Daphne Du Maurier, page 8
She thought a great deal while she stayed with Ferdy in Paris about the fate of her eleven stories, hardly daring to hope that at least some would find favour. Then a letter arrived in Paris saying that the agent A. P. Watt liked them and, if she could add another half-dozen or so, was sure he could find a publisher for them. The relief was enormous. But in spite of the encouragement given to her by A. P. Watt, Daphne did not at once settle down to producing the extra stories that would make up a collection.
Instead, she was side-tracked by another summer at Ferryside. The new excitement was that she now had her own boat. Two boats, in fact. One was a 13-foot rowing-boat which she named Annabel Lee, given to her for her twenty-first birthday, and the other a fishing lugger, 32 feet long, built in the Polruan boatyard and called Marie-Louise. The whole summer was spent rowing in Annabel Lee and watching Marie-Louise being built. She made very little attempt to write any more stories. She excused her laziness on the grounds that Ferryside was too crowded for her to have peace to work – and it was indeed full of an endless stream of guests invited to keep Gerald amused while he was there – but when September came she was ashamed of her lack of effort. What was it ‘Q’ said? Literature needed practice, and she was not practising. She wished she could stay by herself at Ferryside and work all winter – which she swore she would do – but she was obliged to return to London.
There was, however, a chink of light: her parents said that if she could sell her stories and earn enough to keep herself, then she would be allowed to stay at Ferryside. Never having earned a penny in her life, nor having been required to, it was a rather unreal condition, but one Daphne accepted at once. She did not want to be dependent financially or in any other way on her parents – it would fill her with joy to have her own money and this was the incentive she needed. She resolved to go back to Hampstead and apply herself as she had never done before, then return to Fowey with her own income and never leave it.
But before she left Cornwall, she had become fascinated by Menabilly.
Chapter Four
MENABILLY1 WAS ALWAYS more than a house to Daphne du Maurier. Its chief attraction for her was its secrecy, not its size or beauty or history. She loved the way it was so cunningly hidden from prying eyes, buried among trees in the middle of the Gribbin peninsula. Again and again in her early letters and her diaries she had craved perfect solitude, so hard to find as a member of a sociable family – ‘it is so awful to be part of a big family’, she once wrote to Tod. Solitude not only made her happier but in some strange way excited her. It had always puzzled her that, without in the least wanting to act, she found herself acting all the time. Every word she spoke, every gesture she made seemed to her rehearsed even when she was most at ease. Alone, with no one to act for, the relief was great and with this relief came a sense of exhilaration: now she knew who she was, could be herself. Large houses in extensive grounds presented endless opportunities for getting ‘lost’ and she loved them.
Once Ferryside was bought, the du Mauriers naturally became interested in the history of Fowey. They quickly learned that there were two important local families, the Treffrys, ensconced in Place, an extraordinary folly of a house situated in the very heart of Fowey, and the Rashleighs, who owned most of the Gribbin peninsula upon which the town was built. The Treffrys were still prosperous and in residence, but the fortunes of the Rashleighs had varied. Guidebooks which the du Mauriers consulted always listed Menabilly as the principal home of the Rashleighs but, in fact, no member of the family lived there full time. Nothing of the original Tudor house was left, and of the seventeenth-century replacement only some stone mullioned windows and some panelling and underground cellars had survived a nineteenth-century fire. The house had been deliberately built so that there was no view of it from the sea, except from one secret point, to keep it safe from unwelcome enemy attention.
By the time the du Mauriers came to Fowey it was owned by Dr John Rashleigh, married but with no children, who did not live there but came for two or three days every quarter to collect the rents of the farms and cottages he owned on the estate. The house was kept furnished and was aired once a week by a woman who came up from the nearby village of Polkerris. It was variously rumoured that Dr Rashleigh did not himself live at Menabilly because his health would not permit it – the location was damp – or because, having found his first wife in the arms of her lover there, he could not abide the place. All this was common gossip which the du Mauriers soon picked up. They heard that the house, in spite of being still furnished and used, was neglected and falling into serious disrepair. All this, of course, made it even more attractive to Daphne.
