Did she? Didn't she? Who's to blame? These are questions that seem to circle Daphne du Maurier's Gothic novel My Cousin Rachel. However, instead of focusing on the mystery of our enigmatic heroine, it seems to me that the novel rather reveals how dangerous rejected men can be.
Rachel, consistently struggling to accommodate her demanding, petulant cousin Philip, and continually struck, horrified, by his resemblance to her dead, abusive husband, is ultimately nothing more frightening than a woman fighting to carve out independence in a world designed to deny her it.
For a Victorian audience, this quest for self-hood would have indeed rendered Rachel frightening, threatening – even mad. Yet through the eyes of a twenty-first century audience it is Philip's entitlement that provides this discomfort. Philip is young but his sense of ownership over Rachel is disconcerting to the point of upsetting, and his misguided attempts to woo her become increasingly obsessive, suffocating, and even violent.
I'm not sure how an audience could see Philip choking Rachel on the stairs and be convinced of his innocence as a poor lamb driven to distraction by her womanly wiles. The very notion that Philip's behaviour is even slightly justified by Rachel's sensuality and complexity is part of a toxic narrative whereby men are incapable of controlling their "animalistic desires". It's the same societal drive that forces girls to cover their shoulders so as not to "distract" their male peers. It is the same rhetoric that blames victims for existing, and for being too tempting, too undressed.
Philip comes to the conclusion that Rachel is guilty within minutes of discovering his uncle's death, without a shred of evidence, seemingly motivated by a hatred of or total unfamiliarity with women. To Philip women are strange, alien creatures — the only women allowed in his house growing up were the dogs. Philip is perplexed by the idea that his uncle would ever want to marry, convinced that his own companionship is more than satisfactory.
It is not just women that Philip is ignorant to, but the idea that a man would ever be attracted to one, let alone need one. It is within this context that Rachel is portrayed as alien – while her gender is strange and mysterious to Philip, she is also foreign, from a foreign land, speaking a foreign tongue, drinking foreign tea, with foreign friends. It is this very "difference" that fuels Philip's suspicion. It is the unfounded concern that Rachel is somehow sending money abroad that leads Philip to question her motives (how unpatriotic! How frivolous! A woman spending her own income!). Indeed, Rachel is seen by Philip as a victim – frail, mourning, constantly on the verge of tears – until he gifts her with economic independence, and it is only then that she becomes a "dangerous" creature.
Philip is a rampant misogynist, a spoilt child, and emblematic of entitled manbabies everywhere who think they have a right to a woman's body. The sort of man who, in the twenty-first century, would start a sentence with "but not all men…" without a trace of irony. Philip is incapable of even beginning to process the idea that Rachel may not want him – may not want any man, may just wish to live her life the way she wishes to live it.
As a reader it is hard, if not impossible, to not lose your patience with Philip. Gradually "bewitched" by Rachel, he makes a series of decisions that threaten to capsize the reader's sympathies. He recklessly handles the family's heirlooms, he doesn't listen to his godfather, shuns the attentions of his caring would-be soulmate – and all this before legally entrusting his whole fortune into Rachel's name, with little to go on but puppy love. Philip's vehement belief that he is saving Rachel, and that she, in turn, should give herself over to him, is enough to drive any reader mad.
Even the term "manbaby", while an accurate representation of Philip's immaturity, seems to express too softly the determination with which he pursues Rachel, his hatred of her species, his desire to demonise her, villainise her, and ultimately fatally endanger her life, rather than accept that he cannot have her. It's the same reason why women are murdered by the men they reject. It's this sense of entitlement to and ownership of the objectified female body that renders the woman an archetype – angel, whore – rather than a three-dimensional human being.
Rachel is an angel when she allows Philip in her bed and a demoness when she denies him. The question is not "Did she? Didn't she?" because that question is redundant. It is not for Daphne du Maurier or the reader to decide whether Rachel is guilty as we only see Philip’s perspective of her, fluid and unstable and shifting as it is, and entirely dependent upon how obediently she conforms to his desires and whims. We are trapped in his male gaze. Du Maurier doesn't allow her readers to look beyond it, to see the true Rachel. All we can see are distortions. A distorted narrative because it is written solely from the perspective of a shunned man.
This book is not about whether Rachel killed Ambrose or didn't – it's about whether she agrees to marry Philip, hand herself over to him, his whims and desires. To answer the question of "Who’s to blame?", the answer seems explicitly obvious – Philip, his puppy face, and the culture of toxic masculinity he represents.
My Cousin Rachel is an underrated feminist classic of the 20th century. Its message and narrative technique were ahead of its time; the novel's complexity and true meaning are things that can only be caught from a modern feminist view point. Chapeau, Daphne, you really outdid yourself!