Rebecca
Daphne du Maurier
England, 1938
I have a feeling I’m going against the book-blogger grain here, but truth? This book was a bit of a slog. I finished it–it’s on my Classics Club list, I said I would read it for R.I.P., I try to be a finisher–but it wasn’t easy to get through. Or perhaps more precisely, to get into. If you are looking for a thriller, something with action, nothing much happens until well into the novel. Past the half-way point, if I recall correctly. It does have some of that Gothic atmosphere (Mrs. Danvers!) that I was looking for in a R.I.P. read, but I was surprised both that so much of it is set in the summer (a season I associate with sunny cheer) and that it didn’t feel to me as if the atmosphere pervaded the book as much as I’d hoped or expected. Of course once the story really took off, I was much happier with it, but I’m afraid it shan’t be on my year-end list of favorite reads.
In fact, I’m rather questioning my inclusion of Rebecca as a Classics Club read. My general definition of a classic is to quote Calvino, “A classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say.” [Note to self–I still need to get back to that essay and post on it…] I’ve also said of “great books” that “I want to be abducted by these books, to have my world-view turned upside down, to lose myself to their seductions.” By these definitions, Rebecca doesn’t cut it for me. It is, I think at heart a thriller. A Gothic thriller, yes. A bit of romance thrown in, yes. Suspense, yes. Decently well written. But. One read seems enough. Of course, I could perhaps make the same argument for the Holmes stories I’ve been reading. So there’s definitely something personal here, too.
I know it’s a personal thing that I’m not enamored of excessive descriptive passages, and Rebecca seems to have plenty such. It seems wordy, verbose. (This is one of the reasons I don’t care for Frankenstein, incidentally.) My attention wanders. Rebecca also suffers for being read closely to other works I’ve been reading lately. After only a few chapters in, I picked up some Faulkner. Given that he’s widely considered one of the greats, it’s probably not fair to compare, but only a few pages into his short story “The Bear”* I was engrossed. Faulkner sets his scene and I’m there. I don’t know how else to explain it, but I was with the protagonist, I could feel the eyes of the titular bear on me, hear the crack of branches underfoot. This, to me, marks a better writer. Faulkner stays on my list, du Maurier drops off.
Then there’s Austen. I’d started a reread of Mansfield Park back in August. The two books are completely different in focus and story but reading Rebecca so close to Mansfield Park does the former no favors. I’m going to enter potential-spoiler territory here (for those who are sensitive to such things) talking about both books, but there is one major similarity between the two: Fanny Price and the second Mrs. de Winter. I’m gonna call foul on anyone who dismisses Mansfield Park simply because they cannot stand Fanny Price for being too timid and shy but who adores Rebecca–our unnamed narrator (who for the sake of convenience I shall refer to as Mrs. 2) is every bit as timid as Miss Price. Actually, I’d say she’s worse–Fanny ultimately proves to have a nice moral backbone, staying 100% true to her own inner compass, but Mrs. 2’s only spine appears when it’s time to stand by her man. Looking at it from a feminist perspective, despite the preference of many of today’s readers of Mansfield Park for the independent Mary Crawford, Fanny Price (predating Mrs. 2 by over 100 years) comes out far ahead of Mrs. 2. Not to say that supporting our loved ones in times of trouble is a bad thing, just that this seems to be Mrs. 2’s ONLY motivation. She is nothing outside of her husband. Fanny, one feels sure, doesn’t need a man to define her. She even turns an eligible proposal down, something unbelievably risky for a woman in her circumstances. Fanny has more depth to her, for a heroine so readily dismissed by 21st century ideals.
