Oriel Malet - Daphne du Maurier

No book can ever be an unaided effort, and I would like to thank all the kind people who have helped me with this one: Beverley Gordet, in Paris, who first suggested it; the family of Daphne du Maurier, who gave me permission to publish their mothers letters, with my special thanks to Christian Browning, for letting me use some of his own beautiful photographs; Margaret Forster, who while at work on her own book, was generous with help and advice; Nesta Roberts and Margaret Biggs, for their constant encouragement; Mademoiselle Marcelle Aufaure, in Paris, for bearing with my instant translation, and giving me photographs from her collection; Madame Goimbault, of Tillires-sur-Avre, for spending two Sundays photocopying my manuscript, after it had gone astray by courtesy of the post office; and last, but definitely not least, my heartfelt thanks to Barbara Noble, who gave up so much time, under difficult conditions, to read and edit the manuscript. Also, to my cat Melusine, for consistently acting (unasked) as a paperweight.

Editors note: the first, undated letters in this collection belong to the early 1950S.

Mena, Wednesday 7 May.

Dearest Oriel,

Many thanks for your letter, and I would have answered to Marraines, but Ive been and lost her address, and anyway, perhaps better you should find this on arriving home, because its nice getting letters then. (Crumb!)

I am cross I got home, and at once started a fearful cold, a real snorter, and its made me feel like K.M. in sooner. The strategic place would be the back of the car to Boulogne, or failing that, in Boulogne. I think just around here the story gets a bit involved, and James would help to get it clearer I was a bit muddled by the journalist, and dont see the need of him get Emily and James away to France, and then make James appear again, and do his business. Other snag, would the French cafe woman really engage Emily to wash dishes? Would they hand her over to the police, or the English consul at once? But maybe Im being pernickety, and children wouldnt question that.

Anyway, do start and get it moving swiftly, and dont linger over Emilys move from her home, and dont dawdle over that. You want to get on to the Goat and the Vase as soon as possible. If you are writing an exciting book, it should move swiftly from the word go. You have to write either a sensitive story about a misunderstood child called Emily (on the Marjory Fleming lines) OR your E. Nesbit-ish EmilyGoatJamesmystery kind. If you try to mix the two, you will fall between two kinds of writing. How tiresome I am, an old wise storyteller talking to a young, eager writer! No, but do you see what I mean? Well, thats you and your story. (You would like me to go on for ages!) Lunch-bell just gone, Tod irritating about some man who wants to measure the house for Rates. Ill go on later.

The thing is, I have been enthralled by Middleton Murry. It just explains everything. I had always seen him as quite a different sort of person, and now I understand. That withdrawn sensitiveness, it was not cruelty at all, dont you see? Why do you dislike him more than ever? Now at last everything falls into line. He is so honest about himself always that fear of facing up to life and not wanting to be involved; the interlude with Margaret was a preparation for Katherine I find it quite absorbing. At last the opposite side of the picture, so we now know what he was thinking and writing to her, when she was wrapped in a dressing gown at Bandol, and elsewhere. Yes, call it weakness if you like. But I feel I now understand the whole relationship. I want to go on reading where he left off, and if you make enquiries, I am sure he has written, quite lately, about a year ago, a second part of his autobiography. Do please try and get it. That will tell how he developed, and the next wife, etc.

I do think the Lawrences and its so queer to realize it. It muddles me, in a strange way. Because I cant stop thinking of them as those two grown-up people, older than myself, great writers, going through distress etc, but now, they are not. They are two young writers, struggling; and in a horrible worldly way, its as if I had left them behind. Oh, its no use thinking about it. They must just stay K.M. and M.M., as they were, with me younger. But this book is very revealing, isnt it? Although the deep intellect part is hard to follow. I would very much like to meet him now, but I should be sad, because he would be about sixty, wouldnt he, which is just as bad as being a very young man! Oh, how muddling!

What else to tell? I saw Clara Vyvyan story right until I have been out there. There are twenty pages to do, and it seems Fate I should go out, and then write the last twenty pages afterwards. Do you see?

My next story I hope to get on to it when the dreary cold goes is one you will hate. Not macabre, really. About a sensual, rather foolish woman who, through idleness, lets a honky man from a shop make love to her, and then when he begins to get serious she gets frightened she only meant it as a pastime but I shant tell you how it ends. It must give the impression of very hot weather, abroad, and the shutters of foreign shops down, because of the noonday siesta, and flies droning, and dogs asleep in dusty roads, and a lot of ferns and bracken on a cliff-top, and this woman yawning, lazily, sensuously, to the sun. You will hate it. But I see it very clearly.

Now there is nothing more to say. Perhaps we shall both get to work next week, and have that nice busy worthwhile feeling of creation. If you are ever near a shop, could you find me a belt that one puts money in, like the one you have, because if I go to my Glacier, that would be the answer for walking, wouldnt it? I shall have Robert, I know, on the tour! And Lady Vyvyan will despise me, if I dont walk up a mountain with it. What shall I do with the Robert things? I see myself furtively changing behind a Glacier. She is prepared to sleep in a haystack but I dont think I am. You know my awful ritual of creaming my face, and my hair in pins, and breakfast in bed! Obviously I must rid myself of these foibles. How ease of life does creep into ones bones! Of course, nothing matters as long as one feels well. But to be stricken with a pain on a haystack or even just a cold, like I have now, how horrid!

But then think of Japanese prison camps, and things, one has not really experienced anything in life. So perhaps a haystack with Lady V. is the nearest one will ever get to Reality! And out of it will come no, not an epic a dilatory romance about a jazz-band leader in Monte Carlo!

Lots of love, Daphne.

________

One wet and windy afternoon at Mena, when we were seated comfortably round the fire reading, the window of the Long Room rattled with sudden violence. We looked up to see a figure swathed in black, gesticulating wildly behind the glass. For one moment I thought the encroaching woods had sent forth an elemental spirit, but Daphne said calmly, Theres old Clara Vyvyan! and got up to open the window. You havent tramped it here all the way from Trelowarren? she asked anxiously, as the figure struggled out of its dripping oilskins, shaking itself like a dog, and spraying Mouse, who hastily retreated under the sofa.

No, no, my dear, only from Fowey. Im spending a few days at The Haven, she explained, but even this seemed no mean achievement in such weather, and we were not surprised that Foy Quiller-Couch had declined to accompany her.