I always feel some trepidation picking up a classic novel I know I should have read before – probably in my teenage years. Like “Frankenstein”, “Jane Eyre” and “Little Women” I've come to “Rebecca” relatively late in my life. I was already familiar with the story because I've seen the equally classic 1940 film of Du Maurier's novel directed by Alfred Hitchock. But, of course, the great thing about a classic novel is that no matter how much you feel you already know it because it's so much a part of our popular culture the actual experience of reading it for the first time is often surprising and delightful. To finally read that famous opening line “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again” was to discover this story anew. I was instantly bewitched by the naïve young woman who finds that becoming a man's second wife means that she's entered into a love triangle with a ghost. Du Maurier evokes such an all-consuming and uneasy sense of atmosphere as she describes this unnamed narrator's introduction to becoming the new mistress of the grand estate of Manderley. From the memories of everyone who knew her, the routines of the household, the decoration of the rooms and the monogramed stationary, the presence of the late Mrs de Winter is everywhere felt. It's such a gripping and enlightening experience reading this novel for its mysteries and suspense, but also because its meaning can be interpreted in different ways.
The narrator is so shy and meek it's impossible not to initially feel sympathetic towards her as she escapes a terrible job as a companion to the snobbish wannabe Mrs van Hopper by marrying Maxim de Winter. This romantic trajectory of a humble young woman entering into a relationship with a wealthy emotionally uptight man felt so reminiscent of “Jane Eyre”. It's no wonder the author Sarah Perry describes Maxim as “Mr Rochester at the wheel of a motor-car.” Like Mr Rochester, Maxim also has a secret about his previous marriage and, rather than being open and honest with his new wife, it takes dramatic events for the truth of the past to be revealed. Maxim's masculine arrogance certainly doesn't help the fundamental misunderstandings which occur in their relationship, but the narrator also concedes at one point how her own attitude creates a barrier between her and others: “I wondered how many people there were in the world who suffered and continue to suffer because they could not break out from their own web of shyness and reserve and in their blindness and folly built up a great distorted wall in front of them that hid the truth.” Like many introverted people, she lets her imagination run wild, especially in regards to her assumptions about people and what she believes people think of her. Of course, she has a right to be suspicious as she overhears some servants and “friends” candid thoughts about her, but she constructs a false system of beliefs about her place in the household in a way which is psychologically masochistic.
More than the narrator, the most fascinating character in the novel is certainly Mrs Danvers. Du Maurier sets us against her from the very beginning or, at least, makes us fear her through the narrator's eyes as she's described in such creepy terms with her “skull's face, parchment-white, set on a skeleton's frame”. Her attitude and manner is so foreboding and stern Mrs Danvers is much more like a school mistress who must be appeased rather than a head servant who manages the household of Manderley. Yet, her maniacal loyalty to Rebecca, the first Mrs de Winter, and fierce care for her remaining things which she dusts every day reveals she has such enormous stores of unvoiced grief for this lost woman. It's hard not to interpret Mrs Danvers' feelings for Rebecca as romantic given her overriding obsession with her and the fact that she fondly looks through the drawers of her underwear. While you could interpret this as a negative representation of homosexuality, she also must be one of literature's great queer villains. As Carmen Maria Machado describes in her memoir, it's hard not to love a figure like this because she's so fabulous in her misery and unvoiced passion. But, even though Mrs Danvers is cunning and vengeful, she's also sympathetic when in rare moments of grief she weeps and mentally breaks down. It's no wonder that Mrs Danvers has taken on a life of her own inspiring tales like Rose Tremain's excellent short story 'The Housekeeper'.
It's also fascinating how Rebecca looms so large throughout the story like an ominous spectre – not least of all because her name is emblazoned on the novel's cover whereas the name of the narrator is never even mentioned. She was someone with a legendary charm and beauty and the narrator is clearly consumed with jealousy. Surely this speaks about her own insecurities rather than the perceived malice of this lost woman's spirit. Of course, we can never get Rebecca's point of view since she died before the start of the story. So we can only speculate about her identity based on second-hand accounts. If you see her through Mrs Danvers' eyes Rebecca is like an empowered short-haired feminist figure who has eschewed any need for a man. From Maxim's perspective she was a cunning, selfish nymphomaniac. And from Jack Favell's perspective she was a mischievous woman to be manipulated and used for his own purposes. Out of these subjective points of view emerges a dynamic character who will remain a figure of endless fascination. No doubt, both the narrator and Rebecca are characters that readers make different conclusions about every time they read this book which is partly why it's considered such a classic.
Though there's no question this novel is magnificent and I enjoyed it thoroughly, I don't think it's entirely perfect. The later part of the book is almost entirely consumed with unearthing whether Rebecca's death was a crime or not. We follow the machinations of this quest for justice in tedious detail as figures are drawn out one by one to provide testimony. Rather than in a courtroom this is pursued by tracking down an individual that is sketchily referred to in an appointment book. It all felt somewhat ludicrous to me as surely no firm conclusions could be drawn from whatever is found but the narrator's nerves are constantly frayed as she's certain some incriminating evidence will be revealed at every turn in the road. This was when my sympathy for the narrator waned and I felt more irritated by her. Overall, it just felt like a somewhat clunky way to reveal yet another hidden layer to Rebecca's character that none of the characters knew about and a too convenient way to get the main characters away from the house for a certain amount of time. Nevertheless, the mystery about Rebecca's true identity is so enticing I'm sure I'll come back to read this novel again and look for more clues. That Manderley ends in a great conflagration seems like the ultimate last word from Rebecca herself that she will ultimately remain unknowable.