Trying to find Menabilly with the help of a map soon became a favourite pastime. Daphne and Angela first attempted to reach the house by setting off from the lodge at the Four Turnings crossroads, but they found the path so overgrown that by the time it was dark they had to give up. Their next attempt was by the more obvious route. They drove to the West Lodge and began walking across the open parkland, still unable to see even a chimney of the house, and feeling apprehensive because they knew they were trespassing. Eventually, penetrating a thicket of shrubs and trees, they came out on to a huge unkempt lawn and there before them was Menabilly.
Seeing it at last gave Daphne a physical thrill – it was so very much more satisfying than she had imagined, with the walls covered in thick ivy, almost obliterating the windows, and betraying no sign of human occupation. It was not the enormous stately home she had half expected – in fact, in comparison with many houses in which she had stayed, Menabilly was modest. Only two-storeyed, it was long and low, unadorned, a quiet-looking house. She thought of it immediately as being asleep, an image strengthened by the way in which she and Angela had stolen up on it. She felt she could awaken this lovely house and with it awaken something in herself.
Instead, she was obliged to return to London. At least she now felt she had a target: to finish sufficient short stories to enable A. P. Watt to show publishers a collection substantial enough to publish. But in spite of good intentions she found she could settle to nothing. She sat in the rather dark, sparsely furnished little room over the Cannon Hall garage, not writing but daydreaming, seeing herself walking along the cliffs at Fowey, standing entranced before the shuttered Menabilly. Aunt Billie was obliged to report to A. P. Watt that the eleven stories they had already would have to do. These were accordingly shown to several publishers, though without success. Uncle Willie, who, as well as being a literary agent, edited the fashionable Bystander, was prepared to come to the rescue. He had read Daphne’s stories and liked one of them enough to offer to publish it in his magazine if she would agree to some cutting. Deeply suspicious that she was being humoured, and well aware that this was the most blatant piece of nepotism, Daphne reacted to the offer gracelessly. She said she was not prepared to have the story in question, ‘And Now to God the Father’, cut and certainly not for the offered fee of £10. Fortunately, Uncle Willie was amused and said he would think about it. His magazine only published one story per issue, in a set space which included a large illustration, and he would have to see what could be done.
Meanwhile, Hampstead life went on and Gerald’s depression worsened. His business manager, Tom Vaughan, had died and there was now something for him to be seriously depressed and worried about. His financial state was parlous. Gerald had always worried about money even when spending it with the apparently careless generosity and extravagance for which he was famous. He had taken out insurance policies as soon as he married, and several of his early letters to Muriel showed anxiety about his solvency. But as he became more successful and the money rolled in he had begun to spend with abandon, always depending on Tom to keep him straight. Once Tom died, Gerald found himself having to deal with vexatious things like income tax returns, just at the time when his earnings had begun to drop most seriously. Hannen Swaffer, in an article on the decline of actor-managers, commented, ‘Gerald du Maurier, after several consecutive failures at the St James’s, must be wondering about a future fraught with peril. . . actor-managers were for a time very uppish . . . they are not uppish today. They are downish.’ And none more downish than Gerald, who could see disaster staring him in the face. Drastic action was called for, and the only solution he could think of which would bring in the money he needed was to go into films, an idea he loathed.2
He was drinking heavily, which increased his depression, and the atmosphere in Cannon Hall was oppressive. Daphne’s own discontent and restlessness matched her father’s and they made uneasy companions. She felt trapped, and thrashed about, sulky and furious with herself, resenting Gerald’s heavy dependency on her and his need for the support she failed to give. When she was once more invited to Caux for winter sports by the Edgar Wallaces she accepted at once. This was not the answer to her problems but a very agreeable way to escape them for a while, and she had been brought up to divert herself at every opportunity.
