Chapters 4-6 | Rebecca | Bedtime Story

Chapter 4 The morning after the bridge party,

Mrs.

Van Hopper woke with a sore throat and a temperature of 102.

I rang up her doctor,

Who came round at once and diagnosed the usual influenza.

You are to stay in bed until I allow you to get up,

He told her.

I don't like the sound of that heart of yours,

And it won't get better unless you keep perfectly quiet and still.

I should prefer,

He went on,

Turning to me,

That Mrs.

Van Hopper had a trained nurse.

You can't possibly lift her.

It will only be for a fortnight or so.

I thought this rather absurd and protested,

But to my surprise,

She agreed with him.

I think she enjoyed the fuss it would create,

The sympathy of people,

The visits and messages from friends,

And the arrival of flowers.

Monte Carlo had begun to bore her,

And this little illness would make a distraction.

The nurse would give her injections and a light massage,

And she would have a diet.

I left her quite happy after the arrival of the nurse,

Propped up on pillows with a falling temperature,

Her best bed jacket round her shoulders,

And B-ribbon boudoir cap on her head.

Rather ashamed of my light heart,

I telephoned her friends,

Putting off the small party she had arranged for the evening,

And went down to the restaurant for lunch,

A good half hour before our usual time.

I expected the room to be empty.

Nobody lunched generally before one o'clock.

It was empty,

Except for the table next to ours.

This was a contingency for which I was unprepared.

I thought he had gone to sauce bowl.

No doubt he was lunching early,

Because he hoped to avoid us at one o'clock.

I was already halfway across the room,

And could not go back.

I had not seen him since we disappeared in the lift the day before,

For wisely he had avoided dinner in the restaurant,

Possibly for the same reason that he lunched early now.

It was a situation for which I was ill-trained.

I wished I was older,

Different.

I went to our table,

Looking straight before me,

And immediately paid the penalty of gaucherie by knocking over the vase of stiff anemones as I unfolded my napkin.

The water soaked the cloth,

And ran down onto my lap.

The waiter was at the other end of the room,

Nor had he seen.

In a second,

Though,

My neighbor was by my side,

Dry napkin in hand.

You can't sit at a wet tablecloth,

He said brusquely.

It will put you off your food.

Get out of the way.

He began to mop the cloth,

While the waiter,

Seeing the disturbance,

Came swiftly to the rescue.

I don't mind,

I said.

It doesn't matter a bit.

I'm all alone.

He said nothing,

And then the waiter arrived,

And whipped away the vase and the sprawling flowers.

Leave that,

He said suddenly,

And lay another place at my table.

Mademoiselle will have luncheon with me.

I looked up in confusion.

Oh,

No,

I said.

I couldn't possibly.

Why not,

He said.

I tried to think of an excuse.

I knew he did not want to lunch with me.

It was his form of courtesy.

I should ruin his meal.

I determined to be bold and speak the truth.

Please,

I begged.

Don't be polite.

It's very kind of you,

But I shall be quite all right if the waiter just wipes the cloth.

But I'm not being polite,

He insisted.

I would like you to have luncheon with me.

If you had not knocked over that vase so clumsily,

I should have asked you.

I suppose my face told him my doubt,

For he smiled.

You don't believe me,

He said.

Never mind.

Come and sit down.

We needn't talk to each other unless we feel like it.

We sat down,

And he gave me the menu,

Leaving me to choose,

And went on with his hors d'oeuvres,

As though nothing had happened.

His quality of detachment was peculiar to himself,

And I knew that he might continue thus,

Without speaking,

Throughout the meal,

And it would not matter.

There would be no sense of strain.

He would not ask me questions on history.

What's happened to your friend,

He said.

I told him about the influenza.

I'm so sorry,

He said.

And then,

After pausing a moment,

You got my note,

I suppose.

I felt very much ashamed of myself.

My manners were atrocious.

The only excuse I can make is that I've become boorish,

Through living alone.

That's why it's so kind of you to lunch with me today.

You weren't rude,

I said.

At least,

Not the sort of rudeness she would understand.

That curiosity of hers.

She does not mean to be offensive,

But she does it to everyone,

That is,

Everyone of importance.

I ought to be flattered,

Then,

He said.

Why should she consider me of any importance?

I hesitated a moment before replying.

I think because of Manderly,

I said.

He did not answer,

And I was aware again of that feeling of discomfort,

As though I had trespassed on forbidden ground.

I wondered why it was that this home of his,

Known to so many people by hearsay,

Even to me,

Should so inevitably silence him,

Making,

As it were,

A barrier between him and others.

We ate for a while without talking,

And I thought of a picture postcard I had bought once at a village shop,

When on holiday as a child in the West Country.

It was the painting of a house,

Crudely done,

Of course,

And highly colored.

But even those faults could not destroy the symmetry of the building,

The wide stone steps before the terrace,

The green lawn stretching to the sea.

I paid two pence for the painting,

Half my weekly pocket money,

And then asked the wrinkled shopwoman what it was meant to be.

She looked astonished at my ignorance.

That's Manderly,

She said,

And I remember coming out of the shop,

Feeling rebuffed,

Yet hardly wiser than before.

Perhaps it was the memory of this postcard,

Lost long ago in some forgotten book,

That made me sympathize with his defensive attitude.

He resented Mrs.

Van Hopper,

And her like,

With her intruding questions.

Maybe there was something inviolate about Manderly that made it a place apart.

It would not bear discussion.

I could imagine her tramping through the rooms,

Perhaps paying six pence for admission,

Ripping the quietude with her sharp,

Staccato laugh.

Our minds must have run in the same channel,

For he began to talk about her.

Your friend,

He began,

She is very much older than you.

Is she a relation?

Have you known her long?

I saw he was still puzzled by us.

She's not really a friend,

I told him.

She's an employer.

She's training me to be a thing called a companion,

And she pays me ninety pounds a year.

I did not know one could buy companionship,

He said.

It sounds a primitive idea,

Rather like the Eastern slave market.

I looked up the word companion once in the dictionary,

I admitted,

And it said,

A companion is a friend of the bosom.

You haven't much in common with her,

He said.

He laughed,

Looking quite different,

Younger somehow,

And less detached.

What do you do it for?

He asked me.

Ninety pounds is a lot of money to me,

I said.

Haven't you any family?

No,

They're dead.

You have a very lovely and unusual name.

My father was a lovely and unusual person.

Tell me about him,

He said.

I looked at him over my glass of citronade.

It was not easy to explain my father,

And usually I never talked about him.

He was my secret property,

Preserved for me alone,

Much as Manderly was preserved for my neighbor.

I had no wish to introduce him casually over a table in a Monte Carlo restaurant.

There was a strange air of unreality about that luncheon,

And looking back upon it now,

It is invested for me with a curious glamour.

There was I,

So much of a schoolgirl still,

Who only the day before had sat with Mrs.

Vanhopper,

Prim,

Silent,

And subdued,

And twenty-four hours afterwards,

My family history was mine no longer.

I shared it with a man I did not know.

For some reason I felt impelled to speak,

Because his eyes followed me in sympathy,

Like the gentleman unknown.

My shyness fell away from me,

Loosening as it did so my reluctant tongue,

And out they all came,

The little secrets of childhood,

The pleasures and the pains.

It seemed to me as though he understood,

From my poor description,

Something of the vibrant personality that had been my father's,

And something,

Too,

Of the love my mother had for him,

Making it a vital living force,

With a spark of divinity about it,

So much that when he died that desperate winter,

Struck down by pneumonia,

She lingered behind him for five short weeks,

And stayed no more.

I remember pausing,

A little breathless,

A little dazed.

The restaurant was filled now with people who chatted and laughed,

To an orchestral background,

And a clatter of plates,

And glancing at the clock above the door,

I saw that it was two o'clock.

We had been sitting there an hour and a half,

And the conversation had been mine alone.

I tumbled down into reality,

Hot-handed and self-conscious,

With my face aflame,

And began to stammer my apologies.

He would not listen to me.

I told you at the beginning of lunch you had a lovely and unusual name,

He said.

I shall go further,

If you will forgive me,

And say that it becomes you as well as it became your father.

I have enjoyed this hour with you more than I have enjoyed anything for a very long time.

You've taken me out of myself,

Out of despondency and introspection,

Both of which have been my devils for a year.

I looked at him,

And believed he spoke the truth.

He seemed less fettered than he had been before,

More modern,

More human.

He was not hemmed in by shadows.

You know,

He said,

We've got a bond in common,

You and I.

We are both alone in the world.

Oh,

I've got a sister,

Though we don't see much of each other,

And an ancient grandmother,

Whom I pay duty visits to three times a year,

But neither of them make for companionship.

I shall have to congratulate Mrs.

Van Hopper.

You're cheap at ninety pounds a year.

You forget,

I said,

You have a home,

And I have none.

The moment I spoke,

I regretted my words,

For the secret,

Inscrutable look came back in his eyes again,

And once again,

I suffered the intolerable discomfort that floods one after lack of tact.

He bent his head to light a cigarette,

And did not reply immediately.

An empty house can be as lonely as a full hotel,

He said at length.

The trouble is that it is less impersonal.

He hesitated,

And for a moment,

I thought he was going to talk of Manderley at last,

But something held him back,

Some phobia that struggled to the surface of his mind and won supremacy,

For he blew out his match and his flash of confidence at the same time.

So the friend of the bosom has a holiday,

He said.

On a level plane again,

An easy camaraderie between us.

What does she propose to do with it?

I thought of the cobbled square in Monaco,

And the house with the narrow window.

I could be off there by three o'clock with my sketchbook and pencil,

And I told him as much,

A little shyly perhaps,

Like all untalented persons with a pet hobby.

I'll drive you there in the car,

He said,

And would not listen to protests.

I remembered Mrs.

Van Hopper's warning,

Of the night before,

About putting myself forward,

And was embarrassed that he might think my talk of Monaco was a subterfuge to win a lift.

It was so blatantly the type of thing that she would do herself,

And I did not want him to bracket us together.

I had already risen in importance from my lunch with him,

For as we got up from the table,

The little maitre d' hotel rushed forward to pull away my chair.

