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Rebecca is a smart and unsentimental spoof of Victorian romance�� First of all it is a tale of the place and only after that it is a tale of the people residing there��

Yes, there it was, the Manderley I had expected, the Manderley of my picture postcard long ago. A thing of grace and beauty, exquisite and faultless, lovelier even than I had ever dreamed, built in its hollow of smooth grassland and mossy lawns, the terraces sloping to the gardens, and the gardens to the sea.

The heroine is a very naïve and inexperienced girl slaving in the dubious status of companion for the old vulgar and heartless hag��

Later her friends would come in for a drink, which I must mix for them, hating my task, shy and ill-at-ease in my corner hemmed in by their parrot chatter, and I would be a whipping-boy again, blushing for her when, excited by her little crowd, she must sit up in bed and talk too loudly, laugh too long, reach to the portable gramophone and start a record, shrugging her large shoulders to the tune.

Accidentally she gets acquainted with an aristocratic widower and after a short time spent together is proposed��

This sudden talk of marriage bewildered me, even shocked me I think. It was as though the King asked one. It did not ring true. And he went on eating his marmalade as though everything were natural. In books men knelt to women, and it would be moonlight. Not at breakfast, not like this.

Being married, after the honeymoon, on arriving at the fabulous place she finds herself immersed in the atmosphere of hopeless despondency�� The spectre of the past grimly reigns over everything��

She stared at me curiously. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Sometimes, when I walk along the corridor here, I fancy I hear her just behind me. That quick, light footstep. I could not mistake it anywhere. And in the minstrels�� gallery above the hall. I’ve seen her leaning there, in the evenings in the old days, looking down at the hall below and calling to the dogs. I can fancy her there now from time to time. It’s almost as though I catch the sound of her dress sweeping the stairs as she comes down to dinner.�� She paused. She went on looking at me, watching my eyes. “Do you think she can see us, talking to one another now?�� she said slowly. “Do you think the dead come back and watch the living?��

Often on entering the new milieu we are prone to turning into hostages to the uncertain circumstances.