Caux that year, 1929, proved more significant than she had expected. It was there that Daphne met Carol Reed,3 the illegitimate son of Herbert Beerbohm Tree and half-brother of Viola Tree, a great friend of the du Mauriers. Apart from her fleeting interest in the man with whom she had dallied in Richmond Park, Daphne at twenty-one had had no love affairs with men. But Cousin Geoffrey had awakened her to the existence of sexual desire and Ferdy had shown her that there was more than one kind of sexual advance to which she responded. But no man had made love to her, whatever her father suspected. All that his gross suspicions had done was to fuel in her a rebellious desire to commit the act of which he accused her: since Gerald thought she had lovers she might as well have one.
Carol Reed, only six months older than she was, presented himself as the ideal candidate. In many ways he was as unconventional as she believed herself to be and this attracted her greatly. He was not smooth and sophisticated but instead very casual and even Bohemian in manner. He, too, disliked social occasions and liked to be by himself. He was given to spur-of-the-moment adventures, like dashing off in his fast car to look at the moon from some unlikely vantage point, and he appeared daring, even a trifle insolent, with a tendency to daydream in company. His clothes were the sort of clothes of which Daphne approved – pullovers, big coats, nothing smart. He was tall – she liked men to be tall and strong-looking – and had eyes nearly as blue as her own. His background was her own background and they had scores of theatrical friends in common.
The affair did not begin at Caux. Daphne threw herself into a hectic type of socializing, of the sort she usually scorned but which seemed right in Caux. She danced until dawn every night, kissed freely and meaninglessly and was generally part of the happy, frenzied crowd. While there, she wrote an entertaining letter to Ferdy, wildly exaggerating all the fun she was having and perfectly calculated to upset her, and when she returned home it was to discover that Ferdy had actually written to Aunt Billie, with whom she had become friendly during her stay in London, saying that Daphne was on the road to ruin and should be watched. Billie felt obliged to tell Muriel, who, of course, told Gerald, and the reception committee awaiting Daphne was formidable. Her parents’ readiness to believe that she had seriously compromised herself at Caux enraged her, as did Ferdy’s interference, which she, not unnaturally, interpreted as jealousy. More and more it seemed a waste not to be wicked if, in the pursuit of harmless fun, that was how she was to be branded. When Carol returned and contacted her she was more than ready for him.
He was at that time working for Edgar Wallace as an assistant director on a film and was leading a haphazard existence, sometimes working long hours in the studio, sometimes with whole days free. He and Daphne discovered at once that they had one thing in common they had not known about in Caux: they both loved frequenting unpretentious cafés in unfashionable districts where they could sit and observe people and eavesdrop. They would spend hours over cups of coffee, sitting silently smoking, building up theories about the strangers around them, and then, afterwards, comparing fantasies about them. Carol cared no more for fine food and wine than Daphne – a sandwich was more to their liking – and had a similar passion for wandering the streets trying to imagine the lives of those who lived there. A favourite with both of them was the dockland area, where the sight of foreign ships would stimulate wilder flights of fancy. Sometimes Carol would do silly, even dangerous things like suddenly climbing scaffolding or jumping on to statues, but Daphne loved these touches of eccentricity. She loved, too, Carol’s evident ambition – she liked people who wanted to do things in life and Carol had great plans. He was not boastful but was full of a quiet conviction that he would achieve something in the theatre or film world, and he had every intention of dedicating himself to the job. Those who observed Daphne and Carol at this time thought what an attractive couple they made and how happy they seemed. Daphne in particular was light-hearted, always on the edge of some joke shared only with Carol, her former watchful expression quite gone. The only thing that threatened to spoil this charming romance was Gerald’s hostility.
