Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier (1938)

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Truly a novel that stands the test of time, Rebecca proved to be an outstanding, haunting work of classic gothic fiction that I could not put down. With its unforgettable characters, eloquent writing, and a mystery that lurks on every page, this novel certainly lived up to expectations. There's so much I loved about this book. Read on for a full analysis! Spoilers will be noted.

Overview: Rebecca begins with the story of a young woman swept off her feet by a wealthy widower in Monte Carlo, but when the new bride arrives at his family estate back in England, she quickly realizes his late wife occupies more than her new husband's thoughts.

[Spoilers below!]

Rebecca was originally marketed in the 1940s as a "gothic romance," which I would argue is a shoddy descriptor, indicative of societal expectations, for a book that largely explores heavier themes such as memory, truth and identity, feminism and gender roles, power and control, and imprisonment. In reality, this is the story of two people desperately clawing for the present while they remain thoroughly haunted by the past. The way they go about this and the actions they take is what makes the novel so interesting.

Another interesting element was that Du Maurier deeply admired Charlotte Brontë, and the influence of Jane Eyre certainly shines through in notable elements of the novel. The grand, foreboding house, the concept of the lingering first wife, and dark secrets harbored all echo back to Brontë's famous work. But let's take a closer look at what made this book itself so captivating.

Characters:

The Narrator:

It's always a fascinating literary choice to me to never name the heroine and narrator. In this particular book, our narrator is never addressed by anyone, never named, never noted in writing. Yet, the first wife, the woman whose memory and presence seems to endlessly haunt the narrator, is not only named likely hundreds of times in the novel, she is the very namesake of the whole story.

Our narrator is a fairly unlikable character. She's demure, unremarkable, and even a bit pathetic at times. She's consistently referred to with pale, bland colors. As she slowly descends into obsessive comparison between herself and the former Lady of Manderly, even she seems to be under Rebecca's enthrall. She is the quiet, mousy, cowering foil in every way to Rebecca, the vivacious, the brilliant, the beautiful first wife.

What I found most interesting about her was her moral ambiguity. When she discovers the truth about Maxim and Rebecca's death, her focus immediately shifts to protecting and preserving her husband of a few brief months, who, by all accounts is a murderer. Was it the blind love of youth? Or was it self-preservation? Perhaps, even a bit of relief that she no longer must live in Rebecca's oppressive shadow of perfection? The reader gets to consider for themselves because the story marches on.

Rebecca:

Another element I found so interesting about this character is you never meet her. By the end of the book, we know so much about her, but she never truly appears on the page. Her presence is a heavy, occlusive mist that never truly lifts from Manderly. Her influence over those she left behind is so great, that life carried on exactly the way she demanded it did. What is odd, is that no one seemed to know her. They believed her facade and only Maxim and Mrs. Danvers knew how selfish, how reckless and manipulative, she truly was. One adored her for her brazen possession of life, one abhorred her for it.

The color red is consistently a symbol of Rebecca. She's always described in violent, bright, overpowering hues. From the blood-red rhododendrons that guard the house, to the red flowers that pervade her spaces, the red of her blood, and the bright red sky in the fiery end, Rebecca's color is that of luscious sin.

As the reader, you're wondering the whole time if she's really still alive. If she's walking the halls, tormenting her husband after faking her death, or maybe her ghost lurks in every dark corner. By the end, you realize she truly is gone, but it hardly seems to matter because the memory of her is just as powerful as she was in life.

Maxim:

Ah, the poor, grieving husband. Or so we think. Our narrator spends much of her time assuming he is still in love with his perfect first wife. In truth, Rebecca revealed herself to be so monstrous, he killed her and faked the circumstances of her tragic boating accident. It's his guilt eating him alive, not grief.

It was easy, as the reader to not stop and consider his actions, as the narrator glosses over it as well. But there's another moral question here presented in his character: was he justified in killing her? Who's really the bad guy here? Rebecca or the man who killed her? We're only ever given one side of the story.

Mrs. Danvers:

Arguably one of the most unsettling characters I've read before, Mrs. Danvers's love for Rebecca borders on fanatical. She's consistently described like a skull, a corpse, and always all in black. She's also one of the only people who knew exactly who Rebecca was and loved her viciously. The modern movie takes a few liberties with Mrs. Danvers in the end, jumping into the sea to join Rebecca, but the essence of her character remained.

Manderly Estate:

I would argue the estate itself is a character. We get so many descriptions of its past, present, and future. We see how the plants and flowers in and around the house are weaponized against our narrator, always a reminder that she doesn't belong, isn't welcome, and is inherently lesser than Rebecca ever was. Our characters made significant decisions around the fate of Manderly, and from the first page, it haunts our narrator's dreams.

The Writing:

The writing in this book was absolutely delicious. I was thrilled from the first page. Take a look at how Du Maurier personifies the garden in the opening scene, transforming peaceful nature into twisted, vicious things. (Note: the bolding is my own, highlighting the language she's using to do this.)

"Nature had come into her own again and, little by little, in her stealthy, insidious way had encroached upon the drive with long, tenacious fingers" (1).

"...the malevolent ivy, always an enemy to grace, had thrown her tendrils about the pair and made them prisoners" (3).

"Nettles were everywhere, the vanguard of the army. They choked the terrace, they sprawled about the paths, they leant, vulgar and lanky, against the very windows of the house" (3).

The Ending:

Our book ends with Maxim and the narrator racing back toward Manderly at night, far from dawn, yet "the sky on the horizon was not dark at all. It was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood. And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea." (428).

The last page is a bit ambiguous at first but I think we're still left with quite a lot. We gather that Manderly is ablaze, the fire likely lit by the devoted Mrs. Danvers, who decided if Rebecca wasn't living there, no one would. The color crimson is used again, always associated with Rebecca, and the ashes blow with the scent of the sea, where she was laid to rest. The wind blowing toward them seems to be a last frontal assault from Rebecca, her victory in the finality of the ashes of Maxim's beloved Manderly, its destruction her final act of defiance.

Final Impressions:

Overall, I thought this was a fantastic read. It was moody, unsettling, morally contemplative, and a true mystery from the first page. There is much in this book that I'll be thinking on for a long time. But above it all, when you finish the book, the character you're left considering, the one who seems to haunt even you, reader, is and always will be, Rebecca.