I rarely read the introductions to novels, though I’m sure they’re very interesting, because I find that whatever their angle or argument is, I can’t forget it. I want to read a book without any preconceptions – other than my own existing ones. But I couldn’t help reading the last paragraph of the introduction to My Cousin Rachel by Daphne du Maurier. The introduction was written by Sally Beauman in 2003 when they republished the work as part of the beautiful Virago Modern Classics series.
The bit that caught my eye was: ‘My Cousin Rachel, with its cool contempt for romantic conventions, is the most overtly feminist of her books, yet it is rarely perceived as such’ (p.xii). If I hadn’t read this, she is right – I don’t think I would have considered My Cousin Rachel to be a feminist book straight away. But as it was, I read the book like a feminism detective, trying to find the evidence that supported Beauman’s assertion.
For those who don’t know it, My Cousin Rachel is a love story in the best du Maurier style. The first chapter sums up the whole story, including the ending, if you look for it. Philip is a young man, cousin and heir to Ambrose, who has died abroad unexpectedly after marrying Rachel. The book is the story of Philip falling in love with Rachel too, but ‘the question which I cannot answer. Was Rachel innocent or guilty?’ endures. By the end of the first chapter we know that Philip has a ‘burden of blame’ and that staying with him has brought Rachel ‘destruction’. The image of the hanged man begins and ends the first chapter, and recurs at the end of the book too.
The way du Maurier frames the book means that, as a reader, you are never sure about Rachel. Like Philip, you don’t know where you stand. Of course, this is indicative of the control the character is made to wield throughout the book, never giving away her motives, peeling back layers only to find yet more pretence (or was it genuine?) underneath. What you can see that Philip can’t, however, is the way that he is emotionally manipulated so that ultimately he ends up pushing, shouting, forcing his presents and hospitality on her. Ordering her to receive the money she needs and cajoling her to stay – Rachel’s behaviour is the paradigm for getting what you want.
There are only a few times when Philip realises he isn’t getting things his own way. After an intense discussion in her bedroom, Rachel tells Philip to go to bed “like a good boy, and sleep well”. Philip is stunned – the advantage he thought he had was ‘completely lost’, as she had had the last word, without even trying: ‘the little girl look and the choir-boy surplice had misled me. She was a woman all the time.’
Another moment particularly stuck out for me. Rachel knows a lot (perhaps too much) about the healing properties of plants, and prescribes a tisana of raspberry leaves and nettles for pain-free childbirth. Philip calls this witchcraft, and she says: “What nonsense! Why should women suffer?”
This line goes unanswered, uncommented upon. The story moves on to other times and places immediately afterwards. It hangs there significantly, in my mind, as a way into Rachel’s mind – and as a good motto for us all. Why should women suffer? My Cousin Rachel is a fantastic, gripping, mysterious novel that will have you captivated from the first. I am going to go back and read the rest of the introduction now.
If you’d like to see more of Daphne du Maurier (or at least, her house), there is a 1971 interview with her on iPlayer now.
Jennifer Hilder 