tisdag 31 december 2013

Is it really sisterly to defend Rebecca de Winter?

On my latest trip to London, I fell for the temptation of buying Sally Beauman’s Rebecca’s Tale in a second-hand bookshop, though I had doubts about the supposed purpose of the novel as I’ll later explain. It’s a combined sequel/prequel of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. Most of it takes place long after du Maurier’s novel, where the protagonists – who are either new characters or played a secondary part in the original novel  – try to piece together what really happened to Maxim de Winter’s first wife, the glamorous Rebecca, whose body was found in a sabotaged sailing-boat twenty years previously. Did she commit suicide or was she murdered? More importantly, they try to find out who Rebecca really was. Was she a slut or a victim, or a bit of both?

For those who have read du Maurier’s novel  (and be warned if you haven’t, because I’m going to give most of the original plot away) there are few surprises as to how Rebecca died. What’s more interesting is the back story that Beauman has invented for the first Mrs de Winter, who finally – through an old notebook – gets to tell a chunk of her own tale. The book is a gripping read: du Maurier’s plot was good drama to begin with, and Beauman spins it out in an intriguing way, taking good care of the original characters (except the second Mrs de Winter, who makes a cameo appearance: Beauman’s description of her is ungenerous and unbelievable considering the development of her character in Rebecca). The new ones past muster too: the historian Grey, who narrates part of the book, is quietly likeable.  But in one way, my initial doubts remained, which were: do we really want to hear Rebecca’s side of the story?

The main twist in the original novel is that the famous Rebecca – so beautiful, so admired, who did everything well from entertaining to gardening to interior decorating  –  was really a piece of work who made her husband, moody aristo Maxim de Winter, miserable. And a very satisfying twist it is. The novel  is narrated by Maxim’s second wife, whom he marries shortly after Rebecca’s death. She is taken to Manderley, his country seat, and is there confronted with Rebecca’s ghost at every turn. Everyone more or less tactfully makes clear to the poor girl that she is very much second best and that they can’t really see what Maxim sees in her. He must have married her in haste, on the rebound, and is probably already regretting his choice. The housekeeper Mrs Danvers – devoted to the late Rebecca – is a particular thorn in the heroine’s flesh. Then the truth is revealed: when Rebecca’s body is discovered, Maxim confesses to his wife that he killed her – after extreme provocation – and that far from being fathoms deep in love, he hated his cheating, taunting wife. Mrs de Winter’s reaction is triumph. “Rebecca had not won. Rebecca had lost.” She helps with trying to cover up her husband’s crime. They succeed, but at a price.

It’s been a while since I read du Maurier’s novel, but I remember feeling so deeply for the poor heroine that I, like her, was relieved instead of shocked when it was revealed that Maxim was a killer. What du Maurier so skilfully does in Rebecca is to paint a picture of the nightmare ex-wife – from a woman’s point of view. Rebecca is most things you would not want your loved one’s ex to be. Her beauty and accomplishments are just of the kind that fuels one’s own insecurities. And, to top it all, she’s cruel, teasing and a thoroughly bad lot. Do I feel any sisterly need to rescue her from Maxim’s patriarchal narrative? I do not. 

I don’t really understand the fascination some women seem to have with characters that are especially designed not to appeal to other women. The wish to redress Rebecca’s reputation resembles the ongoing obsession with the first Mrs Rochester. In both cases, I suspect that the husband’s role plays a part: we hear most of the story of the first wife through the husband, who is of course deeply partisan. What’s more, both Maxim de Winter and Mr Rochester are somewhat problematic heroes to begin with (though Rochester is vastly preferable in my opinion, and no murderer). They have not treated their new love very well: should we really trust them?

However, in both cases, what the husband claims is backed up by the facts and by other witnesses. The first Mrs Rochester first tries to set fire to Rochester’s bedroom, then she attacks her brother and sucks his blood, then she sets fire to the whole building. What else does she have to do to convince readers she’s off her trolley? As for Rebecca, the glimpses we get of her character from others than her husband – including people who loved and admired her – are also sinister. Beauman manages to cast doubt on some of the things said, especially by Rebecca’s no-good cousin Favell, and I admit that her scepticism against Maxim – long dead in Rebecca’s Tale – is understandable. Whatever the provocation, shooting a woman you believe is pregnant is not what the Germans would call “the fine English way”. But her Rebecca failed to raise my sympathy. I’m still on the second Mrs de Winter’s team – Rebecca is, and remains, a piece of work.