See my earlier blog post about reading women.
1/ With the plan of reading more books by women this year, so far I have read:
- Edith Wharton: The House of Mirth, The Custom of the Country, The Age of Innocence.
- Daphne du Maurier: My Cousin Rachel.
- Kate Chopin: “At the ‘Cadian Ball”, “The Storm”, “Désirée’s Baby”.
- Willa Cather: “Neighbour Rosicky”, “The Sculptor’s Funeral”.
- Carson McCullers: The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter.
- Murasaki Shikibu: The Tale of Genji.
- Sei Shonagon: The Pillow Book.
I also reread Mansfield Park and Persuasion.
I like them all, and now Murasaki Shikibu and Edith Wharton are among my favourite writers.
2/ The Tale of Genji is the greatest book I’ve read this year, and among the best I’ve read. Here’s what I wrote at The Common Breath:
“From afar, The Tale of Genji may not look very appealing because it’s from the 11th century, and the culture is indeed alien, but in terms of technique, it is surprisingly modern. It forced me to rethink everything about world literature and the history of literature, because most of my favourite writers come from the 19th century (Tolstoy, Austen, Melville, Flaubert, etc.), then I realised that in 11th century Japan, a female writer had already figured out everything about the psychological novel.
I think it would be hard to read The Tale of Genji without getting a sense of awe, as it is a novel of great scope, longer than War and Peace, with about 400 characters. The characters are all unnamed, because it is rude to use personal names at Heian court, so we know of the characters by their titles or nicknames related to a flower, a poem, or a residence. The challenge is that the characters get promoted and change titles, or move house, and their inter-connections are also complex, so it is more difficult than War and Peace, but Murasaki Shikibu keeps track of all of them and the characters are all distinct and memorable.
As Tolstoy does with Russia in War and Peace and Anna Karenina, The Tale of Genji captures the intellectual and moral climate of Japan in the Heian period — we learn about the court system, beliefs and lifestyles, rituals, festivals, letter-writing, calligraphy, poetry, music, dance, incense-making, painting, gardening, Buddhist philosophy, and so on. At the same time, because it’s written by a woman, and about the women surrounding Genji as much as about Genji, The Tale of Genji also shows us what it’s like to be a woman in Heian Japan. It is also a beautiful novel, pervaded by mono no aware. A central theme is the fragility and impermanence of life, but it is not only sadness—in the idea of mono no aware, there is also a celebration of fleeting beauty, while it lasts.
It is an extraordinary novel, one that should be read more.”
Everyone who knows me and knows my obsession with Jane Austen would be surprised to hear that I think Murasaki Shikibu is a greater writer. It’s partly because The Tale of Genji is an immense, impressive novel, in which she has to keep track of a large number of characters and still makes them vivid and distinctive (see my blog post about 2 kinds of big novels). She’s similar to Tolstoy in that she works on a large canvas, but you’re even more in awe when you come closer and see all the subtlety, all the fine details. Another reason is the way she writes about death and its impact, mortality, and the fragility of life. I love Jane Austen, but cannot help noticing, since Nabokov pointed it out in his lecture on Mansfield Park, that in her novels, deaths always happen off-stage and tend to drive the plot forward—no character dies in the author’s arms.
There’s something else that I love in The Tale of Genji: the spirit of the Rokujo Haven is one of the finest creations I’ve encountered in literature—it is not a ghost, because the person is still alive, it’s an incarnation of her jealousy, hatred, and bitterness. The spirit may have its roots in Japanese folk tales, I don’t know, but it works so well in the novel because the Rokujo Haven, as herself, is unhappy but unaware of her jealousy of Aoi, but the bitterness takes the form of a spirit to attack Aoi savagely and kill her—Murasaki Shikibu is aware of the gap between conscious and unconscious feelings.
She doesn’t just show the material aspects of life—she shows something more, something beyond them.
In some ways, Murasaki Shikibu is comparable (though not similar) to Tolstoy, but with her, I don’t have to struggle the way I sometimes do with Tolstoy’s ideas and the preacher in him.
Between her and Jane Austen, I naturally feel closer to Jane Austen because I’ve known her works for several years and am familiar with British culture, but I already feel that Murasaki Shikibu’s also close to my heart, in spite of time, in spite of the cultural barriers.
3/ My reading took a new direction because of the pandemic, as I started reading East Asian classics—The Tale of Genji fits both (East Asian and female author). Little did I know, it would change me forever.
4/ Edith Wharton and Carson McCullers are also wonderful. Both of them can create vivid and complex characters, and both fit my ideal of not moralising and not spoon-feeding readers, but in a way they are opposite. Edith Wharton is the cold, harsh one, who dissects society, sees through everything, and exposes the hypocrisies and pretensions of the upper-class, often in a misanthropic, mocking tone, whereas Carson McCullers, at least in The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, writes about a range of misfits and depicts them with lots of love and compassion.
McCullers is even more remarkable because she was only 23 when the novel was published—is it not stunning that a 23-year-old white woman in the South in 1940 could write so well and with so much sympathy about a bitter middle-aged black doctor? Is it not even more incredible that a 23-year-old could see through and expose the type like Jake Blount—a Marxist who goes on and on about grand ideas, but who is deep down very racist, heartless, hypocritical, and willing to sacrifice people for his cause?
5/ I want to read more books by Carson McCullers and Willa Cather.
Edith Wharton too, but at least I’ve read her 3 major works.
6/ I also like Daphne du Maurier, and so far have read Rebecca and My Cousin Rachel. Both are enjoyable and well-plotted. She’s a great storyteller.
7/ So far my plan to read more books by women has been going well, and I’ve discovered some fantastic authors.
“No one will ever guess the burden of blame I carry on my shoulders; nor will they know that every day, haunted still by doubt, I ask myself a question which I cannot answer. Was Rachel innocent or guilty? Maybe I shall learn that, too, in purgatory.” (Ch.1)
Readers of My Cousin Rachel would either be Team Philip or Team Rachel. The book is ambiguous, we have to decide for ourselves if Rachel is a femme fatale who poisons Ambrose then Philip, or a victim of the men’s misogyny, doubt, and paranoia.
I’m Team Rachel. Under Daphne du Maurier’s skilful hands, Philip, the narrator, leads us to think that he’s naïve and inexperienced, and Rachel plays him, but Daphne du Maurier leaves lots of little clues. In the previous blog posts, I have pointed out how Philip is an unreliable narrator; he is also sexist, selfish, and controlling, with violent tendencies.
