swiss Cottage will be theirs, that it will belong to the du Maurier family, no matter how much it costs, no matter how much work the place will need, no matter if it isn’t ready before next summer. It will be their house, and they will name it Ferryside.
* * *
That autumn, the light of Fowey still glows in Daphne’s eyes and in her heart, and she is uninspired by the dark room above the garage at Cannon Hall where she tries to work. Nevertheless, she sticks to her task and writes a few poems and short stories. The work on Ferryside has been started by the eager, indefatigable Lady Mo, who roams London in search of paintings, furniture, and chintz to her taste, while in Cornwall the roof is remade, staircases are built, ceilings lowered, bathrooms added, under the watchful eye of a contractor. Progress is rapid. Mur
iel and Gerald learn from J. M. Barrie that one of his dear friends, the novelist Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, son of a Cornish doctor, lives in Fowey, in a large house that overlooks the bay, named The Haven. Barrie organizes a dinner in London so that they can all meet one another. Quiller-Couch and his wife are delighted to discover that the du Mauriers will soon be their neighbors. Their daughter, Foy, is a few years older than Daphne. In spite of this meeting with Arthur Quiller-Couch, nicknamed Q, a famous intellectual whose work she has admired since reading On the Art of Writing, the only thing that cheers Daphne up is a puppy, an adorable golden retriever that she takes for walks on the Heath every day, until she is out of breath. Gerald, as he was with Angela the year before, becomes possessive, watching over Daphne’s walks, her nights out, wanting to know with whom she comes home, with whom she goes out. Daphne finds these interrogations unbearable, and they are even worse—frighteningly aggressive—when he has been drinking. Who does he think he is? Why doesn’t her mother put an end to these accusations? Daphne is not doing anything wrong, just having a little fun. How does he have the nerve to preach to her when she knows he cheats on Muriel with the young actresses from his “stable”? Her vision of love, sex, and marriage grows even darker, and this shows in her writing—short, biting stories that feature manipulative and ridiculed women, spineless and ruthless men, guided by their sole desire.