He bowed and smiled,

A total change from his usual attitude of indifference,

Picked up my handkerchief that had fallen on the floor,

And hoped Mademoiselle had enjoyed her lunch.

Even the pageboy by the swing doors glanced at me with respect.

My companion accepted it as natural,

Of course.

He knew nothing of the ill-carved ham of yesterday.

I found the change depressing.

It made me despise myself.

I remembered my father,

And his scorn of superficial snobbery.

What are you thinking about?

We were walking along the corridor to the lounge,

And looking up,

I saw his eyes fixed on me in curiosity.

Has something annoyed you?

He said.

The attentions of the maitre d' hotel had opened up a train of thought,

And as we drank coffee I told him about Blaise,

The dressmaker.

She had been so pleased when Mrs.

Vanhopper had bought three frocks,

And I,

Taking her to the lift afterwards,

Had pictured her working on them,

In her own small salon,

Behind the stuffy little shop,

With a consumptive sun wasting upon her sofa.

I could see her,

With tired eyes,

Threading needles,

And the floor covered with snippets of material.

Well,

He said smiling,

Wasn't your picture true?

I don't know,

I said,

I never found out,

And I told him how I had rung the bell for the lift,

And as I had done so,

Had fumbled in her bag,

And gave me a note for a hundred francs.

Here,

She had whispered,

Her tone intimate and unpleasant,

I want you to accept this small commission,

In return for bringing your patron to my shop.

When I had refused,

Scarlet with embarrassment,

She had shrugged her shoulders disagreeably.

Just as you like,

She had said,

But I assure you it's quite usual,

Perhaps you would rather have a frock,

Come along to the shop sometime without madame,

And I will fix you up without charging you a sue.

Somehow,

I don't know why,

I had been aware of that sick,

Unhealthy feeling I had experienced as a child,

When turning the pages of a forbidden book.

The vision of the consumptive son faded,

And in its stead,

Arose a picture of myself,

Had I been different,

Pocketing that greasy note with an understanding smile,

And perhaps slipping around to Blaise's shop,

On this,

My free afternoon,

And coming away with a frock I had not paid for.

I expected him to laugh,

It was a stupid story,

I don't know why I told him,

But he looked at me thoughtfully,

As he stirred his coffee.

I think you've made a big mistake,

He said,

After a moment.

In refusing that hundred francs?

I asked revolted.

No,

Good heavens,

What do you take me for?

I think you've made a mistake in coming here,

In joining forces with Mrs.

Van Hopper.

You are not made for that sort of job,

You're too young,

For one thing,

And too soft.

Blaise,

And her commission,

That's nothing,

The first of many similar incidents from other Blaises.

You will either have to give in,

And become a sort of Blaise yourself,

Or stay as you are and be broken.

Who suggested you took on this thing in the first place?

It seemed natural for him to question me,

Nor did I mind,

It was as though we had known one another for a long time,

And had met again after a lapse of years.

Have you ever thought about the future?

He asked me,

And what this sort of thing will lead to,

Supposing Mrs.

Van Hopper gets tired of her,

Friend of the bosom,

What then?

I smiled,

And told him that I did not mind very much,

There would be other Mrs.

Van Hoppers,

And I was young,

And confident,

And strong,

But even as I spoke,

I remembered those advertisements,

Seen often in good class magazines,

Where a friendly society demands to occur for young women in reduced circumstances.

I thought of the type of boardinghouse that answers the advertisement and gives temporary shelter,

And then I saw myself,

Useless sketchbook in hand,

Without qualifications of any kind,

Stammering replies to stern employment agents,

Perhaps I should have accepted Blaise's ten percent.

How old are you?

He said,

And when I told him he laughed,

And got up from his chair,

I know that age,

It's a particularly obstinate one,

And a thousand bogeys won't make you fear the future,

Pity we can't change over,

Go upstairs and put your hat on,

And I'll have the car brought round.

As he watched me into the lift,

I thought of yesterday,

Mrs.

Van Hopper's chattering tongue,

And his cold courtesy,

I had ill-judged him,

He was neither hard,

Nor sardonic,

He was already my friend of many years,

The brother I had never possessed,

Mine was a happy mood that afternoon,

And I remember it well,

I can see the rippled sky,

Fluffy with cloud,

And the white-whipped sea,

I can feel again the wind on my face,

And hear my laugh,

And his that echoed it,

It was not the Monte Carlo I had known,

Or perhaps the truth was,

That it pleased me better,

There was a glamour about it,

That had not been before,

I must have looked upon it before with dull eyes,

The harbor was a dancing thing,

With fluttering paper boats,

And the sailors on the quay were jovial,

Smiling fellows,

Merry as the wind,

We passed the yacht,

Beloved of Mrs.

Van Hopper,

Because of its ducal owner,

And snapped our fingers at the glistening brass,

And looked at one another and laughed again,

I can remember as though I wore it still,

My comfortable,

Ill-fitting flannel suit,

And how the skirt was lighter than the coat,

Through harder wear,

My shabby hat,

Too broad about the brim,

And my low-heeled shoes,

Fastened with a single strap,

Pair of gauntlet gloves clutched in a grubby hand,

I had never looked more youthful,

I had never felt so old,

Mrs.

Van Hopper and her influenza did not exist for me,

The bridge and the cocktail parties were forgotten,

And with them,

My own humble status,

I was a person of importance,

I was grown up at last,

That girl who,

Tortured by shyness,

Would stand outside the sitting-room door,

Twisting a handkerchief in her hands,

While from within came that babble of confused chatter,

So unnerving to the intruder,

She had gone with the wind that afternoon,

She was a poor creature,

And I thought of her with scorn,

If I considered her at all,

The wind was too high for sketching,

It tore in cheerful gusts around the corner of my cobbled square,

And back to the car we went,

And drove I know not where,

The long road climbed the hills,

And the car climbed with it,

And we circled in the heights like a bird in the air,

How different his car,

To Mrs.

Van Hopper's hireling for the season,

A square old-fashioned Daimler,

That took us to Mentone on placid afternoons,

When I,

Sitting in the little seat with my back to the driver,

Must crane my neck to see the view,

This car had the wings of mercury,

I thought,

For higher yet we climbed,

And dangerously fast,

And the danger pleased me,

Because it was new to me,

Because I was young,

I remember laughing aloud,

And the laugh being carried by the wind away from me,

And looking at him,

I realized he laughed no longer,

He was once more silent and detached,

The man of yesterday wrapped in his secret self,

I realized too,

That the car could climb no more,

We had reached the summit,

And below us stretched the way that we had come,

Precipitous and hollow,

He stopped the car,

And I could see that the edge of the road bordered a vertical slope that crumbled into vacancy,

A fall of perhaps two thousand feet,

We got out of the car and looked beneath us,

This sobered me at last,

I knew that but half the car's length had lain between us and the fall,

The sea,

Like a crinkled chart,

Spread to the horizon,

And lapped the sharp outline of the coast,

While the houses were white shells in a rounded grotto,

Pricked here and there by a great orange sun,

We knew another sunlight on our hill,

And the silence made it harder,

More austere,

A change had come upon our afternoon,

It was not the thing of gossamer it had been,

The wind dropped,

And it suddenly grew cold,

When I spoke my voice was far too casual,

The silly nervous voice of someone ill at ease,

Do you know this place,

I said,

Have you been here before,

He looked down at me without recognition,

And I realized,

With a little stab of anxiety,

That he must have forgotten all about me,

Perhaps for some considerable time,

And that he himself was so lost in the labyrinth of his own unquiet thoughts,

That I did not exist,

He had the face of one who walks in his sleep,

And for a wild moment,

The idea came to me that perhaps he was not normal,

Not altogether sane,

There were people who had trances,

I had surely heard of them,

And they followed strange laws,

Of which we could know nothing,

They obeyed the tangled orders of their own subconscious minds,

Perhaps he was one of them,

And here we were within six feet of death,

It's getting late,

Shall we go home,

I said,

And my careless tone,

My little ineffectual smile,

Would scarcely have deceived a child,

I had misjudged him of course,

There was nothing wrong after all,

For as soon as I spoke the second time,

He came clear of his dream,

And began to apologize,

I had gone white I suppose,

And he had noticed it,

That was an unforgivable thing for me to do,

He said,

And taking my arm,

He pushed me back towards the car,

And we climbed in again,

And he slammed the door,

Don't be frightened,

The turn is far easier than it looks,

He said,

And while I,

Sick and giddy,

Clung to the seat with both hands,

He maneuvered the car gently,

Very gently,

Until it faced the sloping road once more,

Then you have been here before,

I said to him,

My sense of strain departing,

As the car crept away down the twisting narrow road,

Yes,

He said,

And then after pausing a moment,

But not for many years,

I wanted to see if it had changed,

And has it,

I asked him,

No,

He said,

No it has not changed,

I wondered what had driven him to this retreat into the past,

With me,

An unconscious witness of his mood,

What gulf of years stretched between him and that other time,

What deed of thought and action,

What difference in temperament,

I did not want to know,

I wished I had not come,

Down the twisting road we went without a check,

Without a word,

A great ridge of clouds stretched above the setting sun,

And the air was cold and clean,

Suddenly he began to talk about Manderley,

He said nothing of his life there,

No word about himself,

But he told me how the sun set there,

On a spring afternoon,

Leaving a glow upon the headland,

The sea would look like slate,

Cold still from the long winter,

And from the terrace you could hear the ripple of the coming tide,

Washing in the little bay,

The daffodils were in bloom,

Stirring in the evening breeze,

Golden heads cupped upon lean stalks,

And however many you might pick,

There would be no thinning of the ranks,

They were massed like an army,

Shoulder to shoulder,

On a bank below the lawns,

Crocuses were planted,

Golden,

Pink and mauve,

But by this time they would be past their best,

Dropping and fading,

Like pallid snowdrops,

The primrose were more vulgar,

A homely,

Pleasant creature,

Who appeared in every cranny,

Like a weed,

Too early yet for bluebells,

Their heads were still hidden beneath last year's leaves,

And when they came,

Dwarfing the more humble violet,

They choked the very bracken in the woods,

And with their color made a challenge to the sky,

He never would have them in the house,

He said,

Thrust into vases,

They became dank and listless,

And to see them at their best,

You must walk in the woods in the morning,

About twelve o'clock,

When the sun was overhead,

They had a smoky,

Rather bitter smell,

As though a wild sap ran in their stalks,

Pungent and juicy,

People who plucked bluebells from the woods were vandals,

He had forbidden it at Manderley,

Sometimes,

Driving in the country,

He had seen bicyclists with huge bunches strapped before them on the handles,

The bloom already fading from the dying heads,

The ravaged stalks struggling naked and unclean,

The primrose did not mind it quite so much,

Although a creature of the wilds,

It had a leaning toward civilization,

And preened and smiled,

In a jam jar,

In some cottage window without resentment,

Living quite a week if given water,

No wild flowers came in the house at Manderley,

He had special cultivated flowers,

Grown for the house alone,

In the walled garden,

A rose was one of the few flowers,

He said,

That looked better picked than growing,

A bowl of roses in a drawing room,

Had a depth of color and scent,

They had not possessed in the open,

There was something rather blousy about roses in full bloom,

Something shallow and raucous,

Like women with untidy hair,

In the house they became mysterious and subtle,

He had roses in the house at Manderley,

For eight months in the year,

Did I like Syringa?