Just compare the way Philip and Rachel treat animals. Quite earlier on in the novel, I felt inclined to trust Rachel because the dogs liked her.
Now look at Philip and his horse Gypsy:
“[Wellington] clucked his tongue at sight of Gypsy in a lather.
“This won’t do at all, Mr, Philip, sir,” he said, as I dismounted, and I felt as guilty as I used to do when on holiday from Harrow, “You know the mare catches cold when overheated, and here you’ve been and brought her back steaming. She’s in no condition to follow hounds, if that’s what you’ve been doing.”
“If I’d been following hounds I’d be away on Bodmin moor,” I said. “Don’t be an ass, Wellington. I’ve been over to see Mr. Kendall on business, and then went into town. I’m sorry about Gypsy, but it can’t be helped. I don’t think she’ll come to harm.”
“I hope not, sir,” said Wellington, and he began running his hands over poor Gypsy’s flanks as though I had put her to a steeplechase.” (Ch.13)
He is indifferent to his own horse, and doesn’t understand Wellington’s concern. This is worse:
“I mounted Gypsy and climbed the hill, and to spare myself the further mileage of the high road turned down where the four roads met, and into the avenue. We were more sheltered here, but scarce had gone a hundred yards before Gypsy suddenly hobbled and went lame, and rather than go into the lodge and have the business of removing the stone that had cut into her shoe, and having gossip there, I decided to dismount and lead her gently home. The gale had brought down branches that lay strewn across our path, and the trees that yesterday had been so still tossed now, and swayed, and shivered with the misty rain.” (Ch.23)
Wouldn’t that be painful for the horse? He doesn’t want gossip, so he doesn’t go into the lodge to get the stone removed, and instead, forces his horse to keep going in the rain, with the stone still there.
Now look at the scene after Philip’s old dog Don has an accident.
“I went to the library. Rachel was kneeling there on the floor, with Don’s head pillowed in her lap. She raised her eyes when I came into the room. “They have killed him,” she said, “he is dying. Why did you stay away so long? If you had been here, it would not have happened.”
Her words sounded like an echo to something long forgotten in my mind. But what it was I could not now remember. Seecombe went from the library, leaving us alone. The tears that filled her eyes ran down her face. “Don was your possession,” she said, “your very own. You grew up together. I can’t bear to see him die.”
I went and knelt beside her on the floor, and I realised that I was thinking, not of the letter buried deep beneath the granite slab, nor of poor Don so soon to die, stretched out there between us, his body limp and still. I was thinking of one thing only. It was the first time since she had come to my house that her sorrow was not for Ambrose, but for me.” (Ch.18)
There’s a clear difference between the 2 characters, in the way they react to Don’s suffering. Now look at them after the dog’s dead and buried:
“I sat beside her and took her hands. “I think he did not suffer”, I said to her. “I think he had no pain.”
“Fifteen long years,” she said, “the little boy of ten, who opened his birthday pie. I kept remembering the story, as he lay there with his head in my lap.”
“In three weeks’ time,” I said, “it will be the birthday once again. I shall be twenty-five. Do you know what happens on that day?” (Ch.19)
He changes the subject.
If you look at all of these passages, who do you think has more feeling and compassion? Who do you think you can trust?
Note too that Philip chokes Rachel once, and seems to have no remorse.
Daphne du Maurier leaves lots of little clues throughout the novel. For example, I think it’s likely that Rainaldi is gay. There is nothing obvious, but note this observation:
“I watched him smoking his cigar, and thought how smooth his hands were for a man. They had a kind of feminine quality that did not fit in with the rest of him, and the great ring, on his little finger, was out of place.” (Ch.25)
When Philip mentions his suspicions to Rachel:
““He is in love with you. And has been, now, for years.”
“What utter nonsense . . .” She paced up and down the little room, from the fireplace to the window, her hands clasped in front of her. “Here is a man who has stood beside me through every trial and trouble. Who has never misjudged me, or tried to see me as other than I am. He knows my faults, my weaknesses, and does not condemn them, but accepts me at my own value. Without his help, through all the years that I have known him — years of which you know nothing — I would have been lost indeed. Rainaldi is my friend. My only friend.”” (ibid.)
If Rainaldi were straight, Rachel would perfectly understand Philip’s jealousy as there would, indeed, be a possibility of him being in love with her. Her reaction makes me believe Rainaldi is gay, and this reading would be in keeping with Philip’s paranoia and delusion—mistakenly seeing Rachel’s gay friend as her lover.
But to go back to the question of whether Rachel is innocent or guilty, I think it’s fair to ask if Rachel would gain anything by poisoning Ambrose and Philip.
In the case of Ambrose, the answer is no. At that point, he hasn’t changed his will, and when he’s dead, the entire estate goes to Philip. Rachel has no motivation to poison him—poisoning someone (so it looks like a long disease) is a long game, not an act of impulse.
In the case of Philip, again the answer is no. The estate has been transferred to her, she has money, and she’s been staying at the house to nurse Philip. As Rachel has said, she waits for him to get better so she can return to Italy—poisoning him would only prolong the period of nursing him and delay the return. As the estate belongs to her legally, there is no reason for her to do anything to Philip.
In fact, readers who pay attention can see that the new will gives Rachel everything but she only takes some of the money, lets Philip live in the house whilst she intends to return to her villa in Florence, and by the end, whilst Philip’s searching for proof to incriminate her, he discovers that she has returned all the jewels to the bank for him. She doesn’t take any of them.
Rachel’s fear of Philip’s violence wouldn’t be a convincing argument either, because she already plans to go away from him.
In short, with all these reasons and all these clues, I find it hard to see how people would still think Rachel’s guilty and Philip’s to be trusted.
In my previous blog post about My Cousin Rachel, I wrote that Philip Ashley’s a naïve, inexperienced man, an easy prey for Rachel—she twists him around her fingers. For some time, I thought that he was foolish, blinded by his infatuation, easily manipulated, and willing to give up his fortune in the name of love.
Daphne du Maurier subverts expectations by depicting a relationship between a man without much experience and an older woman—it is a remarkable scene of the day after Philip and Rachel have sex, Philip exultant then confused, believing that it means they will married, Rachel serene like nothing happened.
However, the relationship is not so simple—Daphne du Maurier doesn’t depict a simplistic situation where Rachel is charming and manipulative and Philip is an innocent victim.
