Manderley Forever E-Book

Tatiana de Rosnay

• Herausgeber: Allen & Unwin
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Bestselling novelist Tatiana de Rosnay pays homage to Daphne du Maurier, the writer who influenced her deeply, in this startling and immersive new biography. A portrait of one writer by another, Manderley Forever meticulously recounts a life as mysterious and dramatic as the work it produced, and highlights du Maurier's consuming passion for Cornwall. De Rosnay seamlessly recreates Daphne's childhood, rebellious teens and early years as a writer before exploring the complexities of her marriage and, finally, her cantankerous old age. With a rhythm and intimacy to its prose characteristic of all de Rosnay's works, Manderley Forever is a vividly compelling portrait and celebration of an intriguing, hugely popular and (in her time) critically underrated writer.

Leseprobe

For NJ, LJR, CJR

Contents

List of Illustrations

Preface

Part I: London, 1907–25

Part II: France, 1925

Part III: Cornwall, 1926

Part IV: Cornwall, 1943

Part V: Cornwall, 1969

Quotes upon the Death of Daphne du Maurier

Acknowledgments

Glossary

Notes

Sources

Works by Daphne du Maurier

French Family Tree

Map

Index

List of Illustrations

Muriel du Maurier and her three daughters, Angela, Jeanne and, to the right, Daphne. 1912, London.

Ferryside, the house Gerald du Maurier bought in Fowey, Cornwall in 1926. Today Daphne’s son, Christian Browning, lives there with his family.

Daphne and her dog, Bingo, at Fowey in 1930.

In 1940 Alfred Hitchcock adapted Rebecca for the screen, starring Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine. Judith Anderson (on the right) played Mrs Danvers. The film, like the book, was a worldwide success.

Daphne and her three children, Tessa, Flavia and Kits, in front of Menabilly in 1945.

Daphne and her husband, Sir Frederick Browning, at Menabilly in 1944.

Daphne on the beach at Pridmouth in front of the wreck of the Romanie, 1944.

Daphne poses on the grand staircase at Menabilly, beneath the portrait of her father, Gerald. Late 1940s.

Daphne at Menabilly with Kits, Flavia and Tessa.

Picnic on the beach at Pridmouth with Kits and Flavia, 1944.

Daphne photographed outside the Federal Court Building in New York City, 1947, during the Rebecca plagiarism case.

Daphne at 70, in 1977.

Preface

When, at the age of eleven, I first opened a copy of Rebecca, I had no idea how important that novel would become in my life. Like so many other readers before me, I was transfixed from the first, mythical sentence: Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. That book had such an effect on me that barely had I finished it before I started reading it again. I was under the spell of the “du Maurier magic,” her singular style, that famous psychological suspense. Before Rebecca I had already written several short stories—in English, my first language—in my school exercise books. Later, when I wrote other stories, I signed them Tatiana du Maurier. It was Daphne du Maurier who bequeathed me my taste (or obsession) for houses, for family secrets, for the memories held by walls. Each and everyone of my novels bears her influence.

When, several years ago, Gérard de Cortanze suggested I write the first French biography of my favourite novelist, I felt simultaneously honoured and nervous, but I accepted the challenge. I decided to follow in her footsteps, as if I were leading an investigation, travelling from London to Cornwall, by way of Montparnasse—because she adored Paris. This literary pilgrimage allowed me to discover how Daphne du Maurier wrote, the secrets of her life, her inspiration, her work.

I described her as if I were filming her, camera on my shoulder, so that my readers could instantly understand who she was. I studied her books, her voice, the look in her eyes, the way she walked, the sound of her laughter. I met and spoke with her children and grandchildren. Around the houses that she loved so passionately I constructed the portrayal of an unusual and enchanting novelist, scorned by critics because she sold millions of books. Her macabre and fascinating world produced a complex, surprisingly dark oeuvre, far removed from the “romantic novelist” she was unfairly labelled as.

This book reads like a novel, but I did not invent any of it. Everything here is true.

It is the novel of a life.

People and things pass away, not places.

—DAPHNE DU MAURIER1

PART ONE

LONDON, 1907–25

The child destined to be a writer is vulnerable to every wind that blows.

—DAPHNE DU MAURIER1

Mayfair, City of Westminster, London

November 2013

There are usually crowds of people in Regent’s Park. Visitors come here to walk around and admire the flower beds, see Queen Mary’s rose garden, take boat trips on the lake. But on this very British grey and drizzly November morning, the park is deserted.

The Queen was born here; Oscar Wilde lived here, as did Handel, Somerset Maugham, and Nancy Mitford. In place of the previous century’s patrician families, the elegant Georgian buildings are now home to luxury stores and fashionable restaurants, embassies, and five-star hotels. Impossible not to notice that the people who live here or frequent these places have money. There are fur coats on display everywhere, while only the priciest, flashiest cars are parked by the side of the road. In Monopoly, Mayfair has been the most desired space on the board for more than eighty years.

