Butterfly Dream

Author: (British) Daphne du Maurier
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-05-01
Features: This is the debut novel of the renowned British author Daphne du Maurier. "I" falls in love with Mr. Dewitt, who is listless after the death of his wife. However, after moving into the famous Manderley Manor with her, "I" discovers that she is constantly overshadowed by the ghost of Dewitt's deceased first wife, Rebecca. By chance, "I" uncovers the true cause of Rebecca's death, forcing her to face a choice between love and law. Soon after, a mysterious fire reduces Manderley to ashes. Through the technique of blending scenery and emotion, the author successfully renders the nostalgic and melancholic atmosphere as well as the oppressive and desolate mood. Excerpt: The (1): I found myself back in that corridor, the same corridor where I had lingered on the morning of my first arrival at Manderley. I had never been back here since, nor did I wish to. Sunlight streamed through the windows in the uneven walls, weaving golden patterns on the dark wainscoting of the passage. All was silent, not a sound to be heard. Just as before, I caught the same unusual musty smell. I was not sure which way to go; I was unfamiliar with the layout of the rooms here. Then it suddenly occurred to me that Mrs. Devereux had come out through a door behind me the last time, and from the direction, it seemed to be the very room I was heading toward, the windows of which overlooked the lawn leading to the sea. I turned the handle of the door and entered. The blinds were all down, and of course the room was dim. I reached out to touch the light switch on the wall, turned it on, and found it was a small antechamber, probably a dressing room, lined with tall wardrobes along the walls. At the far end of the room, a door stood open, leading into a larger one. I passed through it into the next room, turned on the light, and looked around, startled to find that the furniture was fully arranged, as if someone had been living there all along. I had expected the table, chairs, and the large double bed against the wall to be covered with sheets, but nothing was covered. A hairbrush, comb, perfume, and powder were placed on the dressing table. The bed was made neatly, and I could see the snow-white pillowcases and the corner of the duvet peeking out from under the blanket. Fresh flowers were on both the dressing table and the bedside table. Fresh flowers were also arranged on the carved mantelpiece. A silk morning dress was laid on a chair, and beneath it rested a pair of slippers for the bedroom. For a moment, my mind became hazy, as if time had turned back, and I was once again viewing the room while Rebecca was still alive. A little later, she would return to the room, humming a tune, sit down before the mirror on the dressing table, reach out for the comb, and brush her hair. If I had sat there too, I could have seen my reflection in the mirror, and she would have seen me standing at the doorway. Of course, none of this happened. I still stood there, waiting for something to happen. Instead, the ticking of the wall clock pulled me back to reality. The hands of the clock pointed to 4:25, matching the time on my watch. The ticking of the clock restored my senses, bringing a sense of relief. It reminded me to focus on the present, that tea and refreshments would soon be laid out on the lawn for me to enjoy. I slowly walked to the center of the room. No, the room was not being used now, no one lived here anymore. Not even the fresh flowers could dispel the musty smell in the room. The curtains were drawn tight, and the blinds were shut tight. Rebecca would never return here. Even if Mrs. Devereux placed fresh flowers on the mantelpiece and made the bed, she could not bring her back. She was dead, having been gone for a year. She lay in the churchyard, buried among the other Dewitts. The sound of the waves was clear. I walked to the window and pulled up the blinds. Yes, this was the very window where Feever and Mrs. Devereux had stood half an hour earlier. Sunlight streamed into the room, casting the dim light in a hazy glow. I pulled the blinds a bit further. A bright beam of sunlight fell on the bed, making the sleepwear bag on the pillow, the glass mirror on the dressing table, the hairbrush, and the perfume bottle all stand out in sharp relief. The sunlight gave the room a stronger sense of reality. With the blinds closed, the room seemed more like a stage set in the dim light, as if the scene had been prepared between two acts. The night performance was over, and tonight's show was coming to an end, with the stage set for the next day's daytime performance. But the sunlight brought the room to life, full of vitality. I forgot the musty smell of the room, forgot that the curtains on the other windows were not drawn. I was once again a guest, an uninvited guest, who had wandered into the mistress's bedroom by mistake. Her hairbrush was on the dressing table, her morning dress and slippers were on the chair by the window. After entering the room, I still felt my legs grow weak and trembled uncontrollably. I had to sit down on the stool before the dressing table. My heart no longer pounded with a strange excitement but felt heavy as if weighed down by lead. I stared blankly, gazing around the room in a daze. Yes, it was a beautiful room. On the night I arrived, Mrs. Devereux's description had not been exaggerated; this was the most beautiful room in the entire house. Look at the exquisite mantelpiece, the ceiling, the carved bed frame, the tassels on the curtains, and the wall clock and candlesticks on the dressing table. If these belonged to me, I would cherish them, love them above all else. But they did not belong to me; they belonged to someone else. I reached out and touched the pair of hairbrushes. One was a bit older. I understood the reason: people often use one hairbrush more than the other, so when they wash them, one is still clean, hardly used at all. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. How pale and thin my face was, with a straight, unattractive long hair hanging down. Could I have always looked like this? My face used to be a bit rosy, didn't it? The person in the mirror had a sallow complexion and an ordinary appearance, staring straight at me with wide eyes. I stood up straight and walked to the chair, touching the morning dress on it, then picked up the slippers in my hand. A sudden sense of fear overwhelmed me, growing stronger and then gradually turning into despair. I touched the bedding on the bed, my fingers tracing the letter pattern on the sleepwear bag, which was woven from the letters "R·Dewitt" overlapping each other. The raised letters were embroidered on a golden silk surface, quite stiff. The sleepwear inside the bag was a light peach color, as thin as a. I kept touching it and eventually took it out of the bag, pressing it against my cheek. The dress was cold, and it must have been fragrant once, with the scent of white jasmine, but now it faintly carried a musty smell. I folded the dress neatly and put it back in the bag. As I did so, I felt a faint pain in my heart; I noticed a few creases on the dress, the smooth texture suddenly wrinkling, showing that no one had touched it or had it pressed since the last time it was worn, nor had it been ironed.