Look at this scene when Rainaldi, Rachel’s Italian friend, is visiting:
“He had power over her, because he had the management of her affairs, and it was this power that might take her back to Florence. I believed that was the purpose of his visit, so to drum it into her, and possibly to tell her also that the allowance the estate paid to her would not be sufficient to maintain her indefinitely. I had the trump card, and he did not know it. In three weeks’ time she would be independent of Rainaldi for the rest of her life.” (Ch.20)
I read this passage, amused by Philip’s naïvete and lack of awareness, especially when he believes himself to have the trump card. Such a fool. His godfather Nick Kendall and a letter from Ambrose tell him about Rachel’s extravagance, and he still wants to transfer his whole estate to her. During Rainaldi’s 7 days in the house, he and Rachel talk in Italian, and Philip has no way of knowing what they talk about and what they plan, except that now and then he hears his name mentioned.
When Rachel, Rainaldi, Nick Kendall and his daughter Louise, talk about Rachel going to London, Philip thinks:
“They little knew I had a plot to fox them all.” (ibid.)
Again, I thought, what a fool.
But now my view of Philip is no longer the same. We know that he grows up with Ambrose, a self-proclaimed woman-hater, who doesn’t have a female servant. We know that he has little experience with, or knowledge of, women. But he’s not just naïve.
For example, look at this early scene, after an argument:
“I poured myself out a glass of claret, and sat down alone at the head of the table. Christ! I thought, so that’s how women behave. I had never felt so angry, nor so spent. Long days in the open, working with the men at harvest time; arguments with tenants behindhand with their rent or involved in some quarrel with a neighbour which I had to settle; nothing of this could compare to five minutes with a woman whose mood of gaiety had turned in a single instant to hostility. And was the final weapon always tears? Because they knew full well the effect upon the watcher? I had another glass of claret. As to Seecombe, who hovered at my elbow, I could have wished him a world away.” (Ch.13)
That is the behaviour of a 14-year-old, not a 24-year-old.
“This, I supposed, was what men faced when they were married. Slammed doors, and silence. Dinner alone. So that appetite, whipped up by the long day’s outing, and the relaxation of the bath-tub, and the pleasure of a tranquil evening by the fire passed in intermittent conversation, watching with lazy ease hands that were white and small against embroidery, had to simmer down. […] And what was she doing? Lying on her bed? Were the candles snuffed, the curtains drawn, and the room in darkness? Or was the mood over now, and did she sit sedately in the boudoir, dry-eyed, eating her dinner off the tray, to make a show for Seecombe? I did not know. I did not care. Ambrose had been so right when he used to say that women were a race apart. One thing was certain now. I should never marry. . .” (ibid.)
She’s angry and upset, but all he cares about is himself and his loss of appetite. It is the same later, whenever they have a misunderstanding or a quarrel, Rachel is the one to apologise or soothe him, he sits there sulking like a spoilt kid.
Philip, as a narrator, wants readers to think he’s naïve and foolish, but now and then lets it slip that he has something impulsive, even violent in him. He wants to strike Louise, wishes his godfather to die or go to hell because of the disagreement over the pearls, spends money on repairing the house and thinks his godfather can go hang himself if he doesn’t like it, wants to hit people for talking about Rachel leaving for London, etc.
To go back to his decision to transfer the whole estate to Rachel, on the surface we see a foolish man losing reason and giving up his fortune for love, despite the gossip about Rachel’s extravagance and the suspicion about Ambrose’s cause of death. However, it is his way of preventing her from leaving, or to put it more crudely, his way of buying her, especially when he adds a clause in the document to prevent her from remarrying.
If he wants to marry her, why doesn’t he ask? He doesn’t even confess his feelings. Instead, he sneaks behind everyone’s backs, gets Ambrose’s unsigned will and turns it into a valid document, transferring the whole estate to her on his 25th birthday (when his godfather is no longer his guardian), and keeps silent for 3 weeks.
Afterwards, I mean after they have sex and after Rachel reads the document, he asks for marriage (in a so-not-romantic way) and they realise they have a misunderstanding, how does he react?
“I tried to think what else I had to give. She had the property, the money, and the jewels. She had my mind, my body, and my heart. There was only my name, and that she bore already. Nothing remained. Unless it should be fear. I took the candle from her hand and placed it on the ledge, above the stairs. I put my hands about her throat, encircling it; and now she could not move, but watched me, her eyes wide. And it was as though I held a frightened bird in my two hands, which, with added pressure, would flutter awhile, and die, and with release would fly away to freedom.
‘‘Never leave me,” I said, “swear it, never, never.” She tried to move her lips in answer, but could not do so, because of the pressure of my hands. I loosened my grasp. She backed away from me, her fingers to her throat. There were two red weals where my hands had been, on either side of the pearl collar.
“Will you marry me now?” I said to her.
She gave no answer, but walked backwards from me, down the corridor, her eyes upon my face, her fingers still to her throat…” (Ch.22)
What an ass.
I don’t know why I’ve read quite a few reviews of My Cousin Rachel, and most of them only talked about Philip’s naïvete.
As I read about the relationship between a charming, dominating woman and a naïve, inexperienced younger man in My Cousin Rachel, I can’t help idly wondering: what if the stories by Daphne du Maurier, Edith Wharton, or Jane Austen had been written by a man?
Whilst the differences between men and women are sometimes exaggerated (like the idea that men can’t write women, for example), men and women are certainly different, biologically and socially, especially if we’re talking about the 19th century and early 20th century, when women don’t have equal rights.
I’m not talking about a difference in prose or style. I don’t really believe in the idea of masculine prose vs feminine prose, certainly not the idea that by looking at a few sentences, you can tell if the author is a man or a woman.
In terms of scope, there are male writers who work on a small canvas, focus on one strand of story, and pay attention to every detail and nuance, such as Henry James or Flaubert, just as there are female writers such as Jane Austen or Edith Wharton; and if some male writers such as Tolstoy or Dickens work on a larger canvas and tell multiple strands of stories, so does George Eliot.
The difference I’m talking about is that books by women have a woman’s perspective, and a woman’s sensibilities, especially when we’re talking about the context of the 19th century and early 20th century, when women have less freedom, fewer rights, and fewer options. It’s hard to explain what I mean by “a woman’s sensibilities”, but I can see that in the works of Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, George Eliot, Elizabeth Gaskell, Edith Wharton, etc. there is more sympathy for women, and more comment on gender inequality and women’s limited options. Even when there is a deeply unpleasant character, such as the shallow, selfish Rosamond Vincy in Middlemarch or the ignorant, frivolous, and opportunistic Undine Spragg in The Custom of the Country, the authors still let us see that, as a woman, they have limited options and narrow experience, and the men who love them, Lydgate and Ralph Marvell respectively, have a narrow, mistaken view of women and share the blame in their conflicts.