To the east of the park are the Terraces, quiet residential streets where rows of identical terraced houses stretch out towards the horizon, perfectly symmetrical. Chester Terrace is the longest, Clarence Terrace the shortest; Park Crescent is formed in a graceful semi-circle. The one I have come to see this morning is the most imposing of all: Cumberland Terrace. I read that it dates from 1826 and comprises about thirty houses. It is located between the Outer Circle, the street that borders the park, and Albany Street.

It’s not especially easy to find. Despite my map, I get lost several times before spotting its neoclassical façade from a distance. I walk through the rain towards it, impressed by its immense size and its famous Wedgwood blue pediment. I daren’t move any closer; I feel as if I am being watched. What could I say to one of the building’s inhabitants if they came out to ask me why I was taking photographs?

I could say, quite simply, that I am here for her, that I am following the footsteps of her life, and this is where my journey begins. Because it was here, at number 24, under these huge ivory columns, behind that white door, that Daphne du Maurier was born on May 13, 1907.

Leaving the park after going for a walk, the little girl has to pass under that gigantic-seeming arch, then climb the steps that lead to the house, on the right. The white front door matches the cumbersome pram, which Nanny cannot lift up on her own. They have to ring the doorbell so someone will come to help them. The little girl bickers with her sister Angela over who gets to press the copper-coloured button first, and she has to stand on tiptoes in her Start Rite shoes in order to reach it.

Their childminder wears the same uniform, day after day. The little girl likes to look at it: the grey coat, the black hat, the veil covering her face. It is one of the maids who comes out to help Nanny with the baby carriage. She is wearing an apron and a white bonnet. They struggle to lift the pushchair with the baby inside it. From inside the carriage, Jeanne smiles, and the little girl notices the way everyone melts at her pink-cheeked sister’s smile.

Inside the long entrance hall, the little girl sees coats, stoles, and capes hung on pegs; she hears the hubbub of a conversation, peals of laughter coming from the living room, to her left; she sniffs out the whiff of an unfamiliar perfume. Her heart contracts. That means there are ladies invited to lunch, that she’ll have to go downstairs, later, after the meal in the nursery, to say hello. This does not bother Angela; in fact, she’s excited, already asking who is there with their mother. The little girl rushes upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, escaping while she can, and taking refuge in the large nursery on the top floor of the house, in that comforting warmth, near the doll’s house, of the toy cupboard with two shelves (one for Angela, one for her), of the treasure chest lined with cotton cloth, of the old armchair that transforms so easily into a shipwreck run aground on a beach. She moves towards the fireplace, where flames crackle behind the fire screen. The table is set for three—Nanny, Angela, and her—because the baby still sits in her high chair to eat. She looks out on Albany Street, towards the army barracks. Nanny’s voice is raised and it pursues her, repeating her name several times over. It is telling her to wash her hands before lunch. Daphne doesn’t want to wash her hands, she doesn’t want to eat lunch. She wants to continue looking out of the window, watching the troop of Life Guards officers as they return from their morning patrol. Her father has explained that this is the oldest regiment in the British Army, its mission to protect the king and the royal buildings. There is no way she is going to miss seeing the glint of their shining armour, the plume of feathers on their helmets, the red lightning flash of uniforms. Since she stopped sleeping with Jeanne and joined her older sister on the other side of the nursery, she is woken at dawn every day by the bugle call, but this doesn’t bother her at all.

During the meal, Nanny lectures Daphne about the need to finish her vegetables, and at dessert she orders her to eat every last morsel of her rice pudding. Daphne does not like rice pudding. Why must she always do what Nanny tells her? Because she’s only a four-year-old girl? And yet she likes Nanny; she sees her more often than she sees her own mother.

After lunch, the dreaded moment arrives. Nanny rubs Daphne’s face clean, brushes her hair. Angela admires herself in the mirror. The sisters wear identical embroidered mauve velvet dresses and pale pink pelisses; even the baby is dressed to match. They must walk downstairs, open the door of the dining room, and they must smile, in front of that sea of strange faces. Why doesn’t Angela suffer during this ordeal? Murmurs of approval. The ladies are elegant, they wear large hats. Mummy too. Daphne finds this odd: How can anyone eat lunch while wearing such a big hat? Nanny hands the baby to their mother; the baby gurgles, and everyone coos over her. Daphne wants to run away, back to the nursery; she hides behind Angela, who is prancing around in her velvet dress in front of the ladies. Their mother gives the baby lumps of sugar. When the ladies all stand up to move through into the living room, Daphne finds them too tall, too fat; they laugh too loud, cackling like hens, and not only that, but they all want to kiss her. It’s horrible. She hates it. Angela puts up with the kissing gracefully (how can she?), but not her, no way, no kissing. She scowls, bites her fingernails. The ladies laugh—they think she’s shy and sweet—but they notice the nail chewing, the naughty little thing. Her mother shoots her a reproachful look. Thankfully, no one is paying any attention to her now; she is free to go back upstairs at last. It’s over. Until the next time.

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!