Introduction

How does literature tap into the mind’s capacity for horror? What are the most direct avenues through which to achieve a true suspension of disbelief? For those readers eager to reach such fanciful peaks, the method might be creative flights into the macabre, with graphic visualizations of monstrous beings or horrific nightmares—but this requires a willingness to indulge on the part of the reader. For those of us who are not interested in the obvious uses of make-believe, a suspension of disbelief is dependent on the artistry of the author to lure—or repel—the reader. The writings of Daphne du Maurier are finely-crafted examples of the art of literary seduction. Independent of any fantastic creations or scientific hypotheses, her words gently nudge us toward the horrors that are present in the very landscape in which we wake and sleep.

"The Birds" starts out like a walk on the first cold morning of winter: not especially alarming, but nonetheless a slight shock to the system. Still, it is a day that fits well within the balance of nature. Then slowly come hints that perhaps something is not quite right. The first inkling comes not from a monster or a fantastic being from beyond, but from the tapping of a small bird against a window pane, a small bird that in its apparent confusion scratches the hand of Nat, the non-threatening human who unwittingly raises the sash. This event is at first accepted as being one of those crazy moments that shock but are quickly accepted as a fluke. But then there are more taps, and a dozen birds swoop into the room, pecking and clawing—then a room full of birds unleash a crazed fury upon the children sleeping down the hall. And these are not birds of prey, but "robins, finches, sparrows, blue tits, larks and bramblings, birds that by nature’s law kept to their own flock and their own territory, and now, joining one with another in their urge to do battle . . ." Still, the unexpected harshness of the early winter must be responsible . . . .

The anxiety level rises with each observation, as the tale unfolds, yet the object of terror never transcends that which nature presents on a daily basis. There are speculations that perhaps the chaotic activity is part of some ominous plot by the Russians—a nod to the geopolitical atmosphere of the story’s 1952 original publication date—but there is no evidence presented to suggest that the horror is anything less than natural instincts gone awry. There is never any indication that humans ignited the fury, nor any indication that humans can extinguish the deadly bloodletting. The food chain, it seems, has been horrifically and perhaps permanently altered, and the skilled hands of the author deftly suspend any notions of disbelief.

Daphne du Maurier was born into an aristocratic family in London in 1907. Her father, Sir Gerald du Maurier, was a famous actor who infiltrated contemporary British culture to such an extent that there was even a popular brand of cigarettes bearing his name. She was the granddaughter of author and cartoonist George du Maurier, further enhancing an artistic pedigree which she began demonstrating at an early age. Not surprisingly, her childhood was filled with encouragement to express herself, and she spent much of her youth traveling, sailing, reading, and writing. She published her first story, in a magazine edited by an uncle, while still a teenager, and having thus served a fruitful artistic apprenticeship, she successfully placed a completed novel in the hands of a publisher before she turned twenty-five. The Loving Spirit, published in 1931, not only brought her the attention of London’s literary society but also the attention of Sir Frederick Browning, the man who in 1932 would become her husband. They had three children together, and made their home in Cornwall until their deaths, his in 1965, hers in 1989.

As a storyteller, du Maurier designed her own formulas for creating remarkably inviting fiction. She draws extensively from the personalities of her dashing husband and her theatrical father, frequently featuring male narrators or leading characters in tales full of adventure and romance. And, understanding that a large portion of her readership is comprised of women, she also demonstrates a talent for portraying intense female characters, and it is her female characters who most often wear the veil of mystery or project an aura of darkness—which is also to say that the female characters are perhaps the most interesting. Her ability to interlock the characters in unique variations of romantic entanglements accounts for much of her commercial success, and her entertaining stories are injected with a complex psychological realism that grips the reader on levels beyond superficial enjoyment. For du Maurier, the psychological thriller is far more engaging than mere fictional conjecture.

Following the success of her inaugural effort, du Maurier published novels at a prolific rate. I’ll Never be Young Again (1932), Julius (1933), and Jamaica Inn (1936) increased her prestige as an author, and she also wrote ambitious family histories, most notably Gerald (1934) about her father and The du Mauriers (1937). Her affection for composing such histories would surface again throughout her career, but her indelible mark as an author would unquestionably be the result of her work in the realm of fiction. Her skills truly shown forth in Rebecca, the work many consider to be her masterpiece. Rebecca is the story of a nameless heroine who is spared the life of drudgery by marrying a dashing aristocrat. Further establishing her distinctive parameters, the character of Maxim de Winter harkens both to her husband and father, and the main setting, a grand house called Manderlay, more than resembles Menabilly, her own home in Cornwall. Her ability to present a romantic scenario built upon dark and foreboding undertones sets her novel apart from the other bestsellers of the day. Rebecca is widely recognized as being one of the twentieth century’s first and most influential gothic novels, and it set the pattern for a career that would include fifteen published novels during her lifetime.