There’s something else. In The Custom of the Country, the protagonist Undine Spragg is very ignorant, but she has social instinct and is extremely good at playing the game and using marriages to her advantage—she chews Ralph up and spits him out, then uses other men in the same way, and always gets what she wants. Now I’m reading Daphne du Maurier’s My Cousin Rachel, in which a naïve, inexperienced man with a sheltered experience falls prey to an older woman and gets manipulated.
I can’t help wondering, what if the stories of The House of Mirth, The Custom of the Country, Middlemarch, Mansfield Park, My Cousin Rachel, or Jane Eyre had been written by a male writer—say, Tolstoy, Dickens, or Flaubert?
Also, how do you define a woman’s sensibilities?
A friend asked me about My Cousin Rachel—whether it’s atmospheric like Rebecca. I think I’d say no, the 2 novels are quite different. Rebecca is essentially about Manderley, and Rebecca’s presence in the house—her belongings, her style, her influence, her popularity among the employees. There are actions in Rebecca, especially in the later half, but a large part of the novel is in the narrator’s mind, as she obsesses over Rebecca, imagines people’s gossip about her and criticisms of her, or over-analyses her own awkwardness and inadequacy.
My Cousin Rachel is also told from the 1st-person’s point of view and has a naïve, inexperienced narrator, but it is less internal. Daphne du Maurier also has the difficult task of writing Rachel—writing Rachel from Philip’s perspective, and so far I think she does very well. The reader can see why Philip likes Rachel, despite having believed her to be responsible for Ambrose’s condition and death.
The guy is naïve and doesn’t have very good self-awareness. Sometimes he behaves like a child.
“… I threw a lump of coal upon the fire, hoping the clatter bothered her.
“I don’t know what’s come over you,” she said; “you are losing your sense of humour.” And she patted me on the shoulder and went upstairs. That was the infuriating thing about a woman. Always the last word. Leaving one to grapple with ill-temper, and she herself serene. A woman, it seemed, was never in the wrong. Or if she was, she twisted the fault to her advantage, making it seem otherwise. She would fling these pin-pricks in the air, these hints of moonlight strolls with my godfather, or some other expedition, a visit to Lostwithiel market, and ask me in all seriousness whether she should wear the new bonnet that had come by parcel post from London — the veil had a wider mesh and did not shroud her, and my godfather had told her it became her well. And when I fell to sulking, saying I did not care whether she concealed her features with a mask, her mood soared to serenity yet higher — the conversation was at dinner on the Monday — and while I sat frowning she carried on her talk with Seecombe, making me seem more sulky than I was.” (Ch.14)
This is very telling:
“Then in the library afterwards, with no observer present, she would relent; the serenity was with her still, but a kind of tenderness came too. […] I wondered, watching her hands with the silks, smoothing them and touching them, why it could not have been thus in the first place; why first the pin-prick, the barb of irritation to disturb the atmosphere, giving herself the trouble to make it calm again? It was as if my change of mood afforded her delight, but why it should do so I had no remote idea. I only knew that when she teased me I disliked it, and it hurt. And when she was tender I was happy and at peace.” (ibid.)
It is obvious to readers, though not to Philip, that Rachel’s been playing him. She knows exactly how to control him, how to get the right information (e.g. find out his feelings about Louise and other women) or how to get him worked up, how to get him to do what she wants without realising it (e.g. she mentions teaching Italian to get him to sort out money for her, then acts angry when he does), and so on and so forth.
At the same time, Rachel is very likeable, and the fact that she plays Philip and twists him around her fingers doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s manipulative, in a scheming, dangerous way, or guilty of Ambrose’s death. We have to see.
It’s interesting, though, to see him become weaker and weaker, more deeply in love with Rachel, and less rational.
See his reaction when he comes across an unfinished letter from Ambrose, stuck in a book:
“I was swept by a kind of shame. What business was it of mine to probe back into that past, to wonder about a letter that had never reached me? It was not my affair. I wished to heaven I had not come upon it.” (Ch.15)
His infatuation with Rachel becomes more important than his love for Ambrose and desire to find out the truth. He has forgotten about the final letters, he wants to forget this one.
In fact, if we go back a bit, to the scene of Rachel and Philip opening the boxes and sorting out Ambrose’s belongings, I can’t help noting that even though there is some sadness, Philip’s more occupied with Rachel:
“I kept moving my lips against her hair. It was a strange feeling. And she was very small, standing there against me.” (Ch.14)
And:
“I hoped she had not noticed — I had barely noticed it myself — that for the first time I had not called her cousin, but Rachel. I don’t know how it happened. I think it must have been because standing there, with my arms about her, she had been so much smaller than myself.” (ibid.)
I know the point people often make is that Philip, in his inexperience, becomes easy prey for Rachel and loses all reason, but I can’t help finding it odd, the way he reacts to sorting out Ambrose’s possessions. I have faced loss myself, when my grandma passed away, I remember how I felt when going through her things and deciding what to do with them. Philip talks of his love for Ambrose, but I don’t quite see it. Not in this scene. Not in the scenes when he’s back from Italy either (see my previous blog post).
He seems to move on very quickly, Rachel gets all of his attention.
What does this mean? I do not know. But it’s interesting.
Having dropped Stoner, I’m now going back to my plan to read more female writers this year—I’m reading My Cousin Rachel by Daphne du Maurier.
At this point, Rachel hasn’t appeared. For those who don’t know the story: the novel is narrated by Philip, who is heir to his cousin Ambrose Ashley, 20 years his senior. For his whole life Ambrose has no interest in marriage and calls himself a woman-hater. For a few winters he goes to Italy for his health, where he meets Rachel, a distant relative, falls in love with her, and marries her. Everyone awaits his return, but there is delay, and he becomes ill. During this time he sends some worrying letters to Philip, who travels to Italy to “save” Ambrose (the travel is about 3 weeks), but when he arrives, Ambrose’s already dead from a brain tumour. Because of the letters, Philip firmly believes that Rachel has killed Ambrose, or is an enemy of some kind.