As for the story, I found it interesting that for all I’ve heard of Rebecca and Mrs. Danvers being the villains of Rebecca, the real enemies of Maxim de Winter and Mrs. 2 are themselves. Good heavens, why did they bother to marry each other if they don’t even know how to communicate? How long must it take them to figure out that the only real enemy of their happiness is their failure to be honest and open with each other and their tendencies to dwell either on the past or on the imagined? I think here we move towards one reason people keep reading Rebecca, decades after it was first published: there is truth to be found in this book–I’m just not sure it would be newly illuminated in successive reads–this is a book you reread because you like it so much, not for new treasures, I do believe. The impression that I have of the book is that it is usually read for the Gothic thriller side of it, but the more interesting part of it to me is the actions of the non-villain characters. Or the non-actions. That part speaks truth, while on the other hand it’s hard to imagine a real-life Rebecca and Mrs. Danvers.
An interesting read, just not one I could love. (Incidentally, does anyone know if it was considered scandalous when it was first published? I haven’t seen anything to indicate this, but it seems like it should have been…)
I read this for both the Classics Club (supposed to be a Spin read…oops!) and R.I.P. VIII.
*The version included in the collection Uncollected Stories of William Faulkner, 1997, Vintage International. I believe it is the same as the version published in 1942 in the Saturday Evening Post, but am not certain.
Simpler Pastimes 
I loved this book, but mainly because I fell in love with Rebecca herself. I’m sorry it didn’t work for you, it seems a favourite one among most bloggers.
Once it moved into a mode that was more like a typical thriller I was better pleased with it. It just was too…wordy, I guess, for me. I don’t think I could ever like Rebecca, though–she’s simply too selfish and cruel and (selfishly) manipulative for me to think well of her at all. (For that matter, I feel like we’re supposed to sympathize with Maxim, when then truth of the matter is that he appears to have a troubling problem with his temper.)
Having just read My Cousin Rachel for the latest CCspin I have to agree with you. My Cousin Rachel is a much better book than Rebecca. Like you I was disappointed by the gothic mystery side to it – maybe my expectations were too high going into?
I also reread MP for Austen in August and was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed it. I have also become an advocate for Fanny. Her ethical stance and ability to stay true to a higher moral sensibility was admirable. The times she lived made impossible for her to be financially independent, but she was an independent thinker.
Oh, I’m glad to hear that My Cousin Rachel is better, as I have it (and Jamaica Inn on my Sensation! project list. Granted, I could change that list however I like, but if My Cousin Rachel is a better example, I’ll leave it. So many people seem to love du Maurier, that I don’t like dismissing her after only one read.
I’m glad to hear you enjoyed Mansfield Park! It’s always been a favorite of mine, but I know so many people have trouble with Fanny. The difficulty, I think, of reading from such a different context.
Hi Amanda! i just found your blog through The Classics Club.
Thanks for saying exactly what I thought. I REALLY disliked Rebecca and echo your question of, is it really a classic? And you are right, Maxim and Mrs. dW II were absolutely pitiful at communicating. As an exercise in I-don’t-know-what, I tried taking out Mrs. de Winter II’s narration and simply read what she was actually saying to people. Here are a few examples:
“Yes?” I said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes,” I said.
and another somewhat more lively conversation
“Not so very well,” I said.
“No.” I said.
“Very pretty,” I said.
“I’m so glad,” I said.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” I said.
“How nice,” I said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Really?” I said.
Excruciatingly painful to read. What also bothered me was that when Maxim confessed to the murder of Rebecca, all she could think about was that he didn’t love Rebecca. No shock, no horror, not one ounce of concern for another human being (either Rebecca, or Maxim himself, if she cared about his soul, either in a theological context or even outside of that — the effect that such an horrific act might have on him psychologically) but that her entire focus was on herself and what his act proved to her, to support her insecurities.
Aaah! I’ll be quiet now. I should have just said that I completely agree and empathize. I’m hesitant to try another du Maurier book now, but I’m sure I will …… one day in the future ….
Welcome, Cleo! I think you feel even more strongly about Rebecca than I do–I find myself mostly ambivalent about it now that I’m finished. Excellent point about Mrs. 2’s reaction to learning that Maxim is a killer–shouldn’t that be a more… traumatic… experience? Of course, I suppose there are too many women in real life who are so desperate for love they would act the same way.