The writings of Daphne du Maurier have been adapted to the stage and screen by some of the world’s leading dramatists and filmmakers, but none have grasped her aesthetic aura as well as the great Alfred Hitchcock. Hitchcock first transformed Jamaica Inn into a major motion picture starring Charles Laughton and Maureen O’Hara in 1939. His big-screen adaptation of Rebecca starring Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine won the Academy Award for Best Picture in 1941. Both films clearly demonstrate Hitchcock’s affinity with du Maurier’s writing, with the artful blending of suspense and romance buoyed by the psychological twists and turns that keep viewers of the films as entranced as readers of the original novels. In Rebecca, du Maurier’s plot of a widower’s dead wife continuing to hold a spell over current events fits perfectly with Hitchcock’s concept of a thriller. Rebecca remains an Alfred Hitchcock trademark, but the artistic synergy between du Maurier and Hitchcock would reach a peak with a film that remains embedded in the consciousness of a generation of filmgoers—the 1963 production of The Birds.

According to popular legend, Hitchcock came across a story entitled "Seabird Invasion Hits Coastal Homes" in a Santa Cruz newspaper. The news item made an instant connection in his mind to the story he had read by Daphne du Maurier, and the concept escalated until a blockbuster was born. The film version featured a screenplay written by novelist Evan Hunter and starred Tippi Hedren and Rod Taylor in leading roles created especially for the celluloid version. As fans of the literary classic are quick to point out, the movie strays considerably from the short story, but the essential elements remain—essential elements that are pure du Maurier, elements that reach sublime psychological pressure points deep inside the consciousness of the viewer. The lure of romance brings the audience into the story, and the anxiety slowly builds as the previously innocent fowl begin to assert themselves on the unsuspecting humans until ultimately the scene is one of unmitigated terror. As in the original text, there are no adequate explanations for the birds’ behavior, and there are no definite conclusions presented. Apocalypse is strongly suggested, but not stated. The viewer, as with the reader, is left to wonder if the tide is ever to turn in favor of humankind.

Although she had already achieved considerable status as one of Britain’s brightest literary lights of the twentieth century, the enormous success of Hitchcock’s The Birds connected du Maurier’s name with an icon of popular culture. As a result an even greater audience was inspired to devour her novels and short stories. The original story had first appeared in book form in a collection published in 1952 entitled The Apple Tree, which was subsequently re-titled The Birds and Other Stories. The collection is an assemblage of powerful stories, each a powerful testament to the talents of Daphne du Maurier.

"The Apple Tree" is another tale that begins with an innocent observation of the natural world. A widower is suddenly struck by the resemblance a particular apple tree bears to his deceased wife. At first the observation is in passing: "It was a trick of light, perhaps, something to do with the sun coming up over the woods, that happened to catch the tree at this particular moment; but the likeness was unmistakable." Gradually the form and shape of the tree become more of an obsession with the widower, and his anxiety level begins to dominate his actions. The author outlines the complexities of the relationship between the man and his wife, applying psychological realism to the characters even as she constructs the terrifying exterior and builds the story toward its chilling conclusion. Written in the style which du Maurier has perfected, the effects that create the horror are neither extraordinary nor unbelievable—and thus especially terrifying.

Among her most unique efforts, "Monte Verità" is a fascinating tale that hints at the supernatural without ever producing any tangible evidence as such to the story. At the heart is a relationship triangle involving the narrator; his best friend, Victor; and Anna, the woman who has captivated them both. The primary setting is Monte Verità, "the Mountain of Truth," a mystical piece of terra firma that holds an unspoken grasp upon each of the trio, a trio captivated by a mountain that "stares down in silence and compassion upon a blinded world." With the rock-face of Monte Verità as the backdrop, the author adeptly interweaves a Platonic treatise on relationships with a philosophical discussion on mid-century geopolitics, and in the process she manages to keep the reader spellbound and uncertain as to whether the tale is one of fantasy or based on fact. The chills are undoubtedly real, however.

The superb literary gathering is rounded out by stories that focus more directly on the darkness within the human soul and less on humankind’s interaction with nature. "The Little Photographer," for instance, does not portray any mystifying powers from the flora or fauna. The only instincts gone awry are those that reside within the Marquise, a spoiled and pampered beauty who allows her own flights of fancy to run amok—with ecstatic and uncompromising consequences. "The Old Man" chronicles the observations of a nameless narrator living in a coastal village who has kept track of the hermitic family living nearby, a man and his missus and their three children. For the narrator, the line between being an observer and a witness is severely crossed along the way. "Kiss Me Again, Stranger" is an alluring tale in which the masculine narrator takes the reader for an intriguing journey of romance, a journey complete with edge-of-the seat psychological dips and turns. Given their content and inherent literary craftsmanship, Alfred Hitchcock must surely have considered each of these stories as potential fodder for his cinematic canon. Perhaps another filmmaker will seize upon the wealth of material for a future generation, for certainly the material is worthy of the attention.

But "The Birds" is the story that most consistently demands attention from scholars, literary critics, and most importantly, lovers of excellent fiction. Reading "The Birds" ignites a flow of thoughts that stretches well beyond the limitations of the thirty-nine pages of text. Daphne du Maurier’s masterful prose far exceeds the modest purpose of entertaining the reader—her words are seeds sown in the consciousness, seeds that grow with the subtleties interwoven within the tale itself. Read on, and read again, but read cautiously, for you are certain to discover a lurking terror that won’t go away. Thus lives the enduring legacy of Daphne du Maurier.

Phil Rice 2006