I’ve seen the Rachel Weisz film, so I’m vaguely familiar with the plot—but even without the film, I know from the 1st chapter that the young, inexperienced Philip sets himself against Rachel but would fall in love with her.
But there is something I notice that I didn’t know before. For those who don’t know the book, Ambrose dies suddenly in a foreign country, without altering his will, so he dies leaving Rachel nothing, and Philip inherits everything.
Now look at this passage:
“[Seecombe] waited upon me while I dined, solicitous, anxious for my welfare, and I was thankful that he did not press me with questions about my journey or about his master’s illness and death, but was full of the effect upon himself and the household: how the bells had tolled for a whole day, how the vicar had spoken, how wreaths had been brought in offering. And his words were punctuated with a new formality of address. I was “Mr” Philip. No longer “Master” Philip. I had noticed the same with the coachman and the groom. It was unexpected, yet strangely warming to the heart.
When I had dined I went up to my room and looked about me, and then down into the library, and so out into the grounds, and I was filled with a queer feeling of happiness that I had not thought ever to possess with Ambrose dead…” (Ch.6)
This is someone who is meant to be grieving for his closest family member, his father figure, his beloved cousin.
Then:
“I went out across the fields, and the men were harvesting. […] A year ago I would have rolled up my sleeves like the rest of the hinds, and seized a fork, but something stayed me now, a realisation that they would not think it fit.” (ibid.)
He takes on the new role very quickly, doesn’t he? I mean:
“It came upon me strongly and with force, and for the first time since I had learnt of Ambrose’s death, that everything I now saw and looked upon belonged to me. I need never share it with anyone living. Those walls and windows, that roof, the bell that struck seven as I approached, the whole living entity of the house was mine, and mine alone. The grass beneath my feet, the trees surrounding me, the hills behind me, the meadows, the woods, even the men and women farming the land yonder, were all part of my inheritance; they all belonged.” (ibid.)
That is cold, no? We already see that, upon news of Ambrose’s marriage, Philip is bitter and resentful, instead of being happy for Ambrose. At that time, he knows that his position would change because of the marriage, especially if Rachel bears Ambrose a son.
Now this:
“… And [Louise] flushed again, silly girl, glancing up at her father to see how he would take it, as though we had not ridden backwards and forwards visiting one another before, times without number. Perhaps she also was impressed by my new status, and before I knew where I was I would become Mr. Ashley to her too, instead of Philip. I went back into the house, smiling at the idea of Louise Kendall, whose hair I used to pull only a few years back, now looking upon me with respect, and the next instant I forgot her, and my godfather as well, for on coming home there was much to do after two months’ absence.” (ibid.)
Louise is daughter of Philip’s godfather, Nick Kendall.
All these things can’t be random, as they stress over and over again the same point that Philip seems very happy to inherit everything and become the new master of the house. There is little mention of grief or loneliness (though arguably grief could be the reason for his hatred of Rachel).
I can’t help finding him obnoxious. When Seecombe (the servant) and he have a disagreement about Rachel and the will, this is what he thinks:
“But I wondered, with a sudden flash of bitterness, what their manner would have been to me if, after all, I had not inherited the property. Would die deference be there? The respect? The loyalty? Or would I have been young Master Philip, a poor relative, with a room of my own stuck away somewhere at the back of the house? I knocked out my pipe, the taste was dry and dusty. How many people were there, I wondered, who liked me and served me for myself alone?” (Ch.7)
Everyone, from Seecombe to Louise, expects Rachel, as the widow, to stay in Ambrose’s room when she arrives, but Philip perversely chooses to use it himself and gives her another room. It is understandable, because he firmly believes her to be responsible for Ambrose’s death, but there is something petty about it, especially when he previously believes that she goes away suddenly and takes Ambrose’s possessions, but it turns out that she wants to return them all—she wants nothing and demands nothing.
This is the day Rachel’s meant to arrive:
“I stood alone in the library, munching my sandwich of meat and bread. Alone, I thought, for the last time. Tonight she would be here, either in this room or in the drawing-room, an unknown hostile presence, stamping her personality upon my rooms, my house. She came as an intruder to my home. I did not want her. I did not want her or any woman, with peering eyes and questing fingers, forcing herself into the atmosphere, intimate and personal, that was mine alone. The house was still and silent, and I was part of it, belonging, as Ambrose had done and still did, somewhere in the shadows. We needed no one else to break the silence.
[…] I judged that Wellington would be home with the carriage not earlier than five o’clock, so I determined to remain without until after six. They could wait dinner for me. Seecombe already had his instructions. If she was hungry, she must hold her hunger until the master of the house returned. It gave me satisfaction to think of her sitting alone in the drawing-room, dressed to the nines, full of self-importance and no one to receive her.” (ibid.)
Again, this is very petty—note the obnoxious phrases “the master of the house”, “my home”, “mine alone”, etc. This is a comment on the character, not a criticism of Daphne du Maurier.
My Cousin Rachel is meant to be an ambiguous novel—I suppose my view of Philip might very well influence my interpretation of his story and narration.
Soon we will enter the 2020s, so let’s talk about our reading over the past decade, shall we?
1/ I came to Norway in 2009—before this, I only read literature in Vietnamese. Slowly I started to switch, and now read almost exclusively in English.
2/ My years in Norway, 2009-2016, especially after I entered University of Oslo in 2012, will without doubt be seen as my formative years in reading.
(I will, forever, be grateful to HumSam-bibliotek of University of Oslo, and Deichmanske bibliotek—Oslo public library).
3/ My favourite writers are: Lev Tolstoy, Jane Austen, Vladimir Nabokov, Herman Melville, and Gustave Flaubert.
I also like: the Bronte sisters, especially Emily Bronte, Charles Dickens, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Nikolai Gogol, Anton Chekhov, Robert Louis Stevenson, Lewis Carroll, Toni Morrison, William Faulkner, P. G. Wodehouse…
George Eliot is a great writer I have immense respect for but don’t love. Henry James is another I struggled quite a lot with, but I’m warming to his works.
4/ I started to have a love for literature in the English language at the IB (International Baccalaureate).
However, most of my favourite writers from this period I’m now indifferent to: F. Scott Fitzgerald, J. D. Salinger, Milan Kundera, Franz Kafka, George Orwell, Isabel Allende…
5/ I discovered Nabokov and Tolstoy in 2012, Jane Austen in 2013, and Melville in 2016 (before coming to the UK).
