S.Kocura
"Rebecca" by Daphne du Maurier
The Diary Of Mrs Danvers
May
The new Mrs de Winter came today. Mrs de Winter...she is not even worthy of the name. As soon as I saw her I knew at once why Maxim had not given her the rooms in the west wing. He obviously could not bear to see this drab and awkward girl ruining Rebecca's perfection.
The girl arrived just after five o'clock, in a dull stockinette dress and a silly scrap of fur worn crooked around her neck. I almost pitied her as she stepped through the door, holding a pair of crumpled gauntlet gloves and clutching an outsize leather handbag like a shield, but my pity soon left me as I remembered who she was to replace. How can I pity this ill-bred schoolgirl when she has taken my darling Rebecca's place?
I gave her a formal welcome, of course, despite Maxim's letters. The staff had assembled in the hall, all agog to see the new bride, and I had prepared a speech of welcome, though I meant none of it as I gave it. Already she could not meet my eyes as I spoke to her, and when I had finished she blushed an unattractive red, stammered some half formed words of thanks and, in her fear and confusion, dropped both gloves at my feet. I heard muffled titters from the staff, and I knew they already held her in contempt. So different to my darling Rebecca; she had them wrapped around her dainty little finger from the very start. I, myself, did not care to hide my smile as I stooped to pick up the gloves, for I knew that she would not dare comment.
I showed her to her rooms, later, after they had eaten their tea. She sat nervously at the dressing-table, as Rebecca used to sit and have me brush her long black hair, and combed her own mousy strands. She tried to make conversation, and I answered her awkward questions with no more than due politeness. I wanted to make her feel how different she was from my Rebecca, how much shorter when Rebecca was tall, how plain when Rebecca was beautiful, how much duller when Rebecca was full of wit.
I watched her face as I told her how much entertaining Rebecca did, how beautiful Rebecca's bedroom was, and saw that already she was beginning to feel inferior, already beginning to fear me.
I can already see she will be no match for me, or Rebecca.
Early June
Now, after almost a month of the new Mrs de Winter living here, I can see that there is little danger of her erasing my Rebecca's memory. She has not changed one detail of the running of Manderley, nor will she have the temerity to in the future.
I have kept everything as Rebecca wanted it, even the smallest details; the cook still serves wine sauce with the veal, the rhododendron flowers still float in a bowl on the morning room table, where the fire is still lit in the morning, just as if my Rebecca will still come downstairs and write her letters at her desk.
Of course I have furnished the West wing as Rebecca would have wished it, though I fear my eye for decoration will never be as sure as my lady's was. Even the bedroom that upstart girl now occupies belongs not to her, but to my Rebecca, the real Mrs de Winter.
The girl must have realised something of this from the start: the day after she had arrived at Manderley I called her on the house telephone while she was scribbling an insignificant little letter in the morning room. I wanted to ask her what sauce to serve with the main course at lunch that day; not because I wanted her opinion, of course, but to hear her mumble and squirm and finally confess her lack of knowledge of something my dear Rebecca could have thought of while half asleep.
The telephone rang briefly, then I could hear the receiver being slowly lifted. A nervous, guilty voice stammered.
"Who is it? Who do you want?"
Well should she have been guilty, for I guessed that she had been poking through the drawers on the writing desk, and later I found she had leafed through Rebecca's book of guests, still open in the drawer where she left it, and disarranged her visiting cards.
"Mrs de Winter?" I asked, politely, then again when she did not reply. It was obvious that the girl did not even ...
This is a preview of the whole essay
The telephone rang briefly, then I could hear the receiver being slowly lifted. A nervous, guilty voice stammered.
"Who is it? Who do you want?"
Well should she have been guilty, for I guessed that she had been poking through the drawers on the writing desk, and later I found she had leafed through Rebecca's book of guests, still open in the drawer where she left it, and disarranged her visiting cards.
"Mrs de Winter?" I asked, politely, then again when she did not reply. It was obvious that the girl did not even recognise my voice, when my Rebecca would have known at once it was her old maid Danny.
What she said then showed her as even more hapless and ignorant than I had first thought. She did not realise she was speaking on the house telephone and blurted out:
"I am afraid you have made a mistake. Mrs de Winter has been dead for over a year."
Though it was only a single sentence, an idiotic faux pas, I could not help but feel triumphant as I realised that she then knew and felt what an impostor she was. She knew that she sat in the real Mrs de Winters's place at the real Mrs de Winters's desk, a place which could never be hers, and for those who received them, the elegant visiting cards in the drawer would only ever conjure up a scent of azaleas and fair skin against dark hair.
I found the silly girl wandering the corridors of the West wing less than an hour later, when Major Lacy arrived. She said she had lost her way, trying to find her bedroom, but I knew that the way to the east wing is too obvious for even her to miss. I knew that she had really wanted to see the rooms there, see my Rebecca's bedroom, poke and pry and open drawers as she had at my Rebecca's writing desk, find out what was there that was missing from her own.
At first I was angry. She would have come into my Rebecca's room, sat at her dressing table, peered into the wardrobe and pawed through the drawers to see what clothes Mr de Winter had bought her. Then I realised that it could be a good thing if the girl saw the rooms. Let her see how much finer my Rebecca was than she, how she can never fill Rebecca's place at Manderley.