He asked me,

There was a tree on the edge of the lawn,

He could smell from his bedroom window,

His sister,

Who was a hard,

Rather practical person,

Used to complain that there were too many scents at Manderley,

They made her drunk,

Perhaps she was right,

He did not care,

It was the only form of intoxication that appealed to him,

His earliest recollection was of great branches of lilac,

Standing in white jars,

And they filled the house with a wistful,

Poignant smell,

The little pathway down the valley to the bay had clumps of azalea and rhododendron planted to the left of it,

And if you wandered down it,

On a May evening after dinner,

It was just as though the shrubs had sweated in the air,

You could stoop down and pick a fallen petal,

Crush it between your fingers,

And you had there,

In the hollow of your hand,

The essence of a thousand scents,

Unbearable and sweet,

All from a curled and crumpled petal,

And you came out of the valley,

Heady and rather dazed,

To the hard white shingle of the beach,

And the still water,

A curious,

Perhaps too sudden contrast,

As he spoke the car became one of many once again,

Dusk had fallen without my noticing it,

And we were in the midst of light and sound in the streets of Monte Carlo,

The clatter jagged on my nerves,

And the lights were far too brilliant,

Far too yellow,

It was a swift,

Unwelcome anticlimax,

Soon we would come to the hotel,

And I felt for my gloves in the pocket of the car,

I found them,

And my fingers closed upon a book as well,

Whose slim covers told of poetry,

I peered to read the title as the car slowed down before the door of the hotel,

You can take it and read it if you'd like,

He said,

His voice casual and indifferent now that drive was over,

And we were back again,

And Manderley was many hundreds of miles distant,

I was glad and held it tightly with my gloves,

I felt I wanted some possession of his,

Now that the day was finished,

Hop out,

He said,

I must go and put the car away,

I shan't see you in the restaurant this evening as I'm dining out,

But thank you for today,

I went up the hotel steps alone,

With all the despondency of a child whose treat is over,

My afternoon had spoiled me for the hours that still remained,

And I thought how long they would seem until my bedtime,

How empty too my supper all alone,

Somehow I could not face the bright inquiries of the nurse upstairs,

Or the possibilities of Mrs.

Van Hopper's husky interrogation,

So I sat down in the corner of the lounge,

Behind a pillar,

And ordered tea,

The waiter appeared bored,

Seeing me alone there was no need for him to press,

And anyway,

It was that dragging time of day,

A few minutes after half past five,

When the nonal tea is finished,

And the hour for drinks remote,

Rather forlorn,

More than a little dissatisfied,

I leant back in my chair,

And took up the book of poems,

The volume was well worn,

Well thumbed,

Falling open automatically,

At what must be a much frequented page,

I fled him,

Down the nights and down the days,

I fled him,

Down the arches of the years,

I fled him,

Down the labyrinth ways,

Of my own mind,

And in the midst of tears I hid from him,

An under running laughter,

Up visited slopes I sped,

And shot,

Precipitated,

A down titanic glooms of chasmed fears,

From those strong feet that followed,

Followed after,

I felt rather like someone peering through the keyhole of a locked door,

And a little furtively I laid the book aside,

What hound of heaven had driven him to the high hills this afternoon,

I thought of his car,

With half a length between it and that drop of two thousand feet,

And the blank expression on his face,

What footsteps echoed in his mind,

What whispers,

And what memories,

And why,

Of all poems,

Must he keep this one in the pocket of his car,

I wished he were less remote,

And I,

Anything but the creature that I was in my shabby coat and skirt,

My broad brimmed schoolgirl hat,

The sulky waiter brought my tea,

And while I ate bread and butter dull as sawdust,

I thought of the pathway through the valley he had described to me this afternoon,

The smell of the azaleas,

And the white shingle of the bay,

If he loved it all so much,

Why did he seek the superficial froth of Monte Carlo,

He had told Mrs.

Van Hopper he had made no plans,

He came away in rather a hurry,

And I pictured him running down that pathway in the valley,

With his own hound of heaven at his heels,

I picked up the book again,

And this time it opened at the title page,

And I read the dedication,

Max from Rebecca,

17 May,

Written in a slanting hand,

A little blob of ink marred the white page opposite,

As though the writer,

In impatience,

Had shaken her pen to make the ink flow freely,

And then,

As it had bubbled through the nib,

It came a little thick,

So that the name Rebecca stood out black and strong,

The tall and sloping R,

Dwarfing the other letters,

I shut the book with a snap,

And put it away under my gloves,

And stretching to a nearby chair,

I took up an old copy of illustration,

And turned the pages,

There were some fine photographs of the Chateau of the Loire,

And an article as well,

I read it carefully,

Referring to the photographs,

But when I finished I knew I had not understood a word,

It was not Blois from its thin turrets,

And its spires that stared up at me from the printed page,

It was the face of Mrs.

Van Hopper,

In the restaurant the day before,

Her small pig's eyes darting to the neighboring table,

Her fork heaped high with ravioli,

Pausing in mid-air,

An appalling tragedy,

She was saying,

The papers were full of it of course,

They say he never talks about it,

Never mentions her name,

She was drowned you know,

In the bay near Manderley.

Chapter 5 I am glad it cannot happen twice,

The fever of first love,

For it is a fever,

And a burden too,

Whatever the poets may say,

They are not brave,

The days when we are twenty-one,

They are full of little cowardices,

Little fears without foundation,

And one is so easily bruised,

So swiftly wounded,

One falls to the first barbed word,

Today,

Wrapped in the complacent armor of approaching middle age,

The infinitesimal pricks,

Of day by day,

Brush one lightly,

And are soon forgotten,

But then,

How a careless word would linger,

Becoming a fiery stigma,

And how a look,

A glance over a shoulder,

Branded themselves all things eternal,

A denial,

Heralded the thrice crowing of a cock,

And an insincerity was like the kiss of Judas,

The adult mind can lie with untroubled conscience,

And a gay composure,

But in those days,

Even a small deception scoured the tongue,

Lashing one against the stake itself,

What have you been doing this morning,

I can hear her now,

Propped against her pillows,

With all the small irritability of the patient who is not really ill,

Who has lain in bed too long,

And I,

Reaching to the bedside drawer,

For the pack of cards,

Would feel the guilty flesh form patches on my neck,

I've been playing tennis with the professional,

I told her,

The false words bringing me to panic,

Even as I spoke,

For what if the professional himself should come up to the suite,

Then,

That very afternoon,

And bursting in upon her,

Complained that I had missed my lesson now for many days,

The trouble is with me laid up like this,

You haven't got enough to do,

She said,

Mashing her cigarette in a jar of cleansing cream,

And taking the cards in her hand,

She mixed them in the deft,

Irritating shuffle of the inveterate player,

Shaking them in threes,

Snapping the backs,

I don't know what you find to do with yourself all day,

She went on,

You never have any sketches to show me,

And when I do ask you to do some shopping for me,

You forget to buy my taxol,

All I can say is that I hope your tennis will improve,

It will be useful to you later on,

A poor player is a great bore,

Do you still serve underhand,

She flipped the queen of spades into the pool,

And the dark face stared up at me like Jezebel,

Yes,

I said,

Stung by her question,

Thinking how just and appropriate her word,

It described me well,

I was underhand,

I had not played tennis with a professional at all,

I had not once played since she had lain in bed,

And that was a little over a fortnight now,

I wondered why it was I clung to this reserve,

And why it was I did not tell her that every morning I drove with DeWinter in his car,