6/ I love British literature and Russian literature.
The most important reading challenge I did on this blog was Russian Literature Challenge in 2014. Here’s the wrap-up:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/01/russian-literature-challenge-2014-wrap.html
7/ Here are some top 10 lists about books, from 2016:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2016/08/some-top-10-lists-about-books.html
The list of favourite books is now different (what do you expect? It’s been 3 years!), but the other lists remain more or less the same.
8/ My new list of 10 favourite novels:
Anna Karenina by Lev Tolstoy
War and Peace by Lev Tolstoy
Moby Dick by Herman Melville
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
Mansfield Park by Jane Austen
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier
Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
9/ My favourite Jane Austen novel is her least popular and most misunderstood work, Mansfield Park:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2014/12/reading-misreading-mansfield-park.html
This is a book about which I often fight with people. The blog post above is a collection of my writings and arguments about Mansfield Park, from 2014 and before.
I wrote a bit about Mansfield Park on Jane Austen’s 244th birthday:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/12/jane-austens-birthday-16121775-16122019.html
10/ Another novel about which I also often fight with people is Lolita. Here are my final arguments when I reread the book in 2017:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2017/05/lolita-chapter-29.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2017/05/lolitas-tears.html
I also wrote about motifs in Lolita that I didn’t notice earlier, such as:
Dogs: https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2017/05/the-dogs-in-lolita.html
Birds and butterflies: https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2017/05/butterflies-and-birds-in-lolita.html
In 2019, I read The Enchanter, which is known as the proto-Lolita, and compared the 2 here:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/04/from-enchanter-to-lolita.html
Also, if anyone accuses Nabokov of plagiarising Henz von Lichberg’s short story, here’s my response:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2017/05/the-other-lolita.html
11/ On my blog, the label “writers and readers” is devoted to discussing the art of reading, good readers vs bad readers.
Some important posts are:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2013/08/3-wrong-attitudes-in-reading-novels.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2014/02/poshlost-according-to-nabokov.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2014/05/philistines-and-philistinism-vladimir.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/08/on-idea-of-relevance-and-relatableness.html
Nabokov, as you can see, has huge influence on my thinking and reading.
Also, this is a post about top 10 “Are we reading the same book?” moments:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/08/top-10-are-we-reading-same-book-moments.html
12/ I have written a few times about feminist literary criticism, especially The Madwoman in the Attic:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/03/the-madwoman-in-attic-george-eliot.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/06/the-madwoman-in-attic-on-middlemarch.html
13/ 1 of my best series on my blog is about George Eliot’s Middlemarch:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/06/characters-in-middlemarch-and.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/06/get-out-of-way-will-you-or-george-eliot.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/06/lydgate-sexist.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/06/middlemarch-paintings-and-miniatures.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/06/middlemarch-taking-wife.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/06/chapter-42-and-casaubon-or-how-i-learn.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/06/experience-and-growth-dorothea-brooke.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/06/the-2nd-plot-of-middlemarch-and.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/06/george-eliots-moral-lessons-in.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/06/middlemarch-each-unhappy-family-is.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/06/on-fred-vincy.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/06/last-thoughts-on-middlemarch-tingle.html
14/ Another good series is about Henry James’s The Portrait of a Lady:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/09/experience-and-reading-p2-readers-in.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/10/the-portrait-of-lady-signs.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/10/the-portrait-of-lady-time.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/10/the-portrait-of-lady-characters-and.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/10/the-portrait-of-lady-more-on-time-and.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/10/metaphors-in-portrait-of-lady.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/10/silence-in-portrait-of-lady.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2015/11/the-greatness-of-portrait-of-lady.html
15/ Here’s my series about Charles Dickens’s Little Dorrit, from earlier this year:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/07/starting-little-dorrit.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/07/the-houses-in-little-dorrit.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/07/repetition-in-little-dorrit.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/07/the-story-strands-in-little-dorrit.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/07/on-character-of-little-dorrit.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/07/little-dorrit-rivals.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/07/the-themes-in-little-dorrit.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/07/on-amy-dorrit-or-how-dickens-improves.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/08/little-dorrit-some-random-observations.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/08/on-finishing-little-dorrit.html
16/ I think my recent series about Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca is not bad.
However, I’ve noticed that I’ve not written any good series of blog posts at all about Tolstoy or Jane Austen or Melville.
17/ Here I explain why I don’t use the star rating system:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2019/04/why-i-dont-use-star-rating.html
18/ To lots of people, 2010- 2019 is just another decade, but to me, it has been an important decade: I read a lot more than before, switched to reading in English, discovered Russian literature, discovered writers who shaped my taste and thinking and who would most likely remain in my personal canon, learnt to read a literary work, learnt to analyse and write about it, shaped my views and aesthetics in literature, got a degree in language and literature, created a blog that focused mostly on literature, and got blogger friends.
Here’s to another good decade in reading!
__________________________________________
Update:
In the earlier version of this post, I didn’t link to any of my writings about Moby Dick, because at the time of reading and writing about the book, I was in awe and had nothing intelligent to say. The posts were more like notes for myself than finished and polished blog posts to share with the world. However, it’s not really fair to go on and on about Lolita and Mansfield Park but not say a word about Moby Dick, a book of genius, a book that I’m sure will always remain in my top 3 (together with Anna Karenina and War and Peace).
Here’s a blog post in which I stated why Moby Dick is a book about everything:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2016/04/moby-dick-is-book-about-everything.html
Some of my posts were about the whale chapters:
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2016/03/moby-dick-chapter-32-cetology.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2016/03/the-whales-skin.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2016/04/the-whales-eyes-structure-of-moby-dick.html
https://thelittlewhiteattic.blogspot.com/2016/04/the-noble-sperm-whale.html
My view regarding Moby Dick is an “extreme” view: the book is perfect as it is and does not “need an editor”; it is several books in one, it is about everything, and therefore it is the way it should be; readers should not skip the whale chapters and should not read for only the story, but should read Moby Dick with the right mindset, i.e. with curiosity and a sense of wonder; an abridged War and Peace might still be War and Peace, but an abridged Moby Dick is not Moby Dick.
When will I again experience the aesthetic bliss of reading something incredible like Anna Karenina or Moby Dick?
No spoilers.
1/ Rebecca is interesting from the premise: a young, naïve, inexperienced, and socially awkward woman marries a rich widower twice her age and moves to his mansion Manderley, only to find the phantom of his previous wife Rebecca in every corner of the house, and find herself inferior to Rebecca in every way.
