On 'Rebecca' by Daphne du Maurier

(contains minor spoilers)

Rebecca, a novel mysterious and gothic in nature, is beautifully penned by Daphne du Maurier. It holds in its pages vivid descriptions of different settings: the sea and its natural force; an opulent hotel; a garden with wild and exotic plants and flowers; a grand imposing mansion: Manderley, which houses various kinds of rooms, some inviting, filled with furniture and knick-knacks; some empty and cold, holding only secrets.

The book follows an unnamed narrator who meets an enigmatic man, Maxim de Winter, a seemingly lost man grieving his wife Rebecca’s death, who recently drowned while sailing. Max is the owner of a large and famous estate known to all, Manderley. Early in the book, our protagonist falls in love with him and they are married. They then head to Manderley where most of the book takes place. Manderley is not just the setting of the story but it has a presence of its own. From the flora in the driveway, to each room with its set purpose, all unwilling to bend to their new mistress. Manderley is an extension of Rebecca’s ubiquitous ghost, who our protagonist is never rid of. She feels her presence everywhere. She is subject to constant reminders—both intentional and offhand—about how “she’s not like Rebecca.” The objects and artefacts in the house are also are tainted by her predecessor. A napkin given to her by Max has the letter R embossed on it. The flowers and vases in the house are obstinate, Rebecca had instructed the house staff to keep a certain way, a way they are hesitant to change when our protagonist suggests it. Rebecca is portrayed to us as an intelligent, beautiful, meticulous and organised person. A wild force of nature, some say. Every adjective that makes one the paragon of a woman. The reader never experiences her on the page so we cannot deny these recounts by everyone who knew her. She is a looming statue, a legend to us. Our protagonist on the other hand, is truly the opposite of Rebecca. She is naïve, young and inexperienced in life. She is a little bland, giving no opinions, not keeping firm in arguments. Yet, the book itself never feels bland or boring while being narrated by her. There is a perfect balance between her unassuming personality and the book’s exquisite nature. There is an endearing quality to her which makes the reader empathetic towards her. 

The middle section of the book makes you feel a rising sense of dread and tension as Rebecca becomes more and more of a looming presence, suffocating the main character with her undying influence over endless aspects of the estate. The most tangible representation of this is in Mrs Danvers, the head housekeeper of Manderley, who was utterly devoted to the first Mrs de Winter and cannot bear the thought of anyone replacing her. She is like a ghoul to our protagonist, appearing soundlessly and startling her. She constantly hounds Maxim’s new wife with subtly demeaning comments, hoping to shame her into leaving Manderley. Her words, always put in the most polite way possible, let no one but us and Max’s wife guess her true intentions. Once, Mrs Danvers even tries to coax the protagonist into jumping out of a high-placed window. Her final devious move is to suggest a dress for a party at Manderley. Our protagonist naively heeds her advice and secretly orders the dress to surprise everyone at the ball, especially her husband. Hoping to take Max and his sister by surprise, she gaily walks down the staircase to the ballroom, sure she will be showered with praise and admiration; but to her shock, Max has only ire in his eyes. The past and Rebecca taint her life once more, for Rebecca had worn the very same dress at the previous year’s costume party, and so this ignorant imitation only enrages Maxim. Our protagonist is devastated and Mrs Danvers vindicated. 

This is where the book transitions into its third act. The morning after the party, a discovery about Rebecca’s death is made, and a twist is revealed which makes the reader think they now know all the information. One may wonder where the story is to go, now that the final twist is seemingly revealed. But Daphne du Maurier’s masterful writing does not let the pacing lull for a moment. There is still a sense of dread you feel as you read, uncomfortable in your apparent sense of knowledge. And slowly that dread once again builds, your fingers shakily turn the pages, restless to know what will happen next. Until at last, you reach the true and final, blazing end.