And lunched with him too,

At his table in the restaurant,

You must come up to the net more,

You will never play a good game until you do,

She continued,

And I agreed,

Flinching at my own hypocrisy,

Covering the queen with a weak-chinned nave of hearts,

I have forgotten much of Monte Carlo,

Of those morning drives,

Of where we went,

Even our conversation,

But I have not forgotten how my fingers trembled,

Cramming on my hat,

And how I ran along the corridor and down the stairs,

Too impatient to wait for the slow whining of the lift,

And so,

Outside,

Rushing the swing doors before the missionary could help me,

He would be there,

In the driver's seat,

Reading a paper while he waited,

And when he saw me,

He would smile,

And toss it behind him in the back seat,

And open the door saying,

Well,

How was the friend of the bosom this morning,

And where does she want to go,

If he had driven round in circles,

It would not have mattered to me,

For I was in that first flush stage,

Went to climb into the seat beside him,

And leaned forward to the windscreen,

Hugging my knees,

Was almost too much to bear,

I was like a little scrubby schoolboy,

With a passion for a six-form prefect,

And he,

Kinder,

And far more inaccessible,

There's a cold wind this morning,

You had better put on my coat,

I remember that,

For I was young enough to win happiness in the wearing of his clothes,

Playing the schoolboy again,

Who carries his hero's sweater,

And ties it about his throat,

Choking,

With pride,

And this borrowing of his coat,

Wearing it around my shoulders,

For even a few minutes at a time,

Was a triumph in itself,

And made it glow about my morning,

Not for me the languor,

And the subtlety,

I had read about in books,

The challenge,

And the chase,

The swordplay,

The swift glance,

The stimulating smile,

The art of provocation was unknown to me,

And I would sit with his map upon my lap,

The wind blowing my dull lanky hair,

Happy in his silence,

Yet eager for his words,

Whether he talked or not,

Made little difference to my mood,

My only enemy was the clock on the dashboard,

Whose hands would move relentlessly to one o'clock,

We drove east,

We drove west,

Amidst the myriad villages that cling like limpets to the Mediterranean shore,

And today,

I remember none of them,

All I remember is the feel of the leather seats,

The texture of the map upon my knee,

Its frayed edges,

Its worn seams,

And how one day,

Looking at the clock,

I thought to myself,

This moment now,

At twenty past eleven,

This must never be lost,

And I shut my eyes,

To make the experience more lasting,

When I opened my eyes,

We were by a bend in the road,

And a peasant girl in a black shawl waved to us,

I can see her now,

Her dusty skirt,

Her gleaming friendly smile,

And in a second,

We had passed the bend,

And could see her no more,

Already she belonged to the past,

She was only a memory,

I wanted to go back again,

To recapture the moment that had gone,

And then it came to me,

That if we did,

It would not be the same,

Even the sun would be changed in the sky,

Casting another shadow,

And the peasant girl would trudge past us along the road,

In a different way,

Not waving this time,

Perhaps not even seeing us,

There was something chilling in the thought,

Something a little melancholy,

And looking at the clock,

I saw that five more minutes had gone by,

Soon,

We would have reached our time limit,

And must return to the hotel,

If only there could be an invention,

I said impulsively,

That bottled up a memory,

Like scent,

And it never faded,

And it never got stale,

And then,

When one wanted it,

The bottle could be uncorked,

And it would be like living the moment all over again,

I looked up at him,

To see what he would say,

He did not turn to me,

He went on watching the road ahead,

What particular moments in your young life do you wish uncorked,

He said,

I could not tell from his voice,

Whether he was teasing me or not,

I'm not sure,

I began,

And then blundered on,

Rather foolishly,

Not thinking of my words,

I'd like to keep this moment,

And never forget it,

Is that meant to be a compliment to the day,

Or to my driving,

He said,

And as he laughed,

Like a mocking brother,

I became silent,

Overwhelmed suddenly by the great gulf between us,

And how his very kindness to me widened it,

I knew then,

That I would never tell Mrs.

Van Hopper,

About these morning expeditions,

For her smile would hurt me,

As his laugh had done,

She would not be angry,

Nor would she be shocked,

She would raise her eyebrows very faintly,

As though she did not altogether believe my story,

And then,

With a tolerant shrug of the shoulder,

She would say,

My dear child,

It's extremely sweet and kind of him,

To take you driving,

The only thing is,

Are you sure it does not bore him dreadfully,

And then she would send me out to buy Taxol,

Patting me on the shoulder,

What degradation lay in being young,

I thought,

And felt tearing my nails,

I wish,

I said savagely,

Still mindful of his laugh,

And throwing discretion to the wind,

I wish I was a woman of about thirty-six,

Dressed in black satin,

With a string of pearls,

You would not be in this car with me if you were,

He said,

And stop biting those nails,

They are ugly enough already,

You'll think me impertinent and rude,

I dare say,

I went on,

But I would like to know why you ask me to come out in the car,

Day after day,

You are being kind,

That's obvious,

But why do you choose me for your charity,

I sat up stiff and straight in my seat,

And with all the poor pomposity of youth,

I ask you,

He said gravely,

Because you are not dressed in black satin,

With a string of pearls,

Nor are you thirty-six,

His face was without expression,

I could not tell whether he laughed inwardly or not,

It's all very well,

I said,

You know everything there is to know about me,

There's not much,

I admit,

Because I have not been alive for very long,

And nothing much has happened to me,

Except people dying,

But you,

I know nothing more about you,

Than I did the first day we met,

And what did you know then,

He asked,

Why,

That you lived at Manderley,

And,

And that you had lost your wife,

There,

I had said it at last,

The word that had hovered on my tongue for days,

Your wife,

It came out with ease,

Without reluctance,

As though the mere mention of her,

Must be the most casual thing in all the world,

Your wife,

The word lingered in the air,

Once I had uttered it,

Dancing before me,

And because he received it silently,

Making no comment,

The word magnified itself into something heinous and appalling,

A forbidden word,

Unnatural to the tongue,

And I could not call it back,

It could never be unsaid,

Once again,

I saw the inscription on the flyleaf of that book of poems,

And the curious slanting R,

I felt sick at heart and cold,

He would never forgive me,

And this would be the end of our friendship,

I remember staring straight in front of me at the windscreen,

Seeing nothing of the flying road,

My ears still tingling with that spoken word,

The silence became minutes,

And the minutes became miles,

And everything is over now,

I thought,

I shall never drive with him again,

Tomorrow he will go away,

And Mrs.

Van Hopper will be up again,

She and I will walk along the terrace,

As we did before,

The porter will bring down his trunks,

I shall catch a glimpse of them in the luggage lift,

The new plastered labels,

The bustle and finality of departure,

The sound of the car changing gear as it turned the corner,

And then,

Even that sound emerging into the common traffic,

And being lost,

And so absorbed forever,

I was so deep in my picture,

I even saw the porter pocketing his tip,

And going back through the swing door of the hotel,

Saying something over his shoulder to the commissioner,

That I did not notice the slowing of the car,

And it was only when we stopped,

Drawing up by the side of the road,

That I brought myself back to the present once again,

He sat motionless,

Looking without his hat,

And with his white scarf round his neck,

More than ever like someone medieval,

Who lived within a frame,

He did not belong to the bright landscape,

He should be standing on the steps of a gaunt cathedral,

His cloak flung back,

While a beggar at his feet scrambled for gold coins,

The friend had gone,

With his kindliness,

And his easy camaraderie,

And the brother too,

Who had mocked me for nibbling at my nails,

This man was a stranger,

I wondered why I was sitting beside him in the car,

Then he turned to me and spoke,

A little while ago you talked about an invention,

He said,

Some scheme for capturing a memory,

You would like,

You told me,

At a chosen moment,

To live the past again,

I'm afraid I think rather differently from you,

All memories are bitter,

And I prefer to ignore them,

Something happened a year ago,

That altered my whole life,

And I want to forget every phase in my existence up to that time,

Those days are finished,

They are blotted out,

I must begin living all over again,

The first day we met,

Your Mrs.

Van Hopper,

Asked me why I came to Monte Carlo,

It put a stopper on those memories you would like to resurrect,

It does not always work of course,

Sometimes the scent is too strong for the bottle,

And too strong for me,

And then the devil in one,

Like a furtive peeping tom,

Tries to draw the cork,

I did that in the first drive we took together,

When we climbed the hills,

And looked down over the precipice,

I was there some years ago with my wife,

You asked me if it was still the same,

If it had changed at all,

It was just the same,

But,

I was thankful to realize,

Oddly and personal,

There was no suggestion of the other time,

She and I left no record,

It may have been because you were with me,

You have blotted out the past for me you know,

Far more effectively than all the bright lights of Monte Carlo,

But for you I should have left long ago,

Gone on to Italy,

And Greece,

And further still perhaps,

You have spared me all those wanderings,

Damn your puritanical little tight-lipped speech to me,

Damn your idea of my kindness and my charity,

I ask you to come with me because I want you and your company,

And if you don't believe me,

You can leave the car now,

And find your own way home,

Go on,

Open the door and get out,

I sat still,

My hands in my lap,

Not knowing whether he meant it or not,

Well,

He said,

What are you going to do about it,

Had I been a year or two younger,

I think I should have cried,

Children's tears are very near the surface,

And come at the first crisis,

As it was I felt them prick behind my eyes,

Felt the ruddy color flood my face,

And catching a sudden glimpse of myself in the glass above the windscreen,

Saw in full the sorry spectacle that I made,

With troubled eyes and scarlet cheeks,

Lank hair flopping under broad felt hat,

I want to go home,

I said,

My voice perilously near to trembling,

And without a word,

He started up the engine,

Let in the clutch,

And turned the car round the way that we had come,

Swiftly we covered the ground,

Far too swiftly I thought,

Far too easily,

And the callous countryside watched us with indifference,

We came to the bend in the road,

But I had wished to imprison as a memory,

And the peasant girl was gone,

And the color was flat,

And it was no more after all,

Than any bend in any road,

Passed by a hundred motorists,

The glamour of it had gone with my happy mood,

And at the thought of it my frozen face quivered into feeling,

My adult pride was lost,

And those despicable tears,

Rejoicing at their conquest,

Welled into my eyes,

And strayed upon my cheeks,

I could not check them,

For they came unbidden,

And had I reached into my pocket for a handkerchief,

He would have seen,

I must let them fall untouched,

And suffer the bitter salt upon my lips,

Plumbing the depths of humiliation,

Whether he had turned his head to look at me,

I do not know,

For I watched the road ahead,

With blurred and steady stare,

But suddenly he put out his hand,

And took hold of mine,

And kissed it,

Still saying nothing,

And then he threw his handkerchief on my lap,

Which I was too ashamed to touch,

I thought of all those heroines of fiction,

Who looked pretty when they cried,

And what a contrast I must make,

With blotched and swollen face,

And red rims to my eyes,

It was a dismal finish to my morning,

And the day that stretched ahead of me was long,

I had to lunch with Mrs.

