Starting Rebecca

I’m currently reading Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. 
After the awful The Lair of the White Worm, Rebecca is a pleasant surprise. It is good, at least so far. 
Rebecca, like classics and other influential novels in popular culture, is a book that is (almost) impossible to approach with a fresh, innocent mind, without any preconceptions whatsoever. I don’t know about other readers, but I started reading Rebecca thinking not only about the premise and story, but also about the 1st 10-15 minutes of the Hitchcock film (I stopped watching), and about its reputed connections with Jane Eyre.  
The book is thererfore a surprise—it starts with a dream, then the present, then goes back to the beginning. That is interesting, as Daphne du Maurier’s preparing the readers for more dreams later, and at the same time telling us that the narrator “survives”. 
The writing is good. Look at the prose and imagery here: 

“The terrace sloped to the lawns, and the lawns stretched to the sea, and turning I could see the sheet of silver placid under the moon, like a lake undisturbed by wind or storm. No waves would come to ruffle this dream water, and no bulk of cloud, wind-driven from the west, obscure the clarity of this pale sky. I turned again to the house, and though it stood inviolate, untouched, as though we ourselves had left but yesterday, I saw that the garden had obeyed the jungle law, even as the woods had done. The rhododendrons stood fifty feet high, twisted and entwined with bracken, and they had entered into alien marriage with a host of nameless shrubs, poor, bastard things that clung about their roots as though conscious of their spurious origin. A lilac had mated with a copper beech, and to bind them yet more closely to one another the malevolent ivy, always an enemy to grace, had thrown her tendrils about the pair and made them prisoners. Ivy held prior place in this lost garden, the long strands crept across the lawns, and soon would encroach upon the house itself. There was another plant too, some half-breed from the woods, whose seed had been scattered long ago beneath the trees and then forgotten, and now, marching in unison with the ivy, thrust its ugly form like a giant rhubarb towards the soft grass where the daffodils had blown.
Nettles were everywhere, the vanguard of the army. They choked the terrace, they sprawled about the paths, they leaned, vulgar and lanky, against the very windows of the house. They made indifferent sentinels, for in many places their ranks had been broken by the rhubarb plant, and they lay with crumpled heads and listless stems, making a pathway for the rabbits. I left the drive and went onto the terrace, for the nettles were no barrier to me, a dreamer. I walked enchanted, and nothing held me back.” (Ch.1) 

The use of verbs is interesting—in this passage, she mostly uses action verbs. 
Here and there, I’ve seen a few readers complain about the narrator’s shy, timid, awkward, and passive personality, especially when comparing her to the independent, strong-minded, and passionate Jane Eyre. I don’t understand, do they read novels in order to make friends with characters? Probably the same people who whine about Fanny Price not being fun and witty like Elizabeth Bennet. 
The mention of Fanny Price is deliberate, because Fanny Price of Mansfield Park and the narrator of Rebecca have something in common: both of them have no money and live with someone richer—the former lives with her rich relatives and the latter is a paid companion for a rich woman; both of them are dependent on someone else, and painfully aware of their social position, of which they’re constantly reminded; both of them are therefore quiet and reserved, even if they were not quiet by nature, their status would not allow them to be “loud” or claim anything. 
But whatever. Such complaints are absurd—if some people judge a book by whether or not they like or can relate to the main character, good for them. 
The 1st meeting between the unnamed narrator and Maxim de Winter, in the presence of her employer Mrs Van Hopper, is an excellent scene. Mrs Van Hopper is like a Jane Austen character—a snobbish, ridiculous, and gossipy woman with no perception and no sense of self-awareness. 

“‘You know Nell Middlesex of course’, she went on. ‘What a charmer she is. They always say that second child isn't his, but I don't believe it. People will say anything, won't they, when a woman is attractive? And she is so very lovely. Tell me, is it true the Caxton-Hyslop marriage is not a success?’…” (Ch.3) 

Such a brilliant characterisation. 
The scene appears simple, but there are 3 things going on at the same time—on the surface, Mrs Van Hopper and Maxim de Winter have a conversation, or rather, she does most of the talking, annoyingly; Maxim de Winter tolerates her whilst observing the narrator; the narrator observes him, sees everything that escapes Mrs Van Hopper’s notice, and feels dragged into humiliation for being with her. 

“She deserved it, of course, and I waited for her change of face, but incredible as it may seem his words were lost on her, and I was left to writhe in her stead, feeling like a child that had been smacked.” (ibid.) 

And again: 

“There was a pause, and I felt the color flood into my face. I was too young, that was the trouble. Had I been older I would have caught his eye and smiled, her unbelievable behavior making a bond between us; but as it was I was stricken into shame, and endured one of the frequent agonies of youth.” (ibid.) 

And: 

“The sting did not touch her, she accepted it as a pleasantry.” (ibid.) 

Such a good scene.