Copyright 1994 Carolyn Gage

DAPHNE, REBECCA, AND THE PERILS OF PASSING

The du Mauriers had their own secret code: "nim" for urinating, "wain" for

"embarrassing," "Cairo" for sex, "menace" for an attractive person - and

"Venetian" for homosexual. This secret language was initiated by Gerald du

Maurier, Daphne's father, one of London's most popular matinee idols.

Gerald taught his three daughters a secret language—and a language of

secrets. Not only did he indulge in numerous extramarital affairs, but he also

exhibited sexually inappropriate behaviors towards his middle daughter,

Daphne.

There was no word for "incest" in the du Maurier code, but Daphne, in self-

defense, invented a language of her own: "Eric Avon" was the name she

gave herself, dressing in boys' shorts, shirts, and ties and acting out a rich

fantasy life as a boy throughout the years of her childhood, until that terrible

day when "Robert" arrived—"Robert" being her code name for menstruation.

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1937 finds our heroine in Egypt at the age of thirty, playing the conventional

role of the dutiful officer's wife to Tommy Browning, and raising their two

daughters, whom she fervently wished had been boys. But Daphne is also

writing, "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderly again."

These are, of course, the opening lines of du Maurier's most famous novel,

Rebecca. Could "Manderly" be code for "Venice?"

Daphne Du Maurier: The Secret Life of the Renowned Storyteller by

Margeret Forster has been "wain" for many members of the du Maurier clan.

Forster brings to light du Maurier's self-described lesbian orientation,

revealing the lesbian affair she had at eighteen with "Ferdy," a teacher from

her French boarding school. She also reveals du Maurier's frustrated mid-

life courtship of Ellen Doubleday, the American publisher's wife.

In an attempt to exorcise this obsession with Ellen, du Maurier wrote her

second most famous novel, My Cousin Rachel, and the play September

Tide, originally titled Mother. In the London production, Gertrude Lawrence

played the lead, which had been modeled after Ellen, and during the course

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of the run, the daughter of Gerald du Maurier found the world of fantasy

once again crossing over the footlights into real life, this time with Gertrude

in the role of her lover.

Forster's intriguing biography sheds a new light on both Rachel and

Rebecca, as creations of a closeted and homophobic lesbian author.

Rebecca was written during the period of time between Ferdy and Gertrude,

when the glamour of romance had begun to fade from du Maurier's fairy-tale

and absentee marriage, and when her incompetencies as a homemaker and

mother were becoming more conspicuous.

In a coup of mystery writing, du Maurier managed to personify both of her

nemeses in Rebecca: the impeccable, socially-correct wife and the utter

sexual deviant who could not bring herself to submit to the tyrannies of

domestic life. The one is unmasked and the other murdered - enabling the

nameless narrator (referred to only as "the second Mrs. De Winter") to patch

up her marriage with the wronged husband and live happily ever after -

except for those troublesome and recurrent dreams of Manderly...

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My Cousin Rachel, written thirteen years later, at the end of du Maurier's

infatuation with Ellen and at the beginning of her affair with Gertrude, tells a

different story. The narrator has become well-defined and male, and the

character of Rachel remains an enigma. The question of whether her death

was an accident or a suicide is never resolved. At mid-life and in the throes

of a "Venetian" affair, du Maurier is no longer so certain about the moral

imperative of respectability.

After the death of Gertrude, however, du Maurier never again ventured to

Venice. She gave herself with a vengeance to the maintenance of the

facade of her life with Tommy, whose later years were wracked with

alcoholism and nervous disorders which were only diagnosed in the vaguest

terms.

In fact, Tommy, or "Boy" as he was known in the army, had his own closet.

In 1915, at the age of eighteen, he had been sent as a new officer to the

trenches of France. After a mere two months, he had been returned home

for "nervous exhaustion." "Boy" had fought in no major battles, he had not

gone out on any raids, nor had he even been involved in "skirmishes." He

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was neither shell-shocked nor wounded. At a time when only the most

severe casualties were excused from service, "Boy" had been declared unfit

and returned home.

"Nervous exhaustion" was a serious stigma for a new officer, especially for

one who had not even seen battle and who had been fit enough to compete

as a high-hurdler in the Olympics. Every month for eight months, "Boy" had

to appear before a board of army doctors to prove his fitness to rejoin his

battalion.

This period of sick leave seems to have been a turning point in his life, for

when he returned to France, Tommy quickly gained a reputation for being

fearless in action. Perhaps having tasted the living death of public disgrace,

he had lost his fear of the real thing. At Gauche Wood, he led a charge

across an open field under five hours of shelling and machine gun fire. Of

seventeen officers, Tommy was the only one who survived the slaughter.

Like so many veterans, he was to be plagued with nightmares for the rest of

his life - but he had won his medal and the title of hero. "Boy" decided to

make the army his career, serving later in the Second World War.

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There seems to be a parallel in Tommy Browning's repression of his

instinctual horror of war and Daphne's repression of her desire for

independence and sexual intimacy with women. In a society with rigidly

prescribed gender roles, real life becomes relegated to a kind of backstage

secrecy, while the correct roles are ceremoniously played out on the public

stage.

This is the split, the mystery, and the horror that animate du Maurier's better

short stories and novels. We are indebted to Margaret Forster for a

biography that has illuminated the secret source of Daphne du Maurier's

imaginative power.

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