Van Hopper in her room,

Because the nurse was going out,

And afterwards she would make me play bazik,

With all the tireless energy of the convalescent,

I knew I should stifle in that room,

There was something sordid about the tumbled sheets,

The sprawling blankets,

And the thumped pillows,

And that bedside table dusty with powder,

Spilt scent,

And melting liquid rouge,

Her bed would be littered with the separated sheets of the daily papers,

Folded anyhow,

While French novels with curling edges,

And the covers torn,

Kept company with American magazines,

The mashed stubs of cigarettes lay everywhere,

In cleansing cream,

In a dish of grapes,

And on the floor beneath the bed,

Visitors were lavish with their flowers,

And the vases stood cheek by jowl in any fashion,

Hothouse exotics crammed beside mimosa,

While a great bee-ribbon casket crowned them all,

With tear upon tear of crystallized fruit,

Later her friends would come in for a drink,

Which I must mix for them,

Hating my task,

Shy,

And ill at ease in my corner,

Hemmed in by their parrot chatter,

And I would be a whipping boy again,

Blushing for her win,

Excited by her little crowd,

She must sit up in bed and talk too loudly,

Laugh too long,

Reach to the portable gramophone,

And start a record,

Shrugging her large shoulders to the tune,

I preferred her irritable and snappy,

Her hair done up in pins,

Scolding me for forgetting her taxol,

All this awaited me in the suite,

While he,

Once he had left me at the hotel,

Would go away somewhere alone,

Towards the sea perhaps,

Feel the wind on his cheek,

Follow the sun,

And it might happen that he would lose himself in those memories that I knew nothing of,

That I could not share,

He would wander down the years that were gone,

The gulf that lay between us was wider now than it had ever been,

And he stood away from me,

With his back turned on the further shore,

I felt young and small and very much alone,

And now,

In spite of my pride,

I found his handkerchief and blew my nose,

Throwing my drab appearance to the wind,

It could never matter,

To hell with this,

He said suddenly,

As though angry,

As though bored,

And he pulled me beside him,

And put his arm round my shoulder,

Still looking straight ahead of him,

His right hand on the wheel,

He drove,

I remember,

Even faster than before,

I suppose you are young enough to be my daughter,

And I don't know how to deal with you,

He said,

The road narrowed then to a corner,

And he had to swerve to avoid a dog,

I thought he would release me,

But he went on holding me beside him,

And when the corner was passed,

And the road came straight again,

He did not let me go,

You can forget all I said to you this morning,

He said,

That's all finished and done with,

Don't let's ever think of it again,

My family always call me Maxim,

I'd like you to do the same,

You've been formal with me long enough,

He felt for the brim of my hat,

And took hold of it,

Throwing it over his shoulder to the back seat,

And then bent down and kissed the top of my head,

Promise me you will never wear black satin,

He said,

I smiled then,

And he laughed back at me,

And the morning was gay again,

The morning was a shining thing,

Mrs.

Van Hopper in the afternoon did not matter a flip of the finger,

It would pass so quickly,

And there would be tonight,

And another day tomorrow,

I was cocksure,

Jubilant,

At that moment,

I almost had the courage to claim equality,

I saw myself strolling into Mrs.

Van Hopper's bedroom,

Rather late for my physique,

And when questioned by her,

Yawning carelessly,

Saying,

I forgot the time I've been lunching with Maxim,

I was still child enough to consider a Christian name,

Like a plume in the hat,

Though from the very first he had called me by mine,

The morning,

For all its shadowed moments,

Had promoted me to a new level of friendship,

I did not lag so far behind as I had thought,

He had kissed me too,

A natural business,

Comforting and quiet,

Not dramatic as in books,

Not embarrassing,

It seemed to bring about an ease in our relationship,

It made everything more simple,

The gulf between us had been bridged after all,

I was to call him Maxim,

And that afternoon,

Playing bazik,

With Mrs.

Van Hopper,

Was not so tedious as it might have been,

Though my courage failed me,

And I said nothing of my mourning,

For when,

Gathering her cards together at the end,

And reaching for the box,

She said casually,

Tell me,

Is Max de Winter still in the hotel,

I hesitated a moment,

Like a diver on the brink,

Then lost my nerve,

And my tutored self-possession,

Saying,

Yes,

I believe so,

He comes into the restaurant for his meals,

Someone has told her,

I thought,

Someone has seen us together,

The tennis professional has complained,

The manager has sent a note,

And I waited for her attack,

But she went on putting the cards back into the box,

Yawning a little,

While I straightened the tumbled bed,

I gave her the bowl of powder,

The rouge compact,

And the lipstick,

And she put away the cards,

And took up the hand glass from the table by her side,

Attractive creature,

She said,

But queer-tempered,

I should think,

Difficult to know,

I thought he might have made some gesture of asking one to manderly,

That day in the lounge,

But he was very close,

I said nothing,

I watched her pick up the lipstick and outline a bow upon her hard mouth,

I never saw her,

She said,

Holding the glass away to see the effect,

But I believe she was very lovely,

Exquisitely turned out,

And brilliant in every way,

They used to give tremendous parties at manderly,

It was all very sudden and tragic,

And I believe he adored her,

I need the darker shade of powder with this brilliant red,

My dear,

Fetch it will you,

And put this box back in the drawer,

And we were busy then with powder,

Scent,

And rouge,

Until the bell rang,

And her visitors came in,

I handed them their drinks,

Dully,

Saying little,

I changed the records on the gramophone,

I threw away the stubs of cigarettes,

Been doing any sketching lately,

Little lady,

The force heartiness of an old banker,

His monocle dangling on a string,

And my bright smile of insincerity,

No,

Not very lately,

Will you have another cigarette,

It was not that I answered,

I was not there at all,

I was following a phantom in my mind,

Whose shadowy form had taken shape at last,

Her features were blurred,

Her coloring indistinct,

The setting of her eyes,

And the texture of her hair was still uncertain,

Still to be revealed,

She had beauty that endured,

And a smile that was not forgotten,

Somewhere her voice still lingered,

And the memory of her words,

There were places she had visited,

And things she had touched,

Perhaps in cupboards there were still clothes that she had worn,

With a scent about them still,

In my bedroom,

Under my pillow,

I had a book that she had taken in her hands,

And I could see her turning to that first white page,

Smiling as she wrote,

And shaking the bent nib,

Max from Rebecca,

It must have been his birthday,

And she had put it amongst her other presents on the breakfast table,

And they had laughed together as he tore off the paper and string,

She leant perhaps over his shoulder,

While he read,

Max,

She called him Max,

It was familiar,

Gay,

And easy on the tongue,

The family could call him Maxim if they liked,

Grandmothers and aunts,

And people like myself,

Quiet and dull and youthful,

Did not matter,

Max was her choice,

The word was her possession,

She had written it with so great a confidence,

On the flyleaf of that book,

That bold slanting hand,

Stabbing the white paper,

The symbol of herself,

So certain,

So assured,

How many times she must have written to him thus,

And how many varied moods,

Little notes,

Scrawled on half sheets of paper,

And letters,

When he was away,

Page after page,

Intimate,

Their news,

Her voice,

Echoing through the house,

And down the garden,

Careless and familiar,

Like the writing in the book,

And I had to call him Maxim.

Chapter 6 Packing up,

The nagging worry of departure,

Lost keys,

Unwritten labels,

Tissue paper lying on the floor,

I hate it all,

Even now,

When I have done so much of it,

When I live,

As a saying goes,

In my boxes,

Even today,

When shutting drawers,

And flinging wide a hotel wardrobe,

Or the impersonal shelves of a furnished villa,

Is a methodical matter of routine,

I am aware of sadness,

Of a sense of loss,

Here,

I say,

We have lived,

We have been happy,

This has been ours,

However brief the time,

Though two nights only have been spent beneath a roof,

Yet we leave something of ourselves behind,

Nothing material,

Not a hairpin on a dressing table,

Not an empty bottle of aspirin tablets,

Not a handkerchief beneath a pillow,

But something indefinable,

A moment of our lives,

A thought,

A mood,

This house has sheltered us,

We spoke,

We loved within those walls,

That was yesterday,

Today we pass on,

We see it no more,

And we are different,

Changed in some infinitesimal way,

We can never be quite the same again,

Even stopping for luncheon at a wayside inn,

And going to a dark,

Unfamiliar room to wash my hands,

The handle of the door unknown to me,

The wallpaper peeling in strips,

A funny little cracked mirror above the basin,

For this moment,

It is mine,

It belongs to me,

We know one another,

This is the present,

There is no past and no future,

Here I am washing my hands,

And the tracked mirror shows me to myself,

Suspended as it were,

In time,

This is me,

This moment will not pass,

And then I open the door,

And go to the dining room,

Where he is sitting,

Waiting for me at a table,

And I think how in that moment,

I have aged,

Passed on,

How I have advanced one step towards an unknown destiny,

We smile,

We choose our lunch,

We speak of this and that,

But,

I say to myself,

I am not she who left him five minutes ago,

She stayed behind,

I am another woman,

Older,

More mature,

I saw in a paper the other day,

That the Hotel Côte Azul at Monte Carlo had gone to new management,

And had a different name,

The rooms have been redecorated,

And the whole interior changed,

Perhaps Mrs.

Van Hopper's suite on the first floor exists no more,

Perhaps there is no trace of the small bedroom that was mine,

I knew I should never go back,

That day I knelt on the floor,

And fumbled with the awkward catch of her trunk,

The episode was finished,

With a snapping of the lock,

I glanced out of the window,

And it was like turning the page of a photograph album,

Those rooftops and that C were mine no more,

They belonged to yesterday,

To the past,

The rooms already were an empty air,

Stripped of our possessions,

And there was something hungry about the suite,

As though it wished us gone,

And the new arrivals,

Who would come tomorrow,

In our place,

The heavy luggage stood ready strapped,

And locked in the corridor outside,

The smaller stuff would be finished later,

Waste paper baskets groaned under litter,

All her half empty medicine bottles,

And discarded face cream jars,

With torn up bills and letters,

Drawers and tables gaped,

The bureau was stripped bare,

She had flung a letter at me the morning before,

As I poured out her coffee at breakfast,

Helen is selling for New York on Saturday,

Little Nancy has a threatened appendix,

And they've cabled her to go home,

That's decided me,

We're going too,

I'm tired to death of Europe,

And we can come back in the early fall,

How'd you like the idea of seeing New York?

