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466 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1931


Recently I came across a documentary of Daphne Du Maurier called ‘The make believe world of Daphne Du Maurier’ where she says that she always believed that she lived in a world of make believe. To her, Cornwall where she was born was alive with things and characters that didn’t exist. And something about the way she describes Plyn that made the magical realism seem to almost come alive for me.
Plyn doesn’t exist, but Ferryside does. Where Daphne spent her summer holidays. A place that inspired her to pen down her first novel. The loving spirit. From the very start, her love for the Cornish countryside is so apparent. Wide open spaces, the sprawling blue skies overhead, the tiny swaying sails in the distance: I could almost feel the grass bend and the stalks break under my bare feet. Such is the elegance and dexterity of her prose. And even though her voice here isn’t as refined as in her later novels, especially Rebecca, it is strong with a whiff of the greatness it will ultimately mould into.
The central point of the story is Janet Coombe: the eye of the storm, the point of origin of the centrifugal force that pulls in and binds the four generations of the ship building family of Coombe. The inspiration for this character was found in a shipwreck named Jane Slade that fascinated the young Daphne and the matriarch’s footprint can be found resonating throughout the book, even after her death. She is the loving spirit.
Janet Coombe is a young girl more fascinated with the sea than with the wordly obessions of her contemporaries and community. She is a free spirit who longs to merge her soul with the sea but ends up conforming to social designs and marries her cousin. But her spirit, reflecting the mighty waves hidden just under the surface of the calm ripples, never fades away. Even through the birth of her children, her spirit remains wild and ultimately it takes the form of her son, Joseph. Joseph embodies the spirit of Janet and being a man succumbs to his love for the uncharted waters. It is in him, that Janet finds her respite. And after her death, it is through him and the ship that she lives on. Like a benevolent ghost and a tempestuous spirit.
The brushstrokes of feminism paint deftly. From the matriarch who pines for the sea but finds the cover, the shield of being a woman in countryside Plyn invisible iron bars and heavy shackles that drag her landward, to her progeny who deftly lifts the veil to come into her own.
There is an element of duality. The land versus the sea. The old versus the new. That which is known and familiar and comfortable and binding versus the ever shifting and unreliable and the sly. The story reflects the changes in Cornwall from the arrival of the Industrial Revolution on its shores. The fear of the unknown, the need for the comfort of a familiar embrace and finally the slow and gradual shift into a new age.
Janet Coombe stood on the hill above Plyn, looking down upon the harbour. Although the sun was already high in the heavens, the little town was still wrapped in an early morning mist. It clung to Plyn like a thin pale blanket, lending to the place a faint whisper of unreality as if the whole had been blessed by the touch of ghostly fingers. The tide was ebbing, the quiet waters escaped silently from the harbour and became one with the sea, unruffled and undisturbed. No straggling cloud, no hollow wind broke the calm beauty of the still white sky. For one instant a gull hovered in the air, stretching his wide wings to the sun, then cried suddenly and dived, losing itself in the mist below. It seemed to Janet that this hillside was her own world, a small planet of strange clarity and understanding: where all troublous thoughts and queer wonderings of the heart became soothed and at rest.For the quality of her prose, I adore Du Maurier and always enjoy reading her. But, then there's the story itself. While I did find the book as un-put-downable as Rebecca, the story is peculiar―not in a good way― especially in first two books within the book. (The novel is divided into four books, each one telling the tale of a particular member of the Coombes family of Cornwall.) The author writes of an obsessive, mad passion between two people that reminds me of nothing so much as the destructive love of Heathcliff and Catherine in Wuthering Heights. Du Maurier herself provokes the reader's memory of this by quoting Emily Bronte's poetry at the beginning of each book; the title of the book is taken from one such poem.
"... You'd come alone, without father, without Sam or the others―you alone, for me."The flirting is overt and the physical eroticism between the pair as obvious as with any famous lovers. One gets the impression from the first narrative (that of Janet) that we are going to see some legacy of this forbidden mother-son rapture ... perhaps because one expects these things to go badly and because of the obvious Heathcliff and Cathy allusions. But no, the overarching narrative is about how this spirit of Janet Coombe remains earthbound (or, in this case, shipbound) beyond death, in order to watch over, guide, and protect her loved ones. Her loved ones to whom she is committed beyond the grave include only those she deemed worthy of her in life, which is those who are like herself: Joseph, her second-born son; his eldest son Christopher (to a lesser degree); Christopher's nephew Tom; and finally, Christopher's daughter Jennifer, with whose life we end the novel.
"You wouldn't be sorry to be back?"
"What d'you think?"
He was silent a while, then spoke again, chewing his straw.