But it’s not only about the premise, the execution is very good. Look at this passage for example:
“She was in the house still, as Mrs. Danvers had said; she was in that room in the west wing, she was in the library, in the morning room, in the gallery above the hall. Even in the little flower room, where her mackintosh still hung. And in the garden, and in the woods, and down in the stone cottage on the beach. Her footsteps sounded in the corridors, her scent lingered on the stairs. The servants obeyed her orders still, the food we ate was the food she liked. Her favorite flowers filled the rooms. Her clothes were in the wardrobes in her room, her brushes were on the table, her shoes beneath the chair, her nightdress on her bed. Rebecca was still mistress of Manderley. Rebecca was still Mrs. de Winter. I had no business here at all. I had come blundering like a poor fool on ground that was preserved.
[…] Rebecca, always Rebecca. I should never be rid of Rebecca.
[…] I could fight the living but I could not fight the dead. If there was some woman in London that Maxim loved, someone he wrote to, visited, dined with, slept with, I could fight with her. We would stand on common ground. I should not be afraid. Anger and jealousy were things that could be conquered. One day the woman would grow old or tired or different, and Maxim would not love her anymore. But Rebecca would never grow old. Rebecca would always be the same. And her I could not fight. She was too strong for me.” (Ch.18)
2/ Daphne du Maurier, at least in Rebecca (I haven’t read other works), is a visual writer. Here and there some readers complain about the book being over-descriptive (I don’t understand, but people can complain about anything), but she describes everything in vivid detail, and makes the scenery and buildings become real, especially Manderley. Readers can not only see the places she describes, but can also feel them and hear them and smell them.
Look at this—example of a scenery:
“Jasper barked as we ran together. He thought it was some new kind of game. He kept trying to bite the belt and worry it. I had not realized how closely the trees grew together here, their roots stretching across the path like tendrils ready to trip one. They ought to clear all this, I thought as I ran, catching my breath, Maxim should get the men onto it. There is no sense or beauty in this undergrowth. That tangle of shrubs there should be cut down to bring light to the path. It was dark, much too dark. That naked eucalyptus tree stifled by brambles looked like the white bleached limb of a skeleton, and there was a black earthy stream running beneath it, choked with the muddied rains of years, trickling silently to the beach below. The birds did not sing here as they did in the valley. It was quiet in a different way. And even as I ran and panted up the path I could hear the wash of the sea as the tide crept into the cove. I understood why Maxim disliked the path and the cove. I disliked it too. I had been a fool to come this way. I should have stayed on the other beach, on the white shingle, and come home by the Happy Valley.” (Ch.13)
This is the cottage:
“The windows were boarded up. No doubt the door was locked, and I lifted the latch without much hope. To my surprise it opened after the first stiffness, and I went inside, bending my head because of the low door. I expected to find the usual boat store, dirty and dusty with disuse, ropes and blocks and oars upon the floor. The dust was there, and the dirt too in places, but there were no ropes or blocks. The room was furnished, and ran the whole length of the cottage. There was a desk in the corner, a table, and chairs, and a bed-sofa pushed against the wall. There was a dresser too, with cups and plates. Bookshelves, the books inside them, and models of ships standing on the top of the shelves. For a moment I thought it must be inhabited--perhaps the poor man on the beach lived here--but I looked around me again and saw no sign of recent occupation. That rusted grate knew no fire, this dusty floor no footsteps, and the china there on the dresser was blue-spotted with the damp. There was a queer musty smell about the place. Cobwebs spun threads upon the ships' models, making their own ghostly rigging. No one lived here. No one came here. The door had creaked on its hinges when I opened it. The rain pattered on the roof with a hollow sound, and tapped upon the boarded windows. The fabric of the sofa-bed had been nibbled by mice or rats. I could see the jagged holes, and the frayed edges. It was damp in the cottage, damp and chill. Dark, and oppressive.” (Ch.10)
Daphne du Maurier’s also very good at creating atmosphere and building tension. The confrontation between the narrator and Mrs Danvers (which involves the window) is among the greatest scenes in literature.
3/ Rebecca may be marketed as a romantic novel, but it isn’t.
As the author said it herself, Rebecca is a study in jealousy. To the unnamed narrator, Rebecca appears perfect—beautiful, charming, well-dressed, accomplished, athletic, popular with everyone, and superior to her in everything. The narrator’s jealous of her husband’s previous wife to the point of obsession. For the whole book, she struggles with jealousy and with her own identity.
We must also speak of Mrs Danvers’s jealousy—she’s jealous of the narrator, for being alive, for taking “her lady’s” place and being referred to as Mrs de Winter. She’s the one who keeps Rebecca alive by preserving her morning room and bedroom like a shrine, and making sure that nothing at Manderley is changed after Rebecca’s death. She’s the one who haunts and plays with the narrator, and reminds her of her inferiority.
4/ Rebecca reminds me of The Sound and the Fury. Similar to Caddy, Rebecca never appears, never speaks—she is dead before the story begins, and because the book’s narrated by the new wife, there is no flashback. But Rebecca is full of life even in death, she takes over Manderley, she takes over the book, and the title, pushing the narrator to a corner, turning her into a phantom, a ghost. Rebecca is vivid, haunting, unforgettable.
5/ The book is not black and white, and can be interpreted in multiple ways (see earlier post). The characters are complex and multi-faceted.
Who, we may ask, is the villain in the book? An easy, universally acknowledged answer is Mrs Danvers, the housekeeper. However, she is not a 2-dimensional character, she is humanised near the end of the book. She hates, she cries, she grieves—she may be mean to the narrator indeed, but if we look at it from her point of view, we understand. Some of us even understand her act of destruction at the end of Rebecca.
Mrs Danvers isn’t the only villain. The other one would be either Rebecca or Maxim, or both, depending on how you interpret the book.
I hope you’ll read the book. I rarely feel so passionate about a book, and usually keep it to myself, but I’ve been trying to get everyone to read Rebecca.
It’s a brilliant, enjoyable read.
Spoiler alert: friends who haven’t read Rebecca and don’t want to know spoilers are advised not to read this blog post at the moment, but to bookmark it and come back when you’ve read the book.
……..……..……..……..……..……..
……..……..……..……..……..……..
……..……..……..……..……..……..
……..……..……..……..……..……..
……..……..……..……..……..……..
……..……..……..……..……..……..