The thought was worse than prison,

Something of my misery must have shown in my face,

For at first she looked astonished,

Then annoyed,

What an odd unsatisfactory child you are,

I can't make you out,

Don't you realize that at home,

Girls in your position,

Without any money,

Can have the grandest fun,

Plenty of boys and excitement,

All in your own class,

You can have your own little set of friends,

And mean be at my beck and call as much as you are here,

I thought you didn't care for Monty,

I've got used to it,

I said lamely,

Wretchedly,

My mind a conflict,

Well,

You'll just have to get used to New York,

That's all,

We're going to catch that boat of Helen's,

And it means seeing about our passage at once,

Go down to the reception office right away,

And make that young clerk show some sign of efficiency,

Your day will be so full,

That you won't have time to have any pangs about leaving Monty,

She laughed disagreeably,

Squishing her cigarette in the butter,

And went to the telephone to ring up all her friends,

I could not face the office right away,

I went into the bathroom and locked the door,

And sat down on the cork mat,

My head in my hands,

It had happened at last,

The business of going away,

It was all over,

Tomorrow evening,

I should be in the train,

Holding her jewel case and her rug,

Like a maid,

And she in that monstrous new hat,

With a single quill,

Dwarfed in her fur coat,

Sitting opposite me in the wagon-lee,

We would wash and clean our teeth in that stuffy little compartment,

With the rattling doors,

The splashed basin,

The damp towel,

The soap with a single hair on it,

The carafe half-filled with water,

The inevitable notice on the wall,

Sous les lavabos et truvants bas,

While every rattle,

Every throb,

And jerk of the screaming train,

Would tell me that the miles carried me away from him,

Sitting alone in the restaurant of the hotel,

At the table I had known,

Reading a book,

Not minding,

Not thinking,

I should say goodbye to him in the lounge,

Perhaps,

Before we left,

A furtive scrambled farewell,

Because of her,

And there would be a pause,

And a smile,

And words like,

Yes,

Of course,

Do right,

And,

I've never thanked you properly for being so kind,

And,

You must forward those snapshots,

What about your address,

Well,

I'll have to let you know,

And he would light a cigarette casually,

Asking a passing waiter for a light,

While I thought,

Four and a half more minutes to go,

I shall never see him again,

Because I was going,

Because it was over,

There would suddenly be nothing more to say,

We would be strangers,

Meeting for the last and only time,

While my mind clamored painfully,

Crying,

I love you so much,

I'm terribly unhappy,

This has never come to me before,

And never will again,

My face would be set in a prim,

Conventional smile,

My voice would be saying,

Look at that funny old man over there,

I wonder who he is,

He must be new here,

And we would waste the last moments laughing at a stranger,

Because we were already strangers to one another,

I hope the snapshots come out well,

Repeating oneself in desperation,

And he,

Yes,

That one of the square ought to be good,

The light was just right,

Having both of us gone into all that at the time,

Having agreed upon it,

And anyway,

I would not care if the result was fogged in black,

Because this was the last moment,

The final goodbye had been attained,

Well,

My dreadful smile stretching across my face,

Thanks most awfully once again,

It's been so ripping,

Using words I had never used before,

Ripping,

What did it mean?

God knows,

I did not care,

It was the sort of word that schoolgirls had for hockey,

Wildly inappropriate to those past weeks of misery and exultation,

Then the doors of the lift would open,

Upon Mrs.

Van Hopper,

And I would cross the lounge to meet her,

And he would stroll back again to his corner,

And pick up a paper,

Sitting there,

Ridiculously,

On the cork mat of the bathroom floor,

I lived it all,

And our journey too,

And our arrival in New York,

The shrill voice of Helen,

A narrower edition of her mother,

And Nancy,

Her horrid little child,

The college boys that Mrs.

Van Hopper would have me know,

And the young bank clerks,

Suitable to my station,

Let's make Wednesday night a date,

Do you like hot music?

Snub-nosed boys,

With shiny faces,

Having to be polite,

And wanting to be alone with my own thoughts,

As I was now,

Locked behind the bathroom door,

She came and rattled on the door,

What are you doing?

Alright,

I'm sorry,

I'm coming now,

And I made a pretense of turning on the tap,

Of bustling about,

And folding a towel on the rail,

She glanced at me curiously as I opened the door,

What time you've been,

You can't afford to dream this morning,

You know,

There's too much to be done,

He would go back to Manderley,

In a few weeks,

I felt certain of that,

There would be a great pile of letters waiting for him in the hall,

And mine amongst them,

Scribbled on the boat,

A forced letter,

Trying to amuse,

Describing my fellow passengers,

It would lie about inside his blotter,

And he would answer it weeks later,

One Sunday morning in a hurry,

Before lunch,

Having come across it when he paid some bills,

And then,

No more,

Nothing until the final degradation of the Christmas card,

Manderley,

Itself,

Perhaps,

Against a frosted background,

The message printed,

Saying,

A happy Christmas,

And a prosperous New Year,

From Maximiliam de Winter,

Gold lettering,

But to be kind,

He would have run his pen through the printed name,

And written in ink underneath,

From Maxim,

As a sort of sop,

And if there was space,

A message,

I hope you are enjoying New York,

A lick of the envelope,

A stamp,

And tossed it in a pile of a hundred others,

It's too bad you are leaving tomorrow,

Said the reception clerk,

Telephone in hand,

The ballet starts next week,

You know,

Does Mrs.

Van Hopper know,

I dragged myself back from Christmas,

At Manderley,

To the realities of the Wagon Lee,

Mrs.

Van Hopper lunched in the restaurant for the first time since her influenza,

And I had a pain in the pit of my stomach,

As I followed her into the room,

He had gone to Cannes for the day,

That much I knew,

For he had warned me the day before,

But I kept thinking the waiter might commit an indiscretion,

And say,

Will mademoiselle be dining with Monsieur tonight as usual,

I felt a little sick whenever he came near the table,

But he said nothing,

The day was spent in packing,

And in the evening people came to say goodbye,

We dined in the sitting room,

And she went to bed directly afterwards,

Still I had not seen him,

I went down to the lounge about half past nine,

On the pretext of getting luggage labels,

And he was not there,

The odious reception clerk smiled when he saw me,

If you were looking for Mr.

De Winter,

We had a message from Cannes saying he would not be back before midnight,

I want a package of luggage labels,

I said,

But I saw by his eye that he was not deceived,

So there would be no last evening after all,

The hour I had looked forward to all day,

Must be spent by myself,

Alone,

In my own bedroom,

Gazing at my revelation suitcase,

And the stout holdall,

Perhaps it was just as well,

For I should have made a poor companion,

And he must have read my face,

I know I cried that night,

Bitter youthful tears,

That could not come from me today,

That kind of crying,

Deep into a pillow,

Does not happen after we are 21,

The throbbing head,

The swollen eyes,

The tight contracted throat,

And the wild anxiety in the morning,

To hide all traces from the world,

Sponging with cold water,

Dabbing eau de cologne,

The furtive dash of powder,

That is significant in itself,

The panic too,

That one might cry again,

The tears swelling without control,

And a fatal trembling of the mouth,

Led one to disaster,

I remember opening wide my window,

And leaning out,

Hoping the fresh morning air would blow away the tell-tale pink,

Under the powder,

And the sun had never seemed so bright,

Nor the day so full of promise,

Monte Carlo was suddenly full of kindliness and charm,

The one place in the world that held sincerity,

I loved it,

Affection overwhelmed me,

I wanted to live there all my life,

And I was leaving it today,

This is the last time I brush my hair before the looking glass,

The last time I shall clean my teeth into the basin,

Never again sleep in that bed,

Never more turn off the switch of that electric light,

There I was,

Padding about in a dressing gown,

Making a slough of sentiment out of a commonplace hotel bedroom,

You haven't started a cold have you,

She said at breakfast,

No,

I told her,

I don't think so,

Clutching at a straw,

For this might serve as an excuse later,

If I was over pink about the eyes,

I hate hanging about once everything is packed,

She grumbled,

We ought to have decided on the earlier train,

We could get it if we made the effort,

And then have longer in Paris,

Why are Helen not to meet us,

But arrange another rendezvous,

I wonder,

She glanced at her watch,

I suppose they could change the reservations,

Anyway it's worth trying,

Go down to the office and see,

Yes,

I said,

A dummy to her moods,

Going into my bedroom and flinging off my dressing gown,

Fastening my inevitable flannel skirt,

And stretching my homemade jumper over my head,

My indifference to her turned to hatred,

This was the end then,

Even my mourning must be taken from me,

No last half hour on the terrace,

Not even ten minutes perhaps to say goodbye,

Because she had finished breakfast earlier than she expected,

Because she was bored,

Well then,

I would fling away restraint and modesty,

I would not be proud anymore,

I slammed the door of the sitting room,

And ran along the passage,

I did not wait for the lift,

I climbed the stairs,

Three at a time,

Up to the third floor,

I knew the number of his room,

148,

And I hammered at the door,

Very flushed in the face and breathless,

Come in,

He shouted,

And I opened the door,

Repenting already,

My nerve failing me,

For perhaps he had only just woken up,

Having been late last night,

And would be still in bed,

Tousled in the head and irritable,

He was shaving by the open window,

A camel hair jacket over his pajamas,

And I,

In my flannel suit and heavy shoes,

Felt clumsy and overdressed,

I was merely foolish,

When I had felt myself dramatic,

What do you want?

He said,

Is something the matter?

I've come to say goodbye,

I said,

We're going this morning,

He stared at me,

Then put his razor down on the washstand,

Shut the door,

He said,

I closed it behind me and stood there,

Rather self-conscious,

My hands hanging by my side,

What on earth are you talking about?

He asked,

It's true,

We're leaving today,

We were going by the later train,

And now she wants to catch the earlier one,

And I was afraid I shouldn't see you again,

I felt I must see you before I left,

To thank you,

They tumbled out,

The idiotic words,

Just as I had imagined them,

I was stiff and awkward,

In a moment I should say he had been ripping,

Why didn't you tell me about this before?

He said,

She only decided yesterday,

It was all done in a hurry,

Her daughter sails for New York on Saturday,

And we are going with her,

We're joining her in Paris,

And going through to Cherbourg,

She's taking you with her to New York?

Yes,

And I don't want to go,

I shall hate it,

I shall be miserable,

Why in heaven's name go with her then?