It is obvious that Maxim cannot love this young upstart, not after Rebecca. I can see it in his eyes. Everywhere the new Mrs de Winter goes, he remembers how the real Mrs de Winter, my Mrs de Winter, went more gracefully. Everything the new Mrs de Winter does, he can remember how the real Mrs de Winter did it better. I can see he has his own private hell now. And it serves him right, for marrying this insipid creature when my dear Rebecca has been only ten months in her grave. I...would like to punish him, somehow, for even daring to try and forget her, make him remember her every day.
He had to remember her this morning. The new Mrs de Winter broke a porcelain cupid that had been Rebecca's wedding present. So clumsy, when my graceful Rebecca never broke anything in her life, except men's hearts. I found it missing this morning, when I came to the morning room to check that Robert had placed the fresh flowers in their vases as Rebecca used to have them put. Of course I noticed at once that it was missing: I remember every valuable in the morning room that my Rebecca and I used to dust together, because we did not trust the maids.
I knew that Robert would have told me if he had broken so valuable an ornament, and that left the only possible culprit as Mrs de Winter. I could easily imagine her doing such a childish thing, like a silly young maid at her first posting. I didn't blame her directly, though. I accused Robert of stealing it, knowing that he would be upset and Frith would have to deal with it. I wanted to see if she had the courage to confess.
She did, eventually, but only after Robert had been upset enough, Frith had talked to Maxim, and I had been called to the library. Maxim did not seem as displeased as I had thought he would be. He thought her silly, I know, but he seemed more amused than angry. He did not seem to see what this new Mrs de Winter had actually done; broken one their wedding presents, broken a memory of Rebecca. Still, there will be other ways to make him remember.
Late June
I caught the new Mrs de Winter in Rebecca's rooms today. Mr Favell had come for a visit while Maxim was out, and we had been standing in Rebecca's rooms, remembering, when, looking out of the window we saw the girl wandering up the lawns by the terrace. I closed the shutters at once, and set about taking Mr Jack downstairs, so that he could leave without her seeing him. I had thought she had gone to the library, but she had hidden herself behind the door in the morning room as if she wanted to spy on us.
I could tell Maxim had not told her of him, for she, trying in her childish way to be polite, asked him to stay to tea. He, always rash where my Rebecca was bold, nearly accepted, so that I had to give him a warning look. He still insisted on showing the girl his car. A sure way to impress the visit in her mind! I would not put it past her to go running to Maxim about him.
Later, after Jack had left, I came back to Rebecca's bedroom, to see if anything had been left out of place, and found the new Mrs de Winter standing by the bed with Rebecca's golden coverlet on it. She said she had come to close the shutters, but I knew I had not left them open. She didn't know how well I knew those rooms, knew everything in them, so that I could see where she had opened the latch on the wardrobe, and taken Rebecca's night-dress out of its case where it was lying on the chair, just as it had been the day she died.
She did not know the care I had taken with the rooms. She must have seen the flowers on the mantelpiece, just as my Rebecca would have put them, but she could not have known of how careful I am with my Rebecca's furs, to keep the moths from destroying them, or of the dusting I do every day, for I do not trust the maids. She soon learnt, though.
I took her by the arm and showed her everything there, lead her around my Rebecca's rooms. I wanted her to see everything that was Rebecca's, see how inferior she was, even to my Rebecca's memory. I showed her Rebecca's night-dress, unwashed since the terrible night she died, and still carrying on it the scent of azaleas, that used to tell me when my lady had been before me in a room.
I held my Rebecca's dressing gown to her, whilst she stood there, looking stricken, almost afraid, or sick. I let her see how much taller Rebecca was, how my lady's gown came down to her ankles. I put Rebecca's tiny slippers over her hands, let her feel how much more delicate Rebecca's feet were. I showed her Rebecca's brushes, still unwashed and untouched as she last used them, and told her how Maxim used to stand there in his shirtsleeves before dinner, brushing her hair, with her laughing up at him, saying "Harder, Max, harder." and him laughing back and doing as she told him.
I showed her all Rebecca's fine clothes; the presents from Maxim and those she had bought herself. I wanted her to see Rebecca's sense of style and know how superior it was to her own. I wanted her to know how my Rebecca could look beautiful in anything, stand any colour, whilst she made even the most expensive dresses look drab and boring. I showed her Rebecca's furs, so rich and beautiful compared to the paltry scrap she was wearing when I first saw her.
I told her of the expensive sable Mr de Winter bought my Rebecca for Christmas, and when I saw the sick, hurt look on her pale face, and remembered how she had come to the house in that drab stockinette dress when Mr de Winter could have brought so many fine clothes in London, I knew how to go on.
I knew how to make her feel, how to make her know she could never replace Rebecca. I told her of the night my Rebecca drowned. It hurt me still, to tell of how I failed my darling Rebecca at the last, but I knew it would hurt her more to hear of Maxim's grief, and know why he never uses the rooms that look out to the sea. I told her how I had gone to Kerrith for the afternoon, then come back too late to stop my lady going out to sail.
I still blame myself for my lady's death. If I had known she would be back so soon from London, I would have come earlier and told her not to sail in that weather, and she would have listened to me like she always did.
"All right, Danny, you old fuss-pot." she would have said, and we would have sat in her bedroom till late, her telling me all she had done in London like she always did.
Even now, it still grieves me to think that if I had not gone to Kerrith, if I had known she would be back so early, I would still be able to see my Rebecca leaning on the minstrels gallery and calling to the dogs, or hear her light, quick footstep in the halls behind me. I would not have to see this upstart schoolgirl sitting in her place, walking where she used to walk, touching with her sticky hands the things that were my Rebecca's. It hurts me to think that this dull, plain creature ever thought herself worthy to take my Rebecca's place. I wanted to make her realise that she never could replace Rebecca; never for me and never for Mr de Winter.
I told her how he had his things moved out of their rooms, away from the sea that had claimed his adored Rebecca, how he sat in the armchair at night, not sleeping, leaving cigarette ash all around it in the morning, how he used to lock himself in the library and pace, for hours on end, up and down the room. And I told her how sometimes I think that my Rebecca comes back and watches her, sitting in Rebecca's place at Rebecca's desk, walking through Rebecca's rooms.
I told her how I sometimes wonder if my Rebecca comes back, somehow, to Manderley, and watches her and Mr de Winter together.
I frightened her, I know, for she would have pushed dumbly past me, out of the door, had I not stood aside, and, later, I found that the door to her room in the east wing was locked.
July
Something has happened. A boat ran aground yesterday morning, on the reef in the bay, lost its bearings in the fog and thought it was Kerrith harbour. I did not go down to the bay myself, to see the wreck, for arrangements had to be made at the house, but I listened to the news Frith brought back from Kerrith.
The coastguard sent a diver down to examine the damage to the ship, I heard, and whilst he was down there he found something else. A boat. The Je Reviens. My Rebecca's boat. Still down there, still sound when we thought it had broken up on the rocks. Then, when he broke a portlight to look through, he found something inside. A body, lying there on the cabin floor. No flesh on it, of course, after so long, but still somebody's body.
Whose?
Could my Rebecca have been out sailing with one of her men? Or did Mr de Winter make a mistake when he identified the body at Edgecoombe? Is that my Rebecca's body, down there, on the cabin floor? Would she have let herself be trapped there like that, in a storm? My lady was too good a sailor to make such a mistake, I know. If it is not her body, though, then whose is it?
That girl knows, I am sure. Something has happened to her, something has changed. She no longer fears me. She sent a message through Robert to change the day's menu; a hot lunch, instead of the cold remains from the ball. It was only a little thing, but more than she has dared to do all the time she has been at Manderley. I came to see her, to ask why she suddenly wanted it changed, told her I was unused to having messages sent to me by Robert.
"If Mrs de Winter wanted anything changed she would ring me personally on the house telephone" I told her.
She looked me straight in the eyes, and answered:
"I am Mrs de Winter now, you know."
How can she say that now, so suddenly, when she could not before? What does she know? What has Maxim told her?
Last Entry
This is the last time I shall be writing this at Manderley. I know now, I know everything. Mr Jack told me. He came yesterday, after the inquest had found a verdict of suicide. Suicide? My lady? I had known at once that it couldn't be true, but then what else could?
It was only when Mr Jack came that I realised. He had a note, given to him by Rebecca just the day before she died, telling him to come down and meet her at her cottage in the cove. I knew she wouldn't have told him to come if she had planned to die.
Mr Jack made Maxim call Colonel Julyan, the magistrate. They called me into the library, some time later. They wanted to know what her appointments for the day had been. I checked Rebecca's appointment book, and there was a name there I did not know. A man called Baker, and then a phone number in the back of the book. I did not know anyone called Baker, could not think why Rebecca could have wanted to see him. They rang the number, and found it was a Doctor Baker, retired now and living somewhere north of London. Mr Jack followed them, Mr and Mrs de Winter and Colonel Julyan, to Dr Baker's house the next day. The same doctor Baker she had been to see in London the day she died. She had cancer, he said, a growth, deep rooted. She only had three or four months left when she died. Why didn't she tell me? Her old Danny, who she used to tell everything? Why didn't she talk to me? They'll say she committed suicide, now, say she couldn't face such a painful death.
But Mr Jack and I know the truth. Maxim killed her, killed my Rebecca. She would never have killed herself, not my brave Rebecca. It was he who drove those holes in the bottom of the boat, he who left the stopcocks open. He was jealous of her, like they all were, madly jealous of my lady, with her looks, her wit, her charm. He killed her, murdered my lady, because she was too beautiful, too graceful, too spirited.
He thinks the law can't touch him now, he and his new bride. But there are other ways I can get to them, other ways I can cause him at least some of the pain he caused me, other ways I can repay him for my lady's death. I'll destroy the one thing I know he loves above all. His new bride may be Mrs de Winter in name, but she will never take my Rebecca's place at Manderley, her Manderley that she herself created. I shall not allow it.
Goodbye, my Rebecca. Goodbye, Manderley.