"I've in my mind's eye the model of my ship. I can picture the shear of her, an' the long graceful lines. Her sails spread to the wind. She'd run like a devil if I let her, laughing' with the joy of escape, but a touch of my hand an' she'd understand, obeyin' my will, recognisin' I was her master an' lovin' me for it."
He leant over and watched Janet with narrow eyes, sweeping the whole of her.
"What is it, Joseph?" she asked, conscious of his gaze.
He laughed, and spitting out his straw upon the ground, he reached for her hand.
"Women are like ships," he said.
(Book I, chapter X, p.61)
There were no more years, no time, no grim and satisfying death; this was Janet herself who stood before him, Janet who flamed in the bows of her vessel, Janet as he had seen her in his dreams as a boy, Janet who had preferred Joseph to himself. (Book IV, chapter IX, p. 276.)It seems Philip is fated to lose his women to Joseph, as Joseph later sweeps Philip's intended wife right out from under him. Philip seeks his revenge in the only way he can, by bringing financial ruin upon Joseph and his heirs.
"He grasped her hands and kissed her hurriedly, roughly on her neck behind her ear. ‘I can’t find my speech somehow, ’ he muttered."
There is a calendar in the fo’c’sle, and I have marked with a red cross the 10th of April. The men here inquired of me the reason for doing this, and I told them that on that day I must be back in Plyn, for I had a tryst with the woman of my heart, and that the gales of the Atlantic could not gainsay me in the keeping of it.
She knew that his thoughts and his soul were with her, but these were not enough for her pitiful human wants. She cursed the weakness of her flesh that hungered for his nearness and his touch, she fought against the demand of her eyes to dwell upon him. To touch his hands and his body that was part of herself, to smell the familiar scent of sea and earth and sun that clung to his clothes, to taste the salt spray that washed from his skin, all these she claimed; but they were taken from her, leaving her half-asleep and a shadow of a woman.
Joseph put out the lamp, and snuffed the candles. He drew aside the curtains, and the light of the moon made a white pattern on the carpet. Then he came across the room, and knelt beside Janet in the darkness.
‘Do you know how much I love you?’ he whispered.
‘Yes, Joseph.’ He held her fingers and kissed the hollows of her hands. ‘I reckon I’ve never realized before what the losin’ o’ you meant.’
She rested her head on his shoulder when he said this. ‘You won’t be losin’ me, Joseph. This baint a real partin’, ‘tes a reason for you to find yourself, an’ lead the life that’s suited to you.’
‘’Twon’t be a life away from you. ‘Twill be a misery an’ an anguish, turnin’ me to stone till I’m by your side again.’
He put out his hand and felt her chin. ‘I knew it would be stickin’ i’ the air,’ he smiled. ‘’Tisn’t no good, don’t let’s be brave for our last few hours together. Bravery’s no mortal use to me now. I want to lay here all night, and cry at your feet, and worship you in a still an’ silent way.’ He bent his head, and she laughed in the darkness, and kissed the back of his neck.
‘I’ve in my mind’s eye the model of my ship. I can picture the shear of her, an’ the long graceful lines. Her sails spread to the wind. She’d run like a devil if I let her, laughin’ with the joy of escape, but a touch of my hand an’ she’d understand, obeyin’ my will, recognizin’ I was her master an’ lovin’ me for it.’
He leant over and watched Janet with narrow eyes, sweeping the whole of her.
‘What is it, Joseph?’ she asked, conscious of his gaze. He laughed, and spitting out his straw upon the ground, he reached for her hand.
‘Women are like ships,’ he said.
“Janet Coombe stood on the hill above Plyn, looking down upon the harbour. Although the sun was already high in the heavens, the little town was still wrapped in an early morning mist. It clung to Plyn like a thin pale blanket, lending to the place a faint whisper of unreality as if the whole had been blessed by the touch of ghostly fingers. The tide was ebbing, the quiet waters escaped silently from the harbour and became one with the sea, unruffled and undisturbed. No straggling cloud, no hollow wind broke the calm beauty of the still white sky. For one instant a gull hovered in the air, stretching his wide wings to the sun, then cried suddenly and dived, losing itself in the mist below. It seemed to Janet that this hillside was her own world, a small planet of strange clarity and understanding: where all troublous thoughts and queer wonderings of the heart became soothed and at rest.”
“She felt the fact of her sex to be like a chain to her feet, as bad as the hampering petticoats around her ankles.”
“Hencefoward Janet Coombe would be a little name carved on a still grey tombstone, until the winds and rain of many years should bring it to obscurity, and then covered with moss and the tangled roots of ivy the letters would fade away, and she would be as unremembered as the fallen trodden leaves of past summer and the melted snow of a vanished winter.“
"High above the clustered houses and the grey harbour waters of Plyn, the loving spirit smiles and is free."