I have to,

You know that,

I work for a salary,

I can't afford to leave her,

He picked up his razor again,

And took the soap off his face,

Sit down,

He said,

I shan't be long,

I'll dress in the bathroom,

And be ready in five minutes,

He took his clothes off the chair,

And threw them on the bathroom floor,

And went inside,

Slamming the door,

I sat down on the bed,

And began biting my nails,

The situation was unreal,

And I felt like a lay figure,

I wondered what he was thinking,

What he was going to do,

I glanced around the room,

It was the room of any man,

Untidy and impersonal,

Lots of shoes,

More than ever were needed,

And strings of ties,

The dressing table was bare,

Except for a large bottle of hair wash,

And a pair of ivory hair brushes,

No photographs,

No snapshots,

Nothing like that,

Instinctively I had looked for them,

Thinking there would be one photograph at least,

Beside his bed,

Or in the middle of the mantelpiece,

One large one in a leather frame,

There were only books though,

And a box of cigarettes,

He was ready as he had promised in five minutes,

Come down to the terrace,

While I eat my breakfast,

He said,

I looked at my watch,

I haven't time,

I told him,

I ought to be in the office now,

Changing the reservations,

Never mind about that,

I've got to talk to you,

He said,

We walked down the corridor,

And he rang for the lift,

He can't realize I thought,

That the early train leaves in about an hour and a half,

Mrs.

Van Hopper will ring up the office in a moment,

And ask if I am there,

We went down in the lift,

Not talking,

And so out to the terrace,

Where the tables were laid for breakfast,

What are you going to have,

He said,

I've had mine already,

I told him,

And I can only stay four minutes anyway,

Bring me coffee,

A boiled egg,

Toast,

Marmalade,

And a tangerine,

He said to the waiter,

And he took an emery board out of his pocket,

And began filing his nails,

So Mrs.

Van Hopper has had enough of Monte Carlo,

He said,

And now she wants to go home,

So do I,

She to New York,

And I to Manderley,

Which would you prefer,

You can take your choice,

Don't make a joke about it,

It's unfair,

I said,

And I think I had better see about those tickets and say goodbye now,

If you think I'm one of the people who tried to be funny at breakfast,

You're wrong,

He said,

I'm invariably ill-tempered in the early morning,

I repeat to you,

The choice is open to you,

Either you go to America with Mrs.

Van Hopper,

Or you come home to Manderley with me,

Do you mean you want a secretary or something,

No,

I'm asking you to marry me,

You little fool,

The waiter came with the breakfast,

And I sat with my hands in my lap,

Watching while he put down the pot of coffee,

And the jug of milk,

You don't understand,

I said,

When the waiter had gone,

I'm not the sort of person men marry,

What the devil do you mean,

He said,

Staring at me,

Laying down his spoon,

I watched a fly settle on the marmalade,

And he brushed it away impatiently,

I'm not sure,

I said slowly,

I don't think I know how to explain,

I don't belong to your sort of world for one thing,

What is my world,

Well,

Manderley,

You know what I mean,

He picked up his spoon again,

And helped himself to marmalade,

You are almost as ignorant as Mrs.

Van Hopper,

And just as unintelligent,

What do you know of Manderley,

I'm the person to judge that,

Whether you would belong there or not,

You think I ask you this on the spur of the moment,

Don't you,

Because you say you don't want to go to New York,

You think I ask you to marry me for the same reason you believed I drove you about in the car,

Yes,

And gave you dinner that first evening,

To be kind,

Don't you,

Yes,

I said,

One day,

He went on,

Spreading his toast thick,

You may realize that philanthropy is not my strongest quality,

At the moment I don't think you realize anything at all,

You haven't answered my question,

Are you going to marry me,

I don't believe,

Even in my fiercest moments,

I had considered this possibility,

I had once,

When driving with him,

And we had been silent for many miles,

Started a rambling story in my head,

About him being very ill,

Delirious I think,

And sending for me and I having to nurse him,

I had reached the point in my story,

Where I was putting eau de cologne on his head,

When we arrived at the hotel,

And so it finished there,

And another time,

I had imagined living in a lodge in the grounds of Manderley,

And how he would visit me sometimes,

And sit in front of the fire,

This sudden talk of marriage bewildered me,

Even shocked me I think,

It was as though the king asked one,

It did not ring true,

And he went on eating his marmalade,

As though everything were natural,

In books,

Men knelt to women,

And it would be moonlight,

Not at breakfast,

Not like this,

My suggestion doesn't seem to have gone too well,

He said,

I'm sorry,

I rather thought you loved me,

A fine blow to my conceit,

I do love you,

I said,

I love you dreadfully,

You've made me very unhappy,

And I've been crying all night because I thought I should never see you again,

When I said this,

I remember he laughed,

And stretched his hand to me across the breakfast table,

Bless you for that,

He said,

One day,

When you reach that exalted age of 36,

Which you told me was your ambition,

I'll remind you of this moment,

And you won't believe me,

It's a pity you have to grow up,

I was ashamed already,

And angry with him for laughing,

So women did not make those confessions to men,

I had a lot to learn,

So that's settled,

Isn't it,

He said,

Going on with his toast and marmalade,

Instead of being companion to Mrs.

Van Hopper,

You become mine,

And your duties will be almost exactly the same,

I also like new library books,

And flowers in the drawing room,

And basic after dinner,

And someone to pour out my tea,

The only difference is that I don't take Taxol,

I prefer Enos,

And you must never let me run out of my particular brand of toothpaste,

I drummed with my fingers on the table,

Uncertain of myself,

And of him,

Was he still laughing at me,

Was it all a joke,

He looked up,

And saw the anxiety on my face,

I'm being rather a brute to you,

Aren't I,

He said,

This isn't your idea of a proposal,

We ought to be in a conservatory,

You in a white frock with a rose in your hand,

And a violin playing a waltz in the distance,

And I should make violent love to you behind a palm tree,

You would feel then that you were getting your money's worth,

Poor darling,

What a shame,

Never mind,

I'll take you to Venice for our honeymoon,

And we'll hold hands in the gondola,

But we won't stay too long,

Because I want to show you Manderley,

He wanted to show me Manderley,

And suddenly I realized that it would all happen,

I would be his wife,

We would walk in the garden together,

We would stroll down that path in the valley to the shingle beach,

I knew how I would stand on the steps after breakfast,

Looking at the day,

Throwing crumbs to the birds,

And later wander out in a shady hat with long scissors in my hand,

And cut flowers for the house,

I knew now why I had bought that picture postcard as a child,

It was a premonition,

A blank step into the future,

He wanted to show me Manderley,

My mind ran riot then,

Figures came before me and picture after picture,

And all the while he ate his tangerine,

Giving me a piece now and then and watching me,

We would be in a crowd of people and he would say,

I don't think you have met my wife,

Mrs.

DeWinter,

I would be Mrs.

DeWinter,

I considered my name and the signature on cheques to tradesmen and in letters asking people to dinner,

I heard myself talking on the telephone,

Why not come down to Manderley next weekend,

People,

Always a throng of people,

Oh but she's simply charming,

You must meet her,

This is about me,

A whisper on the fringe of a crowd,

And I would turn away,

Pretending I had not heard,

Going down to the lodge with a basket on my arm,

Grapes and peaches for the old lady who was sick,

Her hand stretched out to me,

The Lord bless you madam,

For being so good,

And my saying,

Just send up to the house for anything you want,

Mrs.

DeWinter,

I would be Mrs.

DeWinter,

I saw the polished table in the dining room and the long candles,

Maxim sitting at the end,

A party of 24,

I had a flower in my hair,

Everyone looked towards me,

Holding up his glass,

We must drink the health of the bride,

And Maxim saying afterwards,

I have never seen you look so lovely,

Great cool rooms filled with flowers,

My bedroom with a fire in the winter,

Someone knocking at the door,

And a woman comes in,

Smiling,

She is Maxim's sister,

And she is saying,

It's really wonderful how happy you have made him,

Everyone is so pleased,

You are such a success,

Mrs.

DeWinter,

I would be Mrs.

DeWinter,

The rest of the tangerine is sour,

I shouldn't eat it,

He said,

And I stared at him,

The words going slowly to my head,

Then looked down at the fruit on my plate,

The quarter was hard and pale,

He was right,

The tangerine was very sour,

I had a sharp bitter taste in my mouth,

And I had only just noticed it,

Am I going to break the news to Mrs.

Van Hopper,

Or are you,

He said,

He was folding up his napkin,

Pushing back his plate,

And I wondered,

How it was he spoke so casually,

As though the matter was of little consequence,

A mere adjustment of plans,

Whereas to me,

It was a bombshell,

Exploding in a thousand fragments,

You tell her,

I said,

She'll be so angry,

We got up from the table,

I excited and flushed,

Trembling already in anticipation,

I wondered if he would tell the waiter,

Take my arm smilingly and say,

You must congratulate us,

Mademoiselle and I are going to be married,

And all the other waiters would hear,

Would bow to us,

Would smile,

And we would pass into the lounge,

A wave of excitement following us,

A flutter of expectation,

But he said nothing,

He left the terrace without a word,

And I followed him to the lift,

We passed the reception desk,

And no one even looked at us,

The clerk was busy with a sheaf of papers,

He was talking over his shoulder to his junior,

He does not know,

I thought,

That I am going to be Mrs.

De Winter,

I am going to live at Manderley,

Manderley will belong to me,

We went up in the lift to the first floor,

And so along the passage,

He took my hand and swung it as we went along,

Does 42 seem very old to you,

He said,

Oh no,

I told him quickly,

Too eagerly perhaps,

I don't like young men,

You've never known any,

He said,

We came to the door of the suite,

I think I had better deal with us alone,

He said,

Tell me something,

Do you mind how soon you marry me,

You don't want a trousseau,

Do you,

Or any of that nonsense,

Because the whole thing can be so easily arranged in a few days,

Over a desk,

With a license,

And then off in the car to Venice,

Or anywhere you fancy,

Not in a church,

I asked,

Not in white,

With bridesmaids,

And bells,

And choir boys,

What about your relations and all your friends,

You forget,

He said,

I had that sort of wedding before,

We went on standing in front of the door of the suite,

And I noticed that the daily paper was still thrust through the letterbox,

We had been too busy to read it at breakfast,

Well,

He said,

What about it,

Of course,

I answered,

I was thinking for a moment we would be married at home,

Naturally I don't expect a church,

Or people,

Or anything like that,

And I smiled at him,

I made a cheerful face,

Won't it be fun,

I said,

He had turned to the door though,

And opened it,

And we were inside the suite,

In the little entrance passage,

Is that you,

Called Mrs.