Now that Gerald had someone upon whom to fix his jealousy, and giving weight to his suspicions, he went on the attack. Seeing Daphne brought home very late, night after night, by Carol, he assumed they were lovers long before they actually were. His reaction was crude. He would stand at the top of the Cannon Hall stairs, from which point there is a clear view through a high window into the courtyard below, so that he could see Carol embrace and kiss Daphne when he brought her home. Knowing he was spying, Daphne took care that he should see nothing, but this only made her father angrier. He would ask her what she had been doing with Carol so late at night, and when she said they had simply been driving about, this seemed to enrage him more than if she had said they had been in bed. But Gerald’s anger was easier to face than his misery, and Daphne, though distressed, found herself better able to withstand it. His new bullying manner did not intimidate her – it only made her more reserved and cold towards him and more determined than ever to go her own way. But what she found harder to handle was her mother’s disapproval. Muriel looked at her with barely disguised hostility and this she could not fathom. Her father’s possessiveness was one thing, her mother’s angry disapproval another. If, as she had begun to suspect, her mother’s attitude was dictated by a feeling that Gerald and Daphne were too close and that he loved her more than he loved his wife, why, now that he was angry with her, and the relationship had altered, was Muriel not more sympathetic? Why did she not take Daphne’s part and act as mediator between husband and daughter? It seemed to Daphne terribly unfair and she resented her mother’s unfriendliness as much as her father’s jealousy.4
It was resentment as well as real attraction which drove her to consummate her affair with Carol in the summer of 1929, soon after her twenty-second birthday. She had come to the conclusion that the boy within her had no chance of survival and must be locked up in his box forever. She was a woman and must live as a woman and that, to her, meant suppressing her attraction to Ferdy and allowing her growing attraction to Carol to develop into a proper love-affair. But once Carol had become her lover, she was troubled to find that she thought of him with more affection than passion. In a way this was a relief. What was important to her was that no love-affair should interrupt her plans to be free of her parents and live as she wanted down in Fowey. Her diary was full of entries at this time about the value of independence and the desire to be utterly irresponsible. Carol was part of this defiant irresponsibility, but she was never sure that she loved him.
Geoffrey turned up again and she was aware once more of a rival pull towards him, but knew that this, too, was not necessarily love. With great candour, she admitted to her diary that she felt Geoffrey was like an attractive brother and Carol like a son and that neither seemed ‘a dashed-off-my-feet thing’. Never at any time did she wonder if her lack of deep feeling for either man might mean that suppressing her ‘Venetian tendencies’ had failed. She was determined to forget about the boy-in-the-box. She had committed herself to Carol at least temporarily, and Muriel guessed instantly. It was she, not Gerald, who told Daphne she had had enough of her wanton behaviour: she was writing to Carol to tell him what she thought of him. The mere thought of such a letter was so embarrassing that Daphne could hardly bear it. Bitterly, she confessed to her diary that her parents were impossible to please. She was, she wrote, ‘getting horribly fed up with sitting in that bedroom at home and being sort of supervised’.
Carol did what he could to calm the situation down. He replied to Muriel with a note of apology for how late he had kept Daphne out and said he would bring her home at a reasonable hour. But, of course, all this curfew did was make the lovers meet in the afternoon instead, which had an excitement all its own, and the affair carried on exactly as before. Carol, who was genuinely in love, began to suggest marriage and even to assume it was inevitable, which alarmed Daphne greatly. She wanted to be irresponsible and marriage was the most boringly responsible step anyone could take. But it was easy to placate Carol by pointing out that neither of them had any money and that their two lives could not for the moment be permanently united. Carol had to be in London, where the theatres and film studios were, and she wanted to be in Fowey, writing. Not knowing how cool was Daphne’s view of her own love-affair, her parents were determined to get her away from Carol. They pressed her to accept an invitation to go on a cruise of the Norwegian fjords with a select party organized by the millionaire Otto Kahn.5 She went, succumbing as ever to this kind of family pressure, but three weeks later was back in Carol’s arms. Soon he was going on tour with Edgar Wallace’s The Calendar and she would be off to Fowey for the summer, so she knew a natural break would follow.
