Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again . . .
It's a fairly famous beginning to this fairly famous book. A perfect read for chilly nights under warm blankets, Daphne du Maurier's classic Rebecca is full of atmosphere.
The story follows our young narrator, naive, companion to the odious, calculating Mrs.Van Hoppers. She meets and is swept off her feet by the dashing widower, Maximilian de Winter.
Manderley itself acts as a character in this book. Upon returning from their honeymoon, our narrator - now with a name, Mrs. de Winter - attempts to settle into life in the grand Manderley.
She is haunted, though, by the memory of the first Mrs. de Winter, Rebecca.
"Rebecca, always Rebecca. Wherever I walked in Manderley, wherever I sat, even in my thought and in my dreams, I met Rebecca. I knew her figure now, the long slim legs, the small and narrow feet. Her shoulders broader than mine, the capable clever hands. Hands that could steer a boat, could hold a horse. Hands that arranged flowers, made the models of ships, and wrote ‘Max from Rebecca’ on the fly-leaf of a book. I knew her face too, small and oval, the clear white skin, the cloud of dark hair. I knew the scent she wore, I could guess her laughter and her smile. If I heard it, even among a thousand others, I should recognise her voice. Rebecca, always Rebecca. I should never be rid of Rebecca."
The housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers, does not make things any easier for her. Mrs. Danvers adored Rebecca and hates our nameless protagonist for "taking her place". She sets out to drive a wedge between the new de Winters, and our narrator feels she can never compete with her new husband's late wife's memory.
But, as in all good stories, things are never as they seem. There is something hidden, something secret, something sinister lurking around the corners of Manderley, lurking within the pages of this book.
I'll leave out the ending (it's a classic and you should read it yourself!) but suffice it to say the ending isn't exactly happy, but isn't exactly not.
This novel is beautiful. It is a quintessential "read on a blustery, cloudy day" book. The language practically drips with atmosphere. This book demands a rainy evening, burning candles, a roaring fire, a pet on your lap, a cup of tea within reach, wind scraping against trees, shadows dancing on your walls, rain against the windowpane.
It's a masterpiece of Gothic literature, and a quick read, and I'm equal parts ashamed to have not read it before now, and pleased that I finally did.
What a perfect read for this month.
What's your favourite "atmospheric" read? Do you read books that seem to match the seasons? Any to recommend to me for October?
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