……..……..……..……..……..……..
……..……..……..……..……..……..
1/ From what I’ve seen, 99% of blog posts, essays, and articles about Rebecca mention the opening line. But Rebecca also has a very well-written and evocative closing line:
“And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea.”
In fact, the final chapter is wonderful, and Daphne du Maurier chooses a very fine way to reveal that Manderley is burning:
“The hills rose in front of us, and dipped, and rose again. It was quite dark. The stars had gone.
"What time did you say it was?" I asked.
"Twenty past two," he said.
"It's funny," I said. "It looks almost as though the dawn was breaking over there, beyond those hills. It can't be though, it's too early."
"It's the wrong direction," he said, "you're looking west."
"I know," I said. "It's funny, isn't it?"
He did not answer and I went on watching the sky. It seemed to get lighter even as I stared. Like the first red streak of sunrise. Little by little it spread across the sky.
"It's in winter you see the northern lights, isn't it?" I said. "Not in summer?"
"That's not the northern lights," he said. "That's Manderley."
I glanced at him and saw his face. I saw his eyes.
"Maxim," I said. "Maxim, what is it?"
He drove faster, much faster. We topped the hill before us and saw Lanyon lying in a hollow at our feet. There to the left of us was the silver streak of the river, widening to the estuary at Kerrith six miles away. The road to Manderley lay ahead. There was no moon. The sky above our heads was inky black. But the sky on the horizon was not dark at all. It was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood. And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea.” (Ch.27)
Such striking imagery.
2/ If anyone worries about the dogs’ safety in the destruction at the end of Rebecca (you silly pie), I think Jasper is safe. Before the London trip, the narrator asks Frank to take the sad Jasper back to office with him.
3/ People say the fire is lifted from Jane Eyre, which completes and reinforces the connection between Rebecca and Charlotte Bronte’s novel. The connection may or may not be discussed later, but the fire makes perfect sense in the context of Rebecca.
If you look at it from Mrs Danvers’s point of view, Maxim de Winter kills “her lady” in cold blood and gets away with it. It’s safe to assume that the long distance call she receives before clearing out is from Jack Favell, who tells her about the meeting with Dr Baker.
From the inquest to the investigation, it is clear that people’s bias has been helping Maxim: the investigators initially think it’s an accident, then after new evidence from the boatman, conclude it’s suicide, without suspecting Maxim; everyone seemingly wants to cover it up and move on (perhaps to avoid big scandal); Maxim’s supported by the loyalty of his new wife and Frank Crawley; Ben, the mentally disabled man, the only person who may know something, refuses to testify and denies having seen Jack Favell; Sergeant Julyan is easily content with Dr Baker’s testimony and wants to close the case, even if he seems to have some suspicion.
Even though Dr Baker’s words reveal that Rebecca’s death is of her own choice and the provocation is her deliberate way to get Maxim to give her an easy painless death, he’s still the one who chooses to kill her. He therefore has to be punished. Mrs Danvers doesn’t kill him, the same way she wouldn’t kill the narrator, so it makes perfect sense that she destroys the thing he loves the most—Manderley.
If it’s true as he says that he agrees to the deal with Rebecca in order to protect Manderley, and later kills her for Manderley, Manderley has to be destroyed. It is Rebecca’s revenge, through Mrs Danvers.
From another perspective, in destroying Manderley, Mrs Danvers also destroys the memory of Rebecca. She has chosen to preserve it, now she chooses to destroy it all.
4/ In a way, I don’t know how damaged Maxim is at the end of the story, because on a personal level, I can’t connect to it. For various reasons, I have always lived in rented apartments, I don’t have connection to a house.
However, I understand great loss, and exile. I understand what it means to be unable to return.
The Maxim at the end of the story (who, confusingly, is at the beginning of the book) is not the same as the Maxim throughout the book.
5/ The narrator wants readers to believe that her love triumphs and Rebecca is destroyed, that in the end she’s happy with Maxim.
But there is no happy ending.
From beginning to end, the narrator lets us see that she is naïve and inexperienced (Maxim is her first love), she absolutely adores him, and loves him “in a sick, hurt, desperate way, like a child or a dog”. Hearing Maxim’s confession, instead of feeling shocked or appalled, as a sane, reasonable person would, she rejoices.
“I did not say anything. I held his hands against my heart. I did not care about his shame. None of the things that he had told me mattered to me at all. I clung to one thing only, and repeated it to myself, over and over again. Maxim did not love Rebecca. He had never loved her, never, never. They had never known one moment's happiness together. Maxim was talking and I listened to him, but his words meant nothing to me. I did not really care.” (Ch.20)
Later, when she’s alone:
“… the rest of me sat there on the carpet, unmoved and detached, thinking and caring for one thing only, repeating a phrase over and over again, "He did not love Rebecca, he did not love Rebecca." Now, at the ringing of the telephone, these two selves merged and became one again. I was the self that I had always been, I was not changed. But something new had come upon me that had not been before. My heart, for all its anxiety and doubt, was light and free. I knew then that I was no longer afraid of Rebecca.” (Ch.21)
How sick is that? How stupid and pathetic.
Readers often note that after the confession, Maxim says “I love you” to the narrator for the 1st time, and also kisses her in a way he never kissed her before. Readers, or at least Sally Beauman, say that there is hint that afterwards their marriage is, for the 1st time, consummate.
Where’s the hint? I’m not so sure. In the scene of the morning before the London trip, our narrator still refers to the single beds.
(My perverse mind can’t help wondering if Maxim had sex with Rebecca. Their old bedroom has 1 bed).
To go back to the end of the story, which is the beginning of the book, the narrator and her husband are now in exile, staying in hotels, eating indifferent food, reading news and following the same routine, living in ennui. Stifling monotony or quiet bliss, you decide. But I find it interesting that now the narrator does the same thing as when she’s with Mrs Van Hopper—again, she’s a paid companion, just not paid by money, but by love.
6/ If it wasn’t clear in the previous post, I hate the biographical and feminist reading of Rebecca.
Why do people use elements in Daphne du Maurier’s life to interpret her novel? Why do people talk like du Maurier is in her character? I’ve seen critics do it with Jane Austen, with Charlotte Bronte, with Emily Bronte, with Virginia Woolf, with Elena Ferrante…, a lot more than with male writers (the only male writer I can think of is F. Scott Fitzgerald).
With the feminist reading, I think I’ve said enough about feminist literary criticism on this blog.