Van Hopper from the sitting room,

What in the name of Mike have you been doing,

I've rung the office three times,

I was seized with a sudden desire to laugh,

To cry,

To do both,

And I had a pain too,

At the pit of my stomach,

I wished for one wild moment,

That none of this had happened,

That I was alone somewhere going for a walk and whistling,

I'm afraid it's all my fault,

He said,

Going into the sitting room,

Shutting the door behind him,

And I heard her exclamation of surprise,

Then I went into my bedroom,

And sat down by the open window,

It was like waiting in the ante room at a doctor's,

I had to turn over the pages of a magazine,

Look at photographs that did not matter,

And read articles I should never remember,

Until the nurse came,

Bright and efficient,

All humanity washed away by years of disinfectant,

It's all right,

The operation was quite successful,

There is no need to worry at all,

I should go home and have some sleep,

The walls of the suite were thick,

I could hear no hum of voices,

I wondered what he was saying to her,

How he phrased his words,

Perhaps he said,

I fell in love with her you know,

The very first time we met,

We've been seeing one another every day,

And she in answer,

Why,

Mr.

De Winter,

It's quite the most romantic thing I've ever heard,

Romantic,

That was a word I had tried to remember,

Coming up in the lift,

Yes,

Of course,

Romantic,

That was what people would say,

It was all very sudden and romantic,

They suddenly decided to get married and there it was,

Such an adventure,

I smiled to myself as I hugged my knees on the window seat,

Thinking how wonderful it was,

How happy I was going to be,

I was to marry the man I loved,

I was to be Mrs.

De Winter,

It was foolish to go on having that pain in the pit of my stomach when I was so happy,

Nerves of course,

Waiting like this,

The doctor's ante room,

It would have been better after all,

More natural surely,

To have gone into the sitting room hand in hand,

Laughing,

Smiling at one another,

And for him to say,

We're going to be married,

We're very much in love,

In love,

He had not said anything yet about being in love,

No time perhaps,

It was all so hurried at the breakfast table,

Marmalade and coffee and that tangerine,

No time,

The tangerine was very bitter,

No,

He had not said anything about being in love,

Just that we would be married,

Short and definite,

Very original,

Original proposals were much better,

More genuine,

Not like other people,

Not like younger men who talked nonsense probably,

Not meaning half they said,

Not like younger men being very incoherent,

Very passionate,

Swearing impossibilities,

Not like him the first time,

Asking Rebecca,

I must not think of that,

Put it away,

A thought forbidden,

Prompted by demons,

Get thee behind me Satan,

I must never think about that,

Never,

Never,

Never,

He loves me,

He wants to show me Manderly,

Would they ever have done with our talking,

Would they ever call me into the room,

There was the book of poems lying beside my bed,

He had forgotten he had ever lent them to me,

They could not mean much to him then,

Go on,

Whispered the demon,

Open the title page,

That's what you want to do isn't it,

Open the title page,

Nonsense,

I said,

I'm only going to put the book with the rest of the things,

I yawned,

I wandered to the table beside the bed,

I picked up the book,

I caught my foot in the flex of the bedside lamp and stumbled,

The book falling from my hands onto the floor,

It fell open at the title page,

Max from Rebecca,

She was dead,

And one must not have thoughts about the dead,

They slept in peace,

The grass blew over their graves,

How alive was her writing though,

How full of force,

Those curious sloping letters,

The blob of ink,

Done yesterday,

It was just as if it had been written yesterday,

I took my nail scissors from the dressing case and cut the page,

Looking over my shoulder like a criminal,

I cut the page right out of the book,

I left no jagged edges,

And the book looked white and clean when the page was gone,

A new book that had not been touched,

I tore the page up in many little fragments and threw them into the waste paper basket,

Then I went and sat on the window seat again,

But I kept thinking of the torn scraps in the basket,

And after a moment I had to get up and look in the basket once more,

Even now the ink stood up on the fragments thick and black,

The writing was not destroyed,

I took a box of matches and set fire to the fragments,

The flame had a lovely light,

Staining the paper,

Curling the edges,

Making the slanting writing impossible to distinguish,

The fragments fluttered to gray ashes,

The letter R was the last to go,

It twisted in the flames,

It curled outwards for a moment,

Becoming larger than ever,

Then it crumpled too,

The flame destroyed it,

It was not ashes even,

It was feathery dust,

I went and washed my hands in the basin,

I felt better,

Much better,

I had the clean new feeling that one has when the calendar is hung on the wall at the beginning of the year,

January the 1st,

I was aware of the same freshness,

The same gay confidence,

The door opened and he came into the room,

All's well,

He said,

Shock made her speechless at first,

But she's beginning to recover,

So I'm going downstairs to the office to make certain she will catch the first train,

For a moment she wavered,

I think she had hopes of acting witness at the wedding,

But I was very firm,

Go and talk to her,

He said nothing about being glad,

About being happy,

He did not take my arm and go into the sitting room with me,

He smiled and waved his hand and went off down the corridor alone,

I went to Mrs.

Van Hopper,

Uncertain,

Rather self-conscious,

Like a maid who was handed in her notice through a friend,

She was standing by the window,

Smoking a cigarette,

An odd,

Dumpy little figure I should not see again,

Her coat stretched tight over her large breasts,

Her ridiculous hat perched sideways on her head,

Well,

She said,

Her voice dry and hard,

Not the voice she would have used to him,

I suppose I've got to hand it to you for a double time worker,

Still waters certainly run deep in your case,

How did you manage it?

I did not know what to answer,

I did not like her smile,

It was a lucky thing for you I had the influenza,

She said,

I realize now how you spent your days,

And why you were so forgetful,

Tennis lessons my eye,

You might have told me you know,

I'm sorry,

I said,

She looked at me curiously,

She ran her eyes over my figure,

And he tells me he wants to marry you in a few days,

Lucky again for you that you haven't a family to ask questions,

Well,

It's nothing to do with me anymore,

I wash my hands of the whole affair,

I rather wonder what his friends will think,

But I suppose that's up to him,

You realize he's years older than you,

He's only 42,

I said,

And I'm old for my age,

She laughed,

She dropped cigarette ash on the floor,

You certainly are,

She said,

She went on looking at me in a way she had never done before,

Appraising me,

Running her eyes over my points like a judge at a cattle show,

There was something inquisitive about her eyes,

Something unpleasant,

Tell me,

She said,

Intimate,

A friend to a friend,

Have you been doing anything you shouldn't,

She was like Blaze,

The dressmaker,

Who had offered me that 10%,

I don't know what you mean,

I said,

She laughed,

She shrugged her shoulders,

Oh well,

Never mind,

But I always said English girls were dark horses,

For all their hockey playing attitude,

So I'm supposed to travel to Paris alone,

And leave you here while your beau gets a marriage license,

I notice he doesn't ask me to the wedding,

I don't think he wants anyone,

And anyway you would have sailed,

I said,

Hmm,

Hmm,

She said,

She took out her vanity case,

And began powdering her nose,

I suppose you really do know your own mind,

She went on,

After all,

The whole thing has been very hurried,

Hasn't it,

A matter of a few weeks,

I don't suppose he's too easy,

And you'll have to adapt yourself to his ways,

You've led an extremely sheltered life up to now,

You know,

And you can't say that I've run you off your feet,

You will have your work cut out as mistress of Manderley,

To be perfectly frank,

My dear,

I simply can't see you doing it,

Her words sounded like the echo of my own an hour before,

You haven't the experience,

She continued,

You don't know that milieu,

You can scarcely string two sentences together at my bridge tease,

What are you going to say to all of his friends,

The Manderley parties were famous when she was alive,

Of course,

He's told you all about them,

I hesitated,

But she went on,

Thank heaven,

Not waiting for my answer,

Naturally one wants you to be happy,

And I grant you he's a very attractive creature,

But,

Well,

I'm sorry,

And personally I think you are making a big mistake,

One you will bitterly regret,

She put down the box of powder and looked at me over her shoulder,

Perhaps she was being sincere at last,

But I did not want that sort of honesty,

I did not say anything,

I looked sullen perhaps,

For she shrugged her shoulders and wandered to the looking glass,

Straightening her little mushroom hat,

I was glad she was going,

Glad I should not see her again,

I grudged the months I had spent with her,

Employed by her,

Taking her money,

Trotting in her wake like a shadow,

Drab and dumb,

Of course I was inexperienced,

Of course I was idiotic,

Shy and young,

I knew all that,

She did not have to tell me,

I suppose her attitude was deliberate,

And for some odd feminine reason she resented this marriage,

Her scale of values had received a shock,

Well,

I would not care,

I would forget her and her barbed words,

A new confidence had been born in me when I burnt that page and scattered the fragments,

The past would not exist for either of us,

We were starting afresh he and I,

The past had blown away like the ashes in the waste paper basket,

I was going to be Mrs.

De Winter,

I was going to live at Manderley,

Soon she would be gone,

Rattling alone in the Wagon Lee without me,

And he and I would be together,

In the dining room of the hotel,

Lunching at the same table,

Planning the future,

The brink of a big adventure,

Perhaps,

Once she had gone,

He would talk to me at last,

About loving me,

About being happy,

Up to now there had been no time,

And anyway,

Those things are not easily said,

They must wait their moment,

I looked up,

And caught her reflection in the looking glass,

She was watching me,

A little tolerant smile on her lips,

I thought she was going to be generous after all,

Hold out her hand and wish me luck,

Give me encouragement,

And tell me that everything was going to be alright,

But she went on smiling,

Twisting a stray hair into place beneath her hat,

Of course,

She said,

You know why he is marrying you,

Don't you,

You haven't flattered yourself,

He's in love with you,

The fact is,

That empty house got on his nerves,

To such an extent,

He nearly went off his head,

He admitted as much before you came into the room,

He just can't go on,

Living there alone.