The linguistics of imaginary narrative spaces in Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca

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Appendix (du Maurier 2012: 51-53)

Passage A:

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. To-morrow 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 the single quill, dwarfed in her fur-coat, sitting opposite me in the wagon-lit. 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 le 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.

Passage B:

I should say good-bye 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 write," 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."

Passage C:

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 clamoured 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 snap-shots 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 and black, because this was the last moment, the final good-bye had been attained.

Passage D:

"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.

Passage E:

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." "D'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?"

"All right -- I'm sorry, I'm coming now," and I made a pretence of turning on the tap, of bustling about and folding a towel on a rail.

She glanced at me curiously as I opened the door. "What a time you've been. You can't afford to dream this morning, you know, there's too much to be done."

Immediately after the interruption by Mrs. Van Hopper, the narrator resumes her fantasizing about the future. Five modal constructions appear in the passage, with a mixture of elaborated noun phrases and direct quotes of imagined utterances or written messages from Maxim de Winter.

Passage F:

He would go back to Manderley, of course, 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 Maximilian 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 in a pile of a hundred others.

Passage G:

"It's too bad you are leaving to-morrow